Tree House Refuge

Fern Forest Tree House, Lincoln, Vermont

When I first heard about the Fern Forest Tree House (on ABC's Chronicle) it took me seconds to get online and Google for more details. This was it! The hideout I'd been yearning for was a mere six hours drive North, into the heart of the Green Mountains of Vermont.

I'd already been searching for a writer's cabin to complete the second draft of my novel, which I'd happened to find the day before. When I discovered the tree house was off the same road as the Firefly B&B cabin I felt destiny was guiding my hand to book a spring writing retreat.

As evident from my previous entry, I made the hike North and spent four glorious days in blissful isolation. I completed my second draft and even found space in my head to write some new scenes. That was back in April - it has taken me until today, July 4th, to get back here to tell my tree house tale!

I know some people are afraid to be alone. Afraid to be disconnected from the world of cell phones, email and television. To be honest, I wasn't sure how I'd cope, especially when my cell phone lost its signal on Route 17. I had the sense, however, of being accompanied by my characters. Each one babbling like an excited child, anxious to be the first voice heard once I finally opened the document that contained their lives.

As I explain below, in my Firefly cabin entries, the writer's cabin fulfilled its promise of a completed second draft. Once I arrived at the tree house, I was completely relaxed and inspired, ready to sink into the experience of sleeping thirty feet above the forest floor.

The only way to describe this experience is to show you. Like Doctor Who's trusted Tardis, the tree house felt much bigger on the inside than it looked on the outside.

A narrow 70ft ramp led to the front door that was adorned by a Frank Llyod Wright stained glass window. Fresh picked flowers invited me into the first level. Furnished with a rocking chair, foot stool, futon couch, mini fridge and radio (that was never used), the sense of space within those light wooden walls was remarkable.

I was shown how to safely climb the ladder to the loft by my host, Harrison, who had built the tree house with his son.

The idea of hauling myself onto the queen futon bed that was nestled into the roof was amusing. The reality of negotiating the bum-to-platform-to-bed routine was a little more serious as one wrong move could have been disastrous.

The bedding was super cozy; soft flannel sheets with down comforter and pillows. Windows on two sides of the loft created the feeling of sleeping in the very heart of the trees. My only anxious moments came when little feet scampered across the roof, just a couple of feet above me. But I never once thought about going to sleep in the spare guest bed of the main house.

I joined my hosts, H and Ellie, for wine in the evening. As often happens, when I'm busy doing what I love, I met the most wonderful couple. This was an unexpected gift that settled deep into my soul. It's one of things I love most about traveling alone; meeting people who instantly felt like old friends.

When I returned to my tree top refuge it was raining. I sat on the rocking chair and listened to water dripping onto the roof, running down the wooden walls and pattering against the tall windows. I felt warmed by the electric heater, soothed by dim wall lamps and candles that cast a soft orange glow into the curious space around me.

It was so peaceful that I just sat there and listened. I could almost feel my batteries recharging as I absorbed every detail of each moment. This was the solitude I'd been craving. The space to hear nothing but rain falling from the leaves above me. To think of nothing but how relaxed I felt. So simple, yet so utterly elusive.

Just writing this takes me back there, to that moment. I can smell the damp wood, taste the Pinot Noir, feel the promise of new friendships.

This is perhaps the most remarkable gift my tree house retreat gave me; a place to escape to, in my own head, during the stress of daily life. It was less about writing, more about squeezing gaps into chaos, where I can close my eyes and feel the handmade wooden structure sway on the branches of the four maple trees that support it. Not a single day has passed that I don't draw strength from these memories. I long to go back there, and plan to, in the Fall. This time I will book more nights in tree house and pack my hiking boots.

The value of taking a time-out to decompress and regroup cannot be overstated. My spring writing retreat reminded me about the urgency of self care and the need to take your art seriously enough to dedicate time to it. Without solitude, the mind collapses into overdrive and creativity is lost in the confusion.

As I celebrate this Independence Day, I look around my beautiful garden and appreciate the fact that I can embrace the freedom to sit here, on my garden swing, and write. Not everyone has such luxury, but for those of us who do, take the time to honor your art, and yourself.

Click here to read my official retreat article in the Summer issue of CapeWomenOnline: http://www.capewomenonline.com/

Inspire Me

View of Mount Abraham from the Peeper Pond

“Nose to the grind stone” – how many times have you heard that phrase lately? I’d heard it last Wednesday – just after writing down directions from the B&B owner – the same ones I failed to follow to avoid the mud crisis I encountered while driving up here.

This phrase rang in my head while I was packing, while I was driving and while I was trying to talk myself out of working on one more chapter before taking a break yesterday. I can’t believe how much work I got done – keeping my nose to the grindstone.

After spending way too long trying to figure out how to upload my cell phone images to my lap top – then discovering the fabulous new world of USB Mass Storage transfer – I finally faced the 8 chapters I’d promised myself I’d edit before lunch. Did I say lunch? Bah! Try dinner!

It was easy, at first, perhaps because I’d already dropped into my novel by editing 2 chapters on Thursday night. The characters were up front and center in my mind, my belly full of fresh berries, Greek yoghurt and organic raisin bran, my little cabin quiet…too quiet.

I checked my email on the elusive wi-fi that dropped out every few seconds…that took a while…but it felt good to be contact with my “real life”, even if it was just through words on the screen. Back to editing…

Instead of taking the chapters in order, like I usually do, I decided to approach my 8 chapter goal from a new angle. As my story is told from two alternating points of view, I chose one POV and followed it through to the end of where my first draft abruptly dissolved into synopsis. This gave me the luxury of checking for timeline errors, continuity of the character’s moods and location verification. It also steeped me in the world of human trafficking, parched desert and the all-important ticking clock.

To say that my nerves were beginning to feel frayed is an understatement. I shifted my eyes from the words on the screen to my uninterrupted view of Mount Abraham. In addition to giving my eyes a break, this let me imagine that like my character, I too was gazing at the Mogollon Rim, which divides Arizona in two, and not the snow splattered peaks of the Green Mountains.  When I shuffled my lap top from the shrinking walls of the cabin, to the deck off the main house, I couldn’t help but notice the large cacti guarding the sliding door to the living room. Hmmm…

This editorial marathon was, I’m happy to say, punctuated with a long walk around the neighborhood.

I started out by circling the small pond in front of the main house, snapping shots of frog spawn floating among the tall yellow reeds that rustled against a perfectly blue sky. I wasn't the only one checking out the view - a family of Peepers called to each other to protest my intrusions.

My wellies squished and squelched in the mud, being two sizes too big for me (no idea how they ended up in my basement), I found it hard to walk at a decent pace.

So I settled into a slow rhythm of brain-break over cardio workout, feasting my eyes on the details of the emerging Spring.


I found a horse paddock a few houses down the dirt road, complete with ramshackle stables, multiple trucks in the unmarked driveway, and horses grazing in a mud bath deeper than their fetlocks. I won’t expand on another homestead except to say that everything including the kitchen sink was bursting out of windows, doors and toppling over the sides of a farmer’s porch. I wanted to take a photo but was afraid I’d get busted and have to explain myself to the owner…

Not quite the wild Mustangs of the West - but close enough

I get to spend all day with horses, or rather wild mustangs, now that I’m working on the second character’s storyline. If I need inspiration, I can simply stick my head out of the cabin door and inhale the manure wafting from the stables behind me.

The wind’s picking up and we are expecting the remnants of that storm that sent tornadoes tearing through Georgia yesterday. Oh goodie! Let’s hope these wooden walls don’t rattle too much, or I might find myself working on a whole new novel…

Mud Monsters

I must be in Vermont - Issy's horse barn, not the writing cabin!

Okay, so I should have followed the directions the B&B owner rattled off to me the night before I left for this writing adventure and NOT the route mapquest suggested! Don't ever attempt to take a Jetta up and over Quaker Street (coming from Rt 17) unless you want to start your retreat by having multiple heart attacks!

Mud Surfing anyone?

Seriously, I had to get out of my car at one point just to take a deep breath. That's when I snapped a shot of the deep gray turrets behind me, but they look far less menacing in my photo than they actually are. If you've never surfed atop a mud monster then I forgive you for not grasping the real terror of the last 3 miles of my journey to this secluded yet pretty cozy writer's cabin. I hope the under carriage of my car can forgive me.

The lavender oil worked wonders to dispel the Eau de Must hanging over the bed. Bringing my own king sized pillow, favorite soft blanket and little teddy helped me to finally relax enough to get some sleep, despite the patter of tiny feet over my head. I did have to brave the flash light walk across very soggy earth to the bathroom around 11pm, but it wasn't too bad. Rather than focus on the eerie shadows cast by the waxing moon, I listened to the frumping sound my wellies made in response to my sockless feet. Not heard that noise since I was a kid! Lovely!

I got two chapters edited last night, then discovered I'd been working in the WRONG version of my second draft when I attempted to email it to myself. Despite seeing letters floating across my lap top screen in triplicate, I managed to decipher exactly what and where to paste the new chapters into the correct manuscript. So glad I never delete anything - just rename the more recent version and work from that.

Talking of which, I have 8 chapters to get through before lunch. Then I'm off for a walk around this idyllic world of rolling hills edged by forests and framed by sloping mountain ridges. I was hoping to post some photo's of the red-roofed barn across the field to my left, the Quaker Street mud monsters and this morning's sun peeking over Mount Abraham - but I forgot my memory card adapter so can't upload them to my lap top. I'd text them to my email if my cell phone worked... Ah well, I can always post them when I get home, which, I'm happy to report, feels like a continent way from up here.

Here's a writer's tip for you - always hang mini chimes within earshot of your writing space. They help to access that part of your mind that's waiting to talk to you...no idea how they do it...they just seem to get beneath the clutter and strike a chord of clarity that helps the writing flow more easily. If you don't believe me - try it - then let me know how it works!

PS I figured out that if I go into my cell phone's Tools, select USB Mass Storage, I can upload my phone's images to my lap top :)

Tree Time!

So I'm all packed and ready to head up North to Lincoln, Vermont, where the roads have gone swimming and the mud is, well, I'll let you know when I get there...

The last writing retreat I gifted myself was way back in November 2009. It's about time I dropped back into my novel to wrap up this second draft. I'm halfway there, but I just can't seem get passed a couple of chapters (at the most) without getting interrupted.

No-one told me having a Senior in high school was a full-time job: college applications (with essays and references), IB coursework (Creativity, Action, Service - C.A.S.), Theory of Knowledge essay and 4,000 word Extended Essay on Communism. And that's just the school stuff...never mind the teen angst and my looming separation anxiety.

And just in case you thought it was all over when the beautiful acceptance letters rolls in...not a chance!! Then you have the FAFSA form to complete (online - not too bad), income taxes to prep and file (at least 3 weeks of work there), financial aid applications and negotiations to pursue...and it just keeps rolling on until one day, as if by magic, you're stuffing your teddy into a carpet bag, grabbing the lavender oil and Pinot Noir and mapquesting your route to another adventure with the characters currently rioting in your head.

Wonder why I jumped into third person there...dissociation? Me? NEVER!

This isn't like the last retreat, when I only drove to the other end of Cape Cod to stay at my friend's gorgeous B&B for a couple of nights. Nah, this one is "Rustic" with a capital R! Three nights in a former writer's cabin in the woods, then a night in a real shit-you-not tree house...lots of fresh mountain air...and possibly rain if the forecast is right. But I'm prepared for the bathroom treks to the main house - black rubber wellies (should look great with my multicolored cotton skirt) and an LED flashlight bright enough to fool a rooster. I'm almost over the shock of learning there's no cell phone tower - radio silence until next Monday? Not so bad, once you get used to the idea...

Well the sooner I get some ZZZzzzzzz the sooner tomorrow will come. I love the night before traveling - full of bags, boxes and multiple hard drives! Just in case my little Jetta gets swallowed up by the mud monster slithering across the northern states. Hey, it could happen...

The Letter

It came on Christmas Eve - weeks earlier than we'd expected to see it. When my son pulled an envelope out of the pile of mail he'd just dropped on the kitchen table I turned away - I couldn't look.

The Christmas tree at the other end of the room was a distraction - for all of two seconds - then I had to know.

My son's widening smile confirmed what we'd been hoping for months: he'd been accepted to MassArt. This was his dream college, his number one and ONLY choice. He knew it was a reach, but never once gave up the goal that would ultimately seduce him over the Sagamore Bridge and into a life all his own.

I'm not sure who screamed first, or who jumped the highest. It was literally a movie moment. Exactly how I'd imagined it to be: stunning, thrilling, exciting and terrifying all at once. We both felt it so loudly that my younger son flew up the basement stairs, where he'd been plugged into the X-Box all morning, to see what had happened to raise the roof off of our little home.

I was hugged so tightly I pulled a muscle in my neck. It took me three attempts to read the words through eyes that couldn't stay focused. This was it - my son was going to leave me - and soon.

I published as a blog entry (below) an article I'd written for the Fall 2010 issue of CapeWomenOnline.com about a trip I'd taken last summer to the Grand Canyon. I'm still peering over that cliff edge. Still wondering if it's okay to let my sons walk ahead, run ahead, disappear behind a rock I'm too afraid to climb over myself.

This is where I've been these last six months, and why getting back here, to write about not writing, has been impossible.

The funny thing is that I HAVE been writing, or rather rewriting the novel that I began this blog to discuss in the first place. From last June to late December, I was in a fabulous routine of driving my son to his figure drawing class (see an article about Sarah Holl in the Holiday issue of CapeWomenOnline) then heading off to the haunted back room of the Hyannis Public Library to work on my novel in a blissful silence that only exists in such a space.

I was on a roll - editing, rewriting, filling in the gaps of storylines that had eluded me for years. It was so easy to just 'show up at the page'. To drop into the lives of the characters that had begun to communicate with me on a daily basis. The light at the end of the tunnel was in sight - then the art classes ended.

My library time became lost in a blur of days stuffed with dirty dishes and laundry again, endless trips to Trader Joe's for MORE milk - how much milk can one child drink, for god sakes? Time to rearrange the kitchen - toss out old appliances and order new (red) ones online - time to open brown boxes filled with new "stuff" that would make life simpler, give me more time to write...

Time to do anything but dwell on the contents of the letter that had arrived on Christmas Eve.

Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled for my son. He's talked about going to MassArt for years. My struggle has been with the push-and-pull of being his mother; of celebrating his success while quietly grieving the loss of the child that is perched on the very edge of the cliff he plans to jump off.

Stepping into the shadows to get out of his way goes against every instinct in my body. I want to at least stand beside him, talk him through the jump, but he doesn't need me there. He needs me to let go.

So that's what I've been practicing...the delicate art of balancing on the edge of my own cliff, where the view from here is probably a lot scarier than the edge he is peering over. Perhaps that's because I know how it feels to fall, and to discover that sometimes, the safety net isn't there afterall.

If I've done my job, however, my son's wings will be strong enough to safely carry him forward, to wherever he decides to go, even if it's just over the Sagamore Bridge to Boston.

Grand Designs: Navigating the Amazing Trails of Motherhood

Bright Angel Canyon, Arizona.

Ten years ago, I published an article titled Oh Boy! in Cape Women magazine. After being raised in a family of strong, opinionated women, I was examining the challenges of raising boys when I had so little experience with the male population.

My article concluded that if I listened to my sons, I mean REALLY LISTENED to who they are and what they needed as they matured, I would be guided along the unfamiliar path of motherhood. I am happy to report that my insight was correct and now, a decade later, my sons are becoming the young men I always hoped they could be.

Thanks to my mother, my sisters and I found our voices at a very young age and were encouraged to use them, loudly, when necessary. She also encouraged us to be independent, self-reliant and courageous. I believe I was twelve when the headmistress of our all-girls' Catholic secondary school declared that "Good Catholic girls belong at home."

It was my mother who showed me how to change draconian rules. She marched into that spinster's office and demanded that her daughters be allowed to sit the exams that would open the doors to higher education.

When my time came to leave the nest I couldn't fly off fast enough. I took a plane from Heathrow airport to JFK just three days after graduating from University and the rest, as they say, is history.

Now it's my turn to let go and see how far the wings of my own children can take them.

I say children, I still call them that, but they are young men now. And what courageous young men they are! I know I'm biased, but I made it my personal mission to raise my sons the same way my mother raised me – to find their voices at a young age and to follow their hearts to wherever there dreams may take them.

My eldest son is an artist who has his sights set on Massachusetts College of Art and Design. My younger son is a musician with plans to attend Berklee. It has been my job, as their mother, to nurture these creative aspirations and trust that if they follow their passions they will succeed at whatever they do.

I have Julia Cameron to thank for my confidence that art and music are serious career choices. Passages from her book The Artist's Way have been echoing through my head for years.

Years ago, I promised my sons that we would see the Grand Canyon before they graduated high school. It was one of those "some day" ideas that often got lost among the endless "To Do" lists of daily life. Being a single mother, I didn't relish the thought of attempting this trip as the only adult, so I let the trip keep falling to the bottom of the list.

This past summer, my sons and I found ourselves peering over the cliff edges of Bright Angel Point, on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, into a fathomless, mysterious, ancient chasm below. Two of my sisters stood beside me. The Grand Canyon had been on their wish lists too.

Although we couldn't see it, we all knew the Colorado River was still carving its course through layers of multicolored rock that held historic details dating back over two billion years. The size, age and beauty of the canyon were breathtaking, and not just because we were struggling to breathe the extremely thin air.

My younger son listens to the voices of the Grand Canyon

The paved narrow trail that followed a steep ridge to the Bright Angel lookout point was not for the faint-of-heart, rising 8,148 feet above sea level. I tried not to acknowledge my peripheral vision as I walked forward, keeping my eyes firmly on the ground, just inches before my feet.

But my sons fooled around, as boys do, leaving the trail to climb boulders that were precariously balanced on one side of the narrow paths stretching out into the canyon's gaping abyss. I had heart attacks, as mothers do, when I imagined them hurtling to their deaths.

The only way to express my sense of terror that they could die if they lost their balance, was to leave the safety of the path and threaten to climb onto one of the protruding boulders myself. It was my eldest son who caught both my arms and begged me not to risk my life. Relieved, I returned to the trail and said, "Now you know how I feel," as I marched passed him.

The Grand Canyon surprised me. The silence that floated in the air above us was louder than anything I've ever heard before. It told me to stop. To sit. To look and to listen. It reminded me that life is a journey through many wonderful, treacherous, exciting moments, and that each second that passes is something to be felt as deeply as possible.

It asked me stop white-knuckle driving to work, to school, to appointments. It suggested that I slow down enough to smell the lavender growing in pots on my deck. It asked me to listen to the laughter of my sons playing x-box with their friends in their basement man-cave.

I hated the panic in my chest at the thought of losing my sons on that trail. But I loved the warmth of the knowledge that I got us there, to that incredible place, just as I'd promised.

I hate the thought of entering this final year of living with my eldest son before he flies the coop, but I love the strength of his commitment to his own future.

My eldest son steps onto his own Amazing Trail

I can't help the mental countdown that began with "This is our last summer as a family all living together" and will no doubt continue through every Holiday and birthday for the next twelve months.

I know this is what we mothers do and I accept that within three years, both my sons will be navigating their own journeys through lives that will no longer be lived within the safety of my arm's reach. And I love the knowledge that I helped them find their voice, their vision, their passions, just as my mother helped me to find mine.

I understand now that Nature makes teenagers challenging to live with so that we want to help them pack, to drive them to their new lives, to wave them goodbye, and then to trust that they will, despite all the fears a mother can imagine, be okay.

As I stood looking into the heart of the Grand Canyon, where so much was said in such deafening silence, my sisters stood beside me, assuring me that as our lives unfold before us, we will always have each other to share our journeys.

Celebrating Summer on Cape Cod

If you've never had to carry your largest fan onto the deck before attempting to sit outside, then you've never experienced the full force of a humid, Cape Cod summer. It's been brutal this year! The only way to escape the suffocating heat is to treat yourself to lunch in an air conditioned restaurant, followed by a movie for desert. At least that's how I choose to handle it.

Today's movie was Inception. It was amazing. I won't go into the intricacies of the multilevel story lines, nor rave too much about the brilliant casting choices, I'll just say that it was two and a half hours very well spent. The AC and stadium seating were mere cherries on a very delicious Sunday afternoon treat.

My sons couldn't discuss the movie with me on the way home because they were too busy contemplating what they'd just seen. I was told they'd need a few hours to "take it all in" before they could talk about it. That left me with my own thoughts. Which led me to firing up hoses to water my very thirsty gardens, and to the deck, which was still sweltering at 8pm tonight.

I recently bought myself a deck fountain for my birthday, so I'm currently bathing in the cool sounds of the lawn sprinklers and the water pouring into the half-barrel beside me. Thankfully, the fan is keeping the green heads and the no-see-ums at bay, or it would be impossible to stay out here for more than 3 seconds. The deck is one of my favorite places to sit in the summer, but with July running into August, I can count on one hand how often I've made it out here.

It's not just the heat and humidity keeping me from my new deck chairs that recline so much that I can watch the clouds dance across the sky. It's my crazy summer schedule that has me working 7 days a week, instead of the usual 5. My hopes of napping in my hammock, reading on my garden swing and writing at the table next to the chimenea are just that; hopes of time to slow down enough to celebrate summer before it's over.

How often have I walked through the front door with a firm plan to keep walking until I'm out the back door and in my garden? I don't recall a single day when I haven't held that dream. I typically make it three steps into the living room before picking up stray t-shirts, socks or yes, smelly undies off the floor, then it's into the kitchen to clear up breakfast dishes, or off to the bathroom to hang wet towels left straddling the shower stall. I'm not sure why teenagers have such a hard time cleaning up after themselves, but it doesn't take Inspector Morse to figure out who went where, what they ate and when they ate it.

Nor will this craziness last forever. Like the summer, my years hosting teenage boys are going much too fast. Three years from now my home will be nothing more than a stopping-off point in my sons' lives. I'm sure by then I will probably welcome their abandoned clothes, dirty dishes and damp towels.

My youngest son turned 15 last week so we had a beach bonfire party to celebrate. It was a wonderful combination of swimming, volley ball, pizza, s'mores and music blaring from an iLuv that was loud enough to clear the less adventurous souls from our party zone. On the way home, my eldest son announced that it was the best party he'd ever been to. That's saying something considering the fact that parents were present! I'd worked a full week and felt so tired that I could have fallen asleep in the trunk of my car, but his words made all the effort worth it. My younger son thanked me with a giant hug, which, coming from 15-year-old, is a miracle.

As the summer spins out of control with chaotic schedules and relentless demands for rides and sleepovers, I try to remember how fleeting the seasons are with these time-sucking teenage boys. I try to listen for the spaces between the noise. To find the moments I'll treasure long after they've moved on to their busy lives beyond these Cape Cod walls.

We followed today's movie with treats from Dairy Queen. I pretended that I thought it might cool us all down. My real motivation was to see, once again, that childish grin that always comes when you hand someone something you know they love.

Afterall, you can't have summer without ice cream!