This is my favorite week of the year. Thanksgiving. It always has been and I think it’s because my family spent it at my grandparent’s farm where I could take long walks with the birddog, find a spot along the creek, sit and write, for as long as I wanted.
I didn’t have the responsibly of planning, purchasing or cooking any meals, my mom did that. So I was free to roam, dream and write.
To paraphrase Virginia Wolfe, my “room of my own” was the outdoors. That’s where I could be alone for long periods of time. I didn’t have to engage with family, do chores, hear the TV.
We drove from our suburban home to the farm almost every weekend when I was growing up. So I had weekends to wander and much of the summer to do the same. Thanksgiving week held a special appeal and I’m still sorting out why it felt so different.
It might be because that was when the Texas weather switched from hot and dry to chilly and wet. The clouds created a tent of privacy where it was ok to lounge. That’s what I was doing, lounging outside with my journal and imagination.
The yearning to be outdoors has never left.
I live in the city though and it’s so hard to find a remote place where it’s ok for me to wander, sit and write.
Rather than a “room of my own” maybe I need “a land of my own.”
