It is my place.
My place where I feel inspired, where I feel at peace, where I feel grounded.
And, like holding a favorite coffee-filled mug in my hands, there is sweet comfort in its familiarity.
It had been too long since my last visit, and with the kids away for Thanksgiving,
it seemed the perfect time. I packed up the car, and Charlie and I hit the road,
joining all of the holiday traffic.
As I suspected, 95 South was a mess, but once we hit the 295 split, the road opened up.
The sudden opportunity for space was too enticing to ignore,
and I challenged my car to speeds we had not reached before.
Maybe I'd better slow down, I thought.
Maybe . . . not.
It rained steadily throughout the drive, and by the time I reached the bridge,
I was feeling the lateness (or the earliness) of the hour.
When I reached the other side, I pulled into a 7-Eleven for a bottle of water
and something to eat, then continued on to search the dark and empty beach road
for cottage number 4.
As I pulled into the driveway, the rain was falling heavily, blowing sideways from the wind.
With no rain jacket on, I stepped onto the tiny little front porch, in search of the lockbox.
Too dark to see, I used the light from my cell phone to read the tiny little numbers
on the combination lock.
It was 3:00 in the morning.
As I attempted to open the box, Charlie yapped from the inside of the car,
and I suddenly realized I really had to pee.
It took me six tries before I finally opened the lockbox, and out popped the key -
the key to my cottage, my humble abode, my love nest, my writing lair,
my quiet little space for the next several days.
I unlocked the door, and after making several trips to unload the car (and use the bathroom),
I stood very, very still.
Breathe in, breathe out, and just . . . NOTICE.
Charming, quaint, cozy, eclectic - perfect.
Cottage number 4.
My place where I feel inspired, where I feel at peace, where I feel grounded.
And, like holding a favorite coffee-filled mug in my hands, there is sweet comfort in its familiarity.
It had been too long since my last visit, and with the kids away for Thanksgiving,
it seemed the perfect time. I packed up the car, and Charlie and I hit the road,
joining all of the holiday traffic.
As I suspected, 95 South was a mess, but once we hit the 295 split, the road opened up.
The sudden opportunity for space was too enticing to ignore,
and I challenged my car to speeds we had not reached before.
Maybe I'd better slow down, I thought.
Maybe . . . not.
It rained steadily throughout the drive, and by the time I reached the bridge,
I was feeling the lateness (or the earliness) of the hour.
When I reached the other side, I pulled into a 7-Eleven for a bottle of water
and something to eat, then continued on to search the dark and empty beach road
for cottage number 4.
As I pulled into the driveway, the rain was falling heavily, blowing sideways from the wind.
With no rain jacket on, I stepped onto the tiny little front porch, in search of the lockbox.
Too dark to see, I used the light from my cell phone to read the tiny little numbers
on the combination lock.
It was 3:00 in the morning.
As I attempted to open the box, Charlie yapped from the inside of the car,
and I suddenly realized I really had to pee.
It took me six tries before I finally opened the lockbox, and out popped the key -
the key to my cottage, my humble abode, my love nest, my writing lair,
my quiet little space for the next several days.
I unlocked the door, and after making several trips to unload the car (and use the bathroom),
I stood very, very still.
Breathe in, breathe out, and just . . . NOTICE.
Charming, quaint, cozy, eclectic - perfect.
Cottage number 4.
