enjoy your life
pt. 1 || a summer series
A lot has happened this summer, and yet here I am, having barely written about any of it. Suddenly, August is here and the season is slipping away, so I thought what better way to end it than to share it all in a 6-part weekly series that will hopefully offer a meaningful summation of its moments and lessons. I hope that what I share will leave a mark on you, too, because it’s not just about me - it’s about all of us. And it’s about what we make of every moment, big or small.
My summer began with a solo retreat to the banks of the Tennessee River in Muscle Shoals, Alabama. After five years of working for a writers’ colony, I had yet to experience anything like it for myself, and it was about time I made some time to try it.
I wrote some about the journey in a post written just before I returned home, but today I wanted to go a little more in-depth about what happened while I was there, and how taking this time for myself went from awkward to healing.
My first night at my solo cabin felt a little bit like Cameron Diaz’ first night in England in The Holiday, minus the sexy impromptu encounter with Jude Law. After arriving and saying my oohs and aahs, I found myself standing in the middle of the open space, a little overwhelmed, and completely clueless as to where I should begin.
I cracked open a bottle of red wine and poured a large glass. I opened a bag of crunchy Cheetos. I cued up some Harry Belafonte to set a summery tone. I wandered around with my glass, singing along, checking out the books and records on the shelves. I felt aimless, but relaxed, present to every detail. Eventually, I settled into cooking a box of macaroni and cheese and, despite my best intentions, set up my phone for a little bit of guilty pleasure streaming.
I watched Pixar’s Turning Red, about a preteen Asian girl whose existence in 2002 very much mirrored my own - boy bands, insecurities, puberty and all. It was research, I justified to myself, prompting a little self-reflection. As it ended, I poured more wine into my glass, grabbed a notebook I’d customized for the occasion, and went outside to the porch overlooking the water. It was 11 PM, completely silent, but I was wide awake to the world. I plugged in the globe lights that lined the deck and sat there, watching the moonlight reflect off of the fast-moving water, making friends with a spider, trying my best to capture the moment in my words while also just soaking it up, letting it all sink in as I sunk down into my chair.
That night, I stayed up late reading Her Country, by Marissa Moss. In the morning, I went back out onto the porch and continued reading, before heading down to the private dock and reading a little more. It wasn’t exactly what I’d planned - I needed to be writing, too - but every once in a while I would take pause and jot down some thoughts before they got lost. Then, I’d continue reading. I couldn’t stop - it just felt good.
But I couldn’t decide if I was wasting my weekend or not. I’d become obsessed with finishing a book that was speaking to me deeper than I’d expected and therefore distracting from my original intent of coming here. Following the stories of three female country artists - Maren Morris, Kacey Musgraves, and Mickey Guyton - there was a comfort to be found in it. Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder if I’m on the right path, if leaving the music business was the proper choice for me to make. In reading a book like this, I was not only reminded of how hard it is to be a woman in that industry, but how ill-equipped I truly was to be a part of it, myself. I have massive respect for those who have kept at it and found success in their own unique ways. And it was part of my life for a reason, even if it didn’t pan out as I’d hoped. Perhaps, I thought as a massive wave of peace came over me, I have found my own way and I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
I hadn’t felt a sense of calm like this…almost ever. For a little less than 48 hours, I had no one to talk to, no one to impress, no one to show up for but myself. I was completely removed from work, from home, from all responsibility. And it was in this that I was most able to be myself. To know myself. To feel okay in doing nothing aside from soaking up the sun and watching the water and breathing in the words of a fellow writer.
Around 2 in the afternoon, a momentary sense of panic disrupted this ease. There was something else I should be doing. Now was the time to buckle down and do it. So I left the porch and went into the cabin and immediately forgot what it was. I stood there, looking around the small space, willing the thought to return, but it wouldn’t. It was then that my eyes rested on a candle sitting in a cubby of the wall, and the words printed on its label: Enjoy Your Life.
I felt a great exhale.
The peace returned. This weekend wasn’t about working hard. It wasn’t about hitting a page count of words written or read. And it especially wasn’t about villainizing myself for not being “productive” in the “right” way. It was about finding joy. It was about finding comfort in the solitude. It was about being independent and making choices for myself, following whatever call felt right in every moment. And that’s what I was doing. I was enjoying my life for what it was right now.
So apparently I was doing it all right.
On my final day in Muscle Shoals, I awoke to a light flickering on the concrete wall of the bathroom in the corner of the cabin. I lay there in bed and watched it, mesmerized. It seemed to have a life of its own - no consistency, no pattern. Eventually I got up to inspect its origin, and realized it was the morning sun reflecting off of the water, through my window, into this space. I recorded it as a memory, a special moment that I would try to share but would only ever be my own.
After checking out, I made a quick stop at a place called the Rockpile Recreation Area. It was an odd park, but in less than a half a mile, I stumbled on a waterfall, where cairns had been built and memorials had been laid. There were flowers and children’s sunglasses and angel wings and tiny toys, but no documentation, no explanation.
I had heard the Shoals were full of a certain magic, but I hadn’t expected this. It felt like the right place to end, and I was ready to go home. I had done and seen all that I was meant to, and I knew that I would return again.
I miss your inspirational collages!