Hello from another planet

That CAT got SKILLS (sorry)

Actually, I’m not there anymore. I returned 24 hours ago. But for a few days it felt as though I landed somewhere else entirely. Slow-to-no wifi, open windows, maximum cross-breeze, fire pits, coffee, hammocks, trails, deer, a barn library, a bear, (another) snake at my door, views and sky. Sky, sky, sky like you wouldn’t believe:

I went alone to Spruceton Inn for a long weekend to read and write. The drive to the Catskills is a nice, built-in and gentle detox from society. Parts of it reminded me of Oregon and Lake Tahoe, towns getting smaller and roads getting slower. I arrived to no one. Just quiet, a key to room 5 and that sky.

For the child-ful among us, you know that familiar feeling when you first temporarily break from your family? A little flutter of panic sets in. The shock of feeling completely untethered and limbless. A no cell service, oh god, what-have-I done pang in your gut. Insert the Bluth I’ve-made-a-terrible-mistake sinking uneasiness.

But for the child-ful among us, you know that familiar feeling when you first temporarily break from your family? It hits you slowly and then all at once. Awww yeah, baby. Every single, extravagant moment is yours alone. The day ahead unfolds with infinite potential; hours actually do feel like they expand. Time does not mean the same thing here.

The warmth starts from the top and trickles down. Casey, the head innkeeper¹, is the consummate gracious host. I love watching people do what they do well. I love learning about their personal history and how this all came to be and the daily tick-tock of making a place like this not only run, but sing. I anticipated the reading and writing, walking and exploring. I didn’t anticipate the specific delight of lucking into days with the other people who happened to choose this weekend too. Since I’ve been back, I’ve been saying it felt like adult camp. A few families with small kids, a few couples, a few solos like me. The walls are thin and it doesn’t take long to settle into the rhythm of co-living. Coffee and pop-tarts in the morning. Locals stop by for happy hour in the evenings. And as much or little as you want. I relish the cozy sensation of alone/together. When I was done socializing, I went back to my room and ate skittles while I worked. When I was sick of myself, I would talk with adults over cocktails or in a neighboring hammock. Or I could chat with the 5-year-old boy in room 3 about dinosaurs, New Jersey, ticks, books, and the yellow ball he lost.

Something really does happen to your nervous system out there. The hustle of real life suddenly seems absurd and so LOUD. The rapidity and constant onslaught of stuff we are made to triage in the everyday - oof - I know it’s there. And I think I lead a relatively quiet life. But it’s easy to forget how much, how constant until you turn it all off. And then it just seems ridiculous in a new way.

It’s good to be home and I miss it. I want to go back. Alone and the four of us. I want to go back with different combination of friends and I want to roll the dice on another batch of stranger guests. I do not break the routine of my life enough. I am not quiet enough. Let this be a reminder.

1. Also she’s a Renaissance woman, preorder her new book!!!