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The old magic

I have settled in and taken the first leisurely shower in ages and weirdly feel like writing not an angsty journal entry, but a genial daily report such as I was won't to do before college.

I looked at the clock and it was eight. Then I looked at it again, expecting it to be eleven ... And it was nine, just nine. Time has slowed here -- everything is slower and somehow my evening feels more meaningful. I feel so focused.

I wonder if this means I am one of those city people now, looking to the country for zen-like refreshment for a day or so and then scooting off back to my fast-paced life. But no -- it is too much for me to dismiss my feelings so casually. This is more than peace and quiet, this is my crucible and having been wrought into being here I fit back into my old shape naturally --

-- which isn't entirely a good thing. I've come too far to retreat and I fear I am too sharp when I feel threatened.

But all of a sudden everything around me seems important. I have very few books here but I find myself perusing them with long-lost interest, something I almost never do at home. And suddenly I even know more about the way I want our home to look -- I want to do little chores and housekeeping. If I stayed in this wilderness time would slow and I would have endless hours each day to accomplish my tasks. I already feel the desire to write strengthen within me, the old stirrings that fade with distance and are replaced with stark emptiness.

The thing is not to return to my cradle. The thing is to learn what I can about wherever I go and whatever I do and use it to make my life better where I am.

Quiet, quiet -- I never knew before.

Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

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