What Happens When You’re the Only Male Amongst 10 Writers on Retreat?

What Happens When You’re the Only Male Amongst 10 Writers on Retreat?

Only Male

One of the most tragic things I know about human nature is that all of us tend to put off living. We are all dreaming of some magical rose garden over the horizon instead of enjoying the roses that are blooming outside our windows today. Dale Carnegie

Lucky me. In this feminine company there’s nothing token about my presence. I’m one of the lassies. Great people, great company, peace: what more could a writer want?
This morning, eternity grabbed my attention. There’s a view in front of me to die for. A hare lopes past.
VistaThe vista is so wide I can barely take it in. Successive horizons, each fainter than the last, draw my eye and tease my soul with questions: What lies beyond that rippling line of hill? That peak? Past the notch between the mountains?

A rhythm of peace

Below me a thrush hops, stabs a sharp beak into wormy meadow and feeds. A white butterfly wobbles from mid-green docken leaves to bright yellow and white wild flowers. On dainty wings it darts, wind-blown, past bright yellow gorse until it alights on a strong strand of grass for a brief, rocking, rest.
There’s a gentle pulse at the heart of this natural scene. Creatures dance through the landscape untroubled by human concerns. General Election, what’s that? Who cares?

Earth, our world, abides

Beneath this staunch vastness a Highland heart throbs unaware of humanity’s aching sense of importance.
I sit here, a spectator as the immense engine of life carries-on. On a planetary scale, where is my significance? On a galactic comparison? Universal?
Better, perhaps, to live in the moment like a hare, a thrush, a butterfly. Winter will come. Storms will blast this place. But here, existence means now, in a fabulous spot.
Here, in my Now, I’m blest.

© Mac Logan

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