You always leave on a trip thinking, “Oh, yes. I’ll have lots of time to write. Every day I’ll write.” And then you don’t. Or maybe you do, but just a little and you feel bad that you didn’t get up earlier/go to bed later/skip that one jaunt/put that book down/pull yourself back from staring into space.  And then you forgive yourself. You are on vacation. You are trying to get away. You took pictures. Of course, you can write about the experience later.


Here we are on a fourth trip this summer where I’m a few days in and I’m finding that we’ve done a bunch and we’ve seen a lot and I’ve only stopped to write a bit and then not to necessarily finish before jumping to a draft for another topic. I wrote a bit more that one day when we were stuck in the camper for hours while it rained outside and we stayed in to read. But I also read and napped and I didn’t post anything. Sure, I could make excuses about connectivity, which is never quite as good on the road as it is at home. Or about how it actually is a lot of effort to deal with just the basics (meals, showers, camp keeping) while you are away.


But the reality is that I’ve been busy “being here now.” Whether it has been sitting in front of a fire and listening to the wind stir the trees or deciding what to make for the next meal or enjoying the sights (and sites!) along the way, I’ve been having a trip of being here. On every trip we’ve had so far this year. Enjoying camp with friends. Being somewhere other than camp with family. Jamming a week in the Catskills into one weekend. Going to an amazing concert a few hours from home. Sitting in my hammock by the edge of the lake in the Adirondacks.  Enjoying here and whatever here offers. Slowing down to be here. Now.


And right now in front of this fire as the sun is starting to set, here is a good and calm place. Both to be and to give myself permission to write a little. Or not.