Spirits of the mountains dance in my head as I awake early, before sunrise. My first morning on a short trip to the Smokies.
I feel the spirits arrive. A cold chill runs from head to toe. The feeling seems so real I can see their shadowy figures in my mind, even though they’re not visible. Ideas for writing flood my thoughts and I scribble down pages of notes before dawn lessens the spell.
Why is a new place so inspiring at first? Ideas hit me the first morning and then normalcy settles in. Dullness takes over my fertile mind and brings back the mundane. I no longer see and feel what I know is there. I quickly settle into the first stages of a rut, which if given enough time may rival what I have at home. The creative spirit must be nurtured, which is one reason I retreat to hidden paths and sounds of the woods.
As I peruse my notes and decipher my attempts at legible handwriting I remember the moments, and the visions return, but only in memory. A good foundation for stories, and once it’s burned indelibly on paper it’s there forever. My getaway when life becomes overbearing.