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We were away again. We escaped the incessant heat of the city and drove up into the mountains. Instead of a computer, I felt paper under my hands for the past few days. I wrote in the sun surrounded by birds and rustling trees. I wrote in the shade of a tower built hundreds of years ago. Instead of air conditioning, we had the mountain breeze. Instead of an oven, we had a fire. Instead of electricity, we had candles to illuminate the antique furniture and rustic floorboards, and even if there was a wifi signal, I didn’t want it, so this page stayed blank and I filled others full of nature and memories and the feeling of cold water from the outdoor faucet splashing over my feet.

Tomorrow I’ll be settled back into this city, and I’ll sit on my computer for hours and upload photos and write about how wonderful it all was and then get back to my emails. During those days, I wanted to live it instead of looking at it through an Instagram filter. I was back in a place that felt like home – the home that I grew up in where I’d sit by the fire on the lake, or lie in bed at The Farm and listening to the crickets – all before anyone wanted to share it all with the world, all before the internet even existed.

So I sat and I wrote while looking out over the field where the deer graze and had my morning coffee made in a moka. I really didn’t feel guilty that I hadn’t brought my laptop. I have an arsenal of stories just from the past few days, however, and have a lengthy review to write on my newest favorite place and people. It’s been an incredible week, and I’m exhausted. Tomorrow is a typing day. I pray for rain.


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