It’s day two of my five-week, online writing course. A “Boot Camp,” as it’s described, requiring five days a week of response to writing prompts, along with a weekly, 1,000 word assignment.
Thus far, I’ve penned nostalgic rememberings of my time on a remote island in British Columbia, and the less-than-blissful festival weekend I spent with a bunch of hipsters on Maui.
In B.C., I was looking for a place to heal after reeling from a surgery that removed my ovary. I was twenty-three, wandering in gum boots, in a fairyland of old-growth forest, trying to settle my soul.
Fifteen years later, I thought I was following more bliss when I attended a Maui music fest. Instead, I ended up questioning if I’d just gotten old. I couldn’t seem to jive with the communal, cuddle puddles, and I felt out-of-place dancing among women wearing fairy wings, shaking their hips in backless yoga pants. Subcultures do have their trends, and I was clearly out of style.
As my Boot Camp requires more writing from me, I’m hoping the Archives will benefit from the flow of words.
As for this morning, I’ll reflect upon the spirit of the season- rebirth, renewal, and new beginnings.
The Bohemian’s Surinam Cherry bushes bear fruit. He grew these plants from seed, and they are now swiftly becoming an edible hedge in front of our outdoor shower. The cherries will, eventually, turn red, and be ready for picking, if we can just get to them before the birds.