I went into the woods
and I lived deliberately for less than 48 hours. And used an outhouse. And made good progress in editing novel #1. And nearly finished reading Emma. And walked in the woods. But did not test the ice. And did physical therapy exercises for my problem wrist, back and hip.
I stayed at a retreat recommended by a friend, in a single cabin that had heat and electricity but no running water. I picked up meals at the lodge. The cook told me what was in the basket each time. My first meal, lunch yesterday, was a veggie curry over brown rice, a salad with hard-boiled eggs and cheddar cheese with a honey mustard dressing, and sugared almond slivers. I took it back to the cabin, and burt into tears, overwhelmed by the peace and quiet, with a nice meal given to me that I could enjoy at my leisure.
And I did. Throughout the time I was there, I only did one thing at a time. What a luxury that was. When I ate, I ate. When I walked, I walked. When I read, I read.
Unfortunately, my high hopes of two nights of blissful, uninterrupted sleep did not materialize. Both nights I was anxious about being alone in a cabin in the woods. The first night I had the cabin too hot, and the second night I undercompensated and had it too cold. Also, I fear that I may have lost the ability to sleep deep, uninterrupted sleep, even if I didn’t have to contend with lurid imaginations of killers with hooks for hands, and widely variant room temperatures.
At the end of my time, I felt rather like I’d visited a MASH unit for my internal self. They patched me up, treated me nice, and sent me back to the front.