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.
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