Pictured is a the rustic cabin called the Hermitage at ARC Retreat Center in Stanchfield, Minnesota, where Jody recently spent some time reading, journaling, doing lessons, and drinking hot chai tea on the porch. Submitted photo.

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and to see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. —Henry David Thoreau, Walden

As I write this, I am sitting at a simple wooden desk in front of a bay window that looks out into a thick, overgrown forest. Giant moss-covered trees stand tall guarding the tiny oneroom hermitage cabin I am in. The windows that surround me are wound wide open, and cool, damp air begins to seep in.

As the sun begins to set, the night sounds begin their song. There are frogs chirping, but some sounds I am not familiar with. A stainedglass window sits high near the high-pitched ceiling above me, the light shining through it now not as bright. My own personal cathedral. Mozart’s Symphony No. 40 in G Minor fills the room and takes me back to Austria where I visited his birth home long ago in Salzburg. I think to myself, “I’m positive I could write sitting there in a coffee house sipping on an espresso while eating pastries.”

I have found myself often these days trying to recapture the past. To hold it tight once again in my hand, perhaps so that I don’t forget. My memories of those long-ago days have begun to grow more dim. Another birthday has passed me by. There is a sense of urgency I feel.

An old library-scented candle flickers and snaps in front of me as its flame dances and reflects in the window. The scent of paper, leather and cedar beginning to overpower the scent of what may be Pine-Sol. A basket of feathers and a wooden tray with engraved stones sit behind the candle. The basket sits not far from the flashlight, matches, binoculars, and bird book. It reminds me of scenes from the movie Where the Crawdads Sing that I recently saw. The movie was tragically beautiful and inspiring, and it made me want to go home and create something beautiful. It stirred something in me.

My decision to become a writer was made early in the second grade. I can recall the exact moment. It was in the old Washington Elementary School library. It was library day, and I was checking out more of my favorite Betsy-Tacy books by Maud Hart Lovelace. In the books, Betsy wanted to be a writer from the time she was a little girl. She became one as an adult. I found a soulmate in her. That day I knew. And if I couldn’t be a writer, I would be a librarian.

I spot an hourglass on the windowsill next to a jar of colored pencils and I carry it to the desk. I turn it over and watch the sand begin to slowly sift and fall. I can’t help but hear that old catchphrase run through my mind. “Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives.” The simple definition: Life passes by us too quickly.

Where has time gone? How did I get here? The days are fleeting, and it scares me sometimes.

Birds call out to one another. A black squirrel scurries quickly up a tree trunk. A few hours ago, a deer came tiptoeing through the woods as I sat on the screen porch. She must have sensed me as she began to blow warnings, “Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.” She ran away as I heard someone’s footsteps at the door.

My dinner was hand delivered and left outside on the steps. It made me feel like I was in a fairy tale, my food just magically appearing. I feel cared for. A handwritten menu was included: split pea soup, freshly made from the garden tomato, cucumber, and onion salad with the most wonderful dressing, two warm buns wrapped in cloth and set in a basket, and vegan chocolate beet cake with vanilla icing. Who would imagine that cake containing beets would be so delicious? A separate bag contained all the breakfast supplies I would need while I am here—sweet bread and butter, granola, boiled eggs, yogurt, sliced strawberries, and coffee. When I began to unpack the food, I heard a dinner bell ringing in the distance. I feel like I am at camp.

This is almost a fairy tale. My second grade self would be happy to see me here today on a solo writing retreat. Until recently, this was something I could only dream about. I don’t take this for granted.

As I sit at the desk and peer out the screen door to my left, I see the trail wet and muddy from the recent rain. It makes its way back to the main lodge and the fenced garden that is ripe with vegetables that made up part of my dinner. I regretted all the stuff I packed when I realized I would have to carry it down that trail. I have a bad habit of packing too many books.

I spent the afternoon reading, journaling, doing lessons from my workbook, and drinking hot chai tea on the porch. A gentle storm blew in, and for almost an hour, light rain fell as thunder rumbled continuously. Thunder is one of my favorite sounds and reminds me of time spent annually at a retreat center in the Smoky Mountains of North Carolina when I lived down south. Closing my eyes, I could picture the blanket of fog or smoke and the streams of water making their way down the mountainside behind our cabin. A daily rain shower with thunder echoing through the mountains was something you could count on. That was nearly 30 years ago. It feels like yesterday.

When I left home early this morning, my significant other seemed confused and asked, “Isn’t your writing retreat next weekend?” “Yep,” I responded. “That is the group one. This is a solo one. I am just going to prepare for that one.” He shook his head, and I shrugged my shoulders and laughed. The truth is, I can’t go to that retreat feeling the way I am. Life has felt flat.

A few months ago, someone said to me, “Anyone can write.” That produced a few months of writing only when I had to. Artistic survival is a difficult task. Writing is being called to pilgrimage, and like many pilgrims we doubt the call even as we answer it.

Which is why I am here sitting in this one-bedroom cabin called the Hermitage. The clock is ticking, and I am hearing the beat. I am doing this. I tell myself to start writing. NOW! There is no time to waste.

The sun has set, and thick darkness surrounds me. I reach to turn on the small lamp on the corner of the table. A tiny felt heart sits on the base. The daytime birds have turned in for the night and have turned the night shift over to the owls who are calling out and answering one another, “Hoo, hoohoo, hoo, hoo.”

I begin to feel a chill in the air. I reach for the fleece blanket sent with me and wrap it around me as I type. I look longingly toward the bed in the corner with its quilted cover. I stop and make some coffee that was delivered to me, the grounds packed in a mason jar.

The female staff member near my age that showed me to the Hermitage and around the grounds is from out east. She came here in July as a guest and didn’t leave. Her life was changed here in the silence of the forest that is very foreign to her. She shared with me that every morning when she wakes up, she asks, “Is this for real?” Gone is the sound of the city—the traffic and sirens. She had forgotten how to care for herself. Here she has learned how to again. Not that is what I call a plot twist. I admire her.

“Where are you coming from—and where are you going to?” I read this quote the other day. I have thought about it every day since. It was referring to the Second Act of our lives.

I know where I have come from. There were a lot of wins and more losses. I know where I want to go. I want to be a writer. And I want my Second Act to be the best act yet.

Never ask whether you can do something. Say, instead, that you are doing it. “Ok, I am going to do this,” I say out loud.

I finish this. I turn the hourglass over again. This was my warm-up. Time to begin. (Thanks for coming along on my retreat with me.)

Jody Rae lives in Ely. She spends most of her time on the water or in the woods, where she is always planning her next adventures, both near and far.

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