My greatest joy is beginning each day consciously. To honor the start of the day, I sit out on the deck for at least thirty minutes, sipping a cup of steaming tea. My lungs enjoy inhaling the clear clean air and feeling the freshness of the new day. As I begin to slow down, I become more aware of my surroundings—and myself. I feel like I am really totally here, not thinking about something or somewhere else. Taking time to start the day without any rush seems to be an integral part of my slowing-down process.

I smile as I recall the flurry of activity that got me here—what a contrast. First thing in preparing for my retreat to the woods, I met an obstacle. The happy wanderer me, who had circled the planet three times, was next to traumatized at the thought of moving long distance—not again. It's not the travel; it's the things. Remembering the long drawn-out hours of packing and unpacking for a recent move only augmented my resistance to moving.
When I found out that, although I had pared my "belongings" down to fit in a small truck, I had to rent the larger truck to be able to tow a car, I really went into dread. I knew I could do it—and I knew I could not enjoy it. I had driven a large van across the country several times, but I had never driven a truck before, and I had never towed anything either. Honestly, I couldn't find either of these items on the list of things I wanted to do in this lifetime. I console myself that life has put plenty of experiences that I did not relish on my tray. I have managed to survive them all—until now. Surely, I could depend on the trend to continue.

Then a miracle appeared—in the form of Larry. What would have been very difficult for me, Larry made easy. He is truly an unusual person; he often goes out of his way to help his friends and family. But a 1,300-mile trip in a large truck, towing a car, is beyond the call of duty of any friend. A crucial factor was that Larry had a free airline pass to return home to Arizona. He felt the universe was calling him to the duty of aiding me to take advantage of this opportunity to have time and space to be creative in the woods. Good bless the Larry's of the world!

Larry and I arrived in Texas at the exact moment the sun cast its last brilliant rays over the barren landscape. To acknowledge this milestone, we stopped at the first Rest Stop to take a break and have a snack. Congratulating ourselves, we toasted this milestone with a couple of cokes. We sat in silence as the warm air of the November evening surrounded us with an inviting embrace. We beheld the wide horizon stretching out for miles around us. As we watched, the stars brightened in the deep dark sky that blanketed the miles of desolate plains. So I have made it back to Texas after so many miles traveled afar.

I smiled and whirled with intoxication at the prospects of a new life in a familiar territory. In sheer delight, I broke out in song: "The stars at night shine deep and bright [clap, clap, clap, clap], deep in the heart of Texas. The prairie bloom is like perfume [clap, clap, clap, clap], deep in the heart of Texas." What a lovely encounter with the territory I was born in. It must have been important for me to land here, for my mother had to travel over 2,000 miles to get back to her home in Dallas to give birth to me. At this moment, Texas feels fertile with the promise of new adventures.

However, I'm sure Thoreau did not set up his abode as I did. The arrival at my Walden was accompanied by a 15-foot truck packed with books, tapes, clothes, wicker furniture and a lot of stuff best classified as miscellaneous: books, papers and notes, the treasury of a writer. However, I am definitely located off the beaten track. Richards, my future mailing address, is so small it is not even mentioned on any highway sign.

As Larry and I follow a hand-drawn map down country roads, he points out in amazement, "We have not seen a single commercial establishment in the entire eighteen miles from the Interstate."

"I know," I reply. "Trees are everywhere, in front of us, in back of us, on both sides of us. More trees than I ever knew were in the whole of state of Texas."

Surely, we are beholding east Texas backwoods country at its best. Only thirty miles south of Huntsville and about eighty north of Houston, Richards is still within reach of "civilization."

When we finally reach the dead-end road I am to live on, we stop, blink and look at each other with raised eyebrows. We are viewing two narrow tracks going down a hillock overgrown with scattered tall grasses, strewn with dark brown pine needles and lined with tall pine trees. First, we acknowledge our wisdom for having dropped the car trailer off en route. Then I get out of the truck to walk ahead to assess just how many ruts are in this country lane. It could be worse, I surmise, I don't see any mud, noting that the soil seems to be all sand. From the gate at the bottom of the hill, I signal Larry to proceed. Holding my breath, I watch the truck bump and jump down the lane. I can picture my belongings jostling around in the back of the truck.

"I hope we didn't bring all my stuff this distance to be broken in the last lap," I comment to Larry as I get back in the truck for the short drive to the house.

My physical environs may be very simple, but nature never is. Each new day decks itself out in a unique costume. Many mornings are gray and foggy, warm enough for a pair of shorts and tee shirt. Whereas, on crisp clear mornings, I have to bundle up in a jacket. I particularly enjoy the partly cloudy mornings that entertain me with displays of light and shadow playing across the meadows.

Although I am aware that it is considered wasting time, on many mornings I just sit and quietly watch a few yellow and red leaves clinging on a nearby tree. They are the only leaves left on the deciduous trees, yet they somehow manage to hang on in spite of storm after storm. The leaves never appear the same to me. Some days they are glistening and shimmering in light; other days they appear in dull and deep colors. They seem to be continually moving with the wind. Their dance is always distinct. Some days they waltz with the gentle east wind. Throughout many evenings, they jump up and down to the sporadic west wind. Occasionally they spend an entire day rocking and rolling with the serious wind from the north.

As long as the wind is not too fierce, I love the feeling of its different rhythms blowing through my hair. I feel its movement helps me lose my mind, literally blowing it away, so that I can just sit quietly, being no one in particular. When I finally scrunch down to zero, the birds seem to know it's a safe environment and start coming out of hiding to dine at the nearby feeders, which I have hung in the trees.

The goldfinches, dull and beige in their winter coats, are the most prolific visitors. They always arrive in flocks and cooperate among themselves to share the dozen perches available at the two feeders. The rest of the flock spread out underneath the feeders to catch the spilled seeds. The brightly colored bluebirds always make their appearance later in the day. They never touch the feeder though, for they seem interested in the hard white berries on the Chinese elm.

One morning a thick bank of cumulus clouds bestows a beautiful moving picture. As I sit watching, the sun emerges from behind the dark silhouette of trees that line the fence. Then the clouds close in, leaving the world gray and quiet. Within a few moments, a brisk wind sweeps the clouds away and the meadow sparkles with bands of green and brown. In the foreground, dry brown leaves whirl about. Who can resist being a part of this scene? Away I go streaking across the meadow chasing cloud shadows. My exuberance must have startled the wind, for it hesitates for a moment, then regains its momentum to join me in laughing and playing and whirling around the meadow until I fall down in the deep green winter grass in sheer joy and exhaustion.

Then there are those mornings that break the rules. They are both cold and wet. I have to bundle up even to sit inside at my patio window perch. When I go outside to fill the feeders for the birds, all nature is holding its breath. I don't hear a single cheep. The oaks and pines stand motionless, as if anticipating the next gust of wind. The goldfinches had come in droves for the thistle seed. I even had to scatter seeds on the floor of the deck, so they had plenty to eat. Having had their breakfast, they hover on the bare branches with their little breast feathers puffed out to keep warm. I scan the thicket along the fence, but I don't see any evidence of the usual movements of other birds.

As I watch, more dried leaves come whirling across the yard. I will have only bare branches to admire now. Stark bare branches against a harsh gray sky—it's fascinating how nature accommodates to the weather. Inevitably and invariably, new leaves will replace the old ones when the weather warms. As I watch the dried leaves pile up under the trees, I sit wondering if some part of humans will be renewed in the springtime too.

Then we have a cluster of crisp clear mornings. I never make a fire in the hearth on these days because I know the sun will soon bring the temperature into the sixties. However, one morning when I feel no sign of relief from the cold, I build a small blaze in the fireplace. Sitting close by the hearth, I wait for the cozy flames to take away my chilly dampness while I attempt to develop a realistic time schedule of my writing projects.

I am under self-imposed pressure to be writing, so I begin to expand the number of hours I spend at the computer every day. I'm relieved that I don't seem to have any problem keeping at it. After all, there are few distractions. I cannot get involved in someone else's projects; there is no friend family job or boss. No one needs me. It's a unique kind of freedom.


Neither do I try to impose the fixed routine of the corporate world on myself. In the past, I have always labeled myself as undisciplined. My consistent inconsistency never ceases to amaze me. I never get up at the same time; I never eat at the same time; I never dress at the same time.

Some days I awaken early to start tapping out some inspiration I had during the night. Those days I don't jump into the shower until I've run out of ideas. In that other world, I couldn't have dreamed of facing a day without a shower! On the clear days with their chilly mornings, it may be noon before it is warm enough that I dare take a shower anyway since the stall is located outside on the deck.

Yet, there is one given in my life: I never fail to toast a brown crust on the bottom of my breakfast oatmeal. Every morning, day in and day out, even though I started putting in extra water and I always put the burner on the lowest setting. Doesn't help. Somehow I manage to get distracted watching a bird or editing a page; somehow I leave it to burn.


Since my computer table is set perpendicular to the patio glass door, I have a wide view of the landscape. Unless I am in a seriously focused moment, any movement in the area catches my attention. One morning I look up to behold wave after wave of ebony wings that form undulating banners, unfurling in the wind. Hundreds of black birds settle in long swooping bands across the front meadow, making a sea of shiny iridescent black. I keep trying to discern the beginning of this outpouring of nature. But the sky to the east is so full of birds that I cannot detect the doorway from which they sprang. I feel so blessed to be a witness to this unusual production of nature. I confess: it's the first time I ever saw the true beauty of black birds.

I enjoy the mornings, but I will never be a morning person. I never get to see the sunrise here. First, the blush of light across my bedroom wall wakes me up. Second, the trees on the east side of the house are so thick that it takes an hour before the sun emerges over their green crest. After several weeks of going to bed when I am sleepy and waking up naturally, I seem to feel more alive when I awaken. Such a welcome change from the alarm, quick shower, hot curlers—rushing grabbing running hurrying—to sit in traffic!

Although I keep busy all day, starting my day slowly and effortlessly seems to make a difference. My life has already begun to feel natural and spontaneous without any effort. Surely, having time for a conscious start of each day is the way life is meant to be.