I Stopped Writing.

The mornings were dense with thick fog which lingered over the water, between the trees, hiding the horizon. I woke up the minute I would have at home. The fog, myself, and a dewy bench started the mornings on the island. Others would wake well after the fog had passed, when the sky's pink faded had gone with and I already completed morning. By then, an exchange was made with me and the salt water, a meditation sent forth, and a story already written.  

In the evenings, and every other break, I slipped away and wrote: about the island, the state, the love song I was proud of writing that day, the women who  shared divorce stories like Girl Scout badges, and how surprised I was to already have some things figured out. I wrote because I had to. Deep inside I craved it. The workshop provided very little opportunity and so an even larger void was needed to be filled. The writing flowed until I boarded the ferry boat and from there I haven't written since. 

My goal for the weekend included understanding where to go from here with my writings. To blog or stop. I felt liberated on the boat, disappointed in the opportunity and attitude of some presenters, but with a few choice pieces under my belt by chance and the ability to come ashore again. The weeks after came with some desire to pick up where I left off. But, it didn't happen. The flame had already been extinguished. 

Now, I lay here seven months later, the experience still fresh and still with the same opinion. Except, tonight I write. I write about it and I write about how I feel.  I will credit Doe Bay for allowing me to see what has existed in myself through writing and that should be enough. 

Tonight I write and I think I'll write some more.