The Longing to Escape by Christine Mason Miller

I can’t escape the things I can’t escape. After fifty years on this planet, I’m finally starting to get that. Or maybe it’s that I’ve learned how to discern between the things that appear to be inescapable and those that actually aren’t.

Example: Taxes. Non-negotiable, inescapable.

Another One: My demise. There will come a day when I leave this body, this earth, this life. No getting around that.

Beyond these two circumstances, what else is there beyond the purely physical? I can’t escape the fact that my eyesight isn’t what it was in my twenties, and that I can’t read without glasses. It isn’t possible to magically make my T12 vertebrae whole again after it was crushed in a bicycle accident nearly twenty years ago. I can’t live without water or food. Or love.

I consider most everything else totally escapable; the real question is what is it I feel the need to escape and why? And then, am I willing to do the work necessary to actually escape if that is truly warranted or, if it isn’t, to find a peaceful frequency within the situation in question?

This question of whether or not to escape has been with me for most of my life.

I decided at a fairly young age that striving to be somewhere other than I was would serve me well. Call this the result of generational family patterns, parental examples, and being an only child, which reinforced an independent streak my mom says I was born with. (In third grade, I loved nothing more than playing Billy Joel’s “My Life” at full volume on my portable record player.)

I embraced ideas of escapism as a way to cope with unsettling circumstances at home (news of my parents’ divorce was shared with me when I was eleven) and also to push myself to expand the dreams I had for myself. If something is good, I’d think, what can I do to make it great? Whatever the situation, it was usually driven by a longing to be somewhere other than where I was.

In many cases, especially as I started to make my way in the world after graduate school, this approach did serve me well. I built a business. I traveled all over the world. I wrote books and made art and even went swimming with sharks. As soon as I wrapped up one endeavor, I’d immediately set my sights on another. If I didn’t have a project with quantifiable goals in front of me I’d feel like I wasn’t really living.

In my late twenties and early thirties, when my escapist proclivities were at their peak (at the time, I’d call these tendencies pursuing ambitions and, with regard to more personal situations, setting boundaries), I appeared to be impressive, strong, and all together.

Beneath this, I had a life built on sand.

Until the day it all finally came crashing down and I had no choice but to stay exactly where I was—to not escape—and take a good, long look at all the ways my striving—to be successful, to be independent, to be “fully alive”—had, in the end, not served me well at all in the areas of my life that truly mattered.

That is the short version of a story I’ve shared at different times, in different ways, with varying levels of transparency as to the specifics of how my personal life crumbled like a sand castle. I’ve used words like leave, departure, abandon, close down, let go, and release, and they’ve all explained what I’m talking about. But there is, very often, a desperation in the idea of escape, and it is this sense of unfocused desperation that initiated my journey of discernment and kept it going all these years.

What I’ve had to learn—most especially as a wife and a member of my entire extended family—is the importance of making sure I’ve got it right when I feel the desire to escape curl around my ankles like a vine. After expending undue amounts of energy trying to escape one scenario after another for the first three decades or so of my life, I finally began to understand how devastating it can be to blindly obey the voice that says things like This is not good enough for you. You don’t need/want/deserve this. This is too hard. Get out. Go somewhere else. Run for your life.

Sometimes this voice needs to be heeded, other times not. Learning how to discern the difference has been my most important work—more than my work as an artist, a writer, a teacher, or any other professional title. Without these efforts I might still find a way to appear successful and content, but what joy is there in simply trying to maintain appearances? In learning the art of staying put, I opened myself up to more of life’s gifts than would ever had been possible if I’d continued down the path of departure.

About the Author: Christine Mason Miller

Christine Mason Miller is a writer and artist who lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin with her husband and chocolate lab Tilda. Her forthcoming book, The Meandering River of Unfathomable Joy: Finding God and Gratitude in India, will be available later this fall.

Keep up to date at

Just for One Day by Selena Taylor

Photo by Spencer Imbrock on Unsplash

Take a deep breath. Try and hold it.
“But the clothes are smelly.”
Do you want him to find you?

I cannot hold my breath my fear is so strong. My hideout in the laundry is pretty good. With so many lumps what is one more? I can hear him moving downstairs. For some reason he left the house; maybe he thought I was going to go out there. I am not sure.

You should try to control your breathing.
“I am really scared this time.”
I know. I am sorry.

The footsteps come up the stairs.

“Oh, no!”

I begin to sing and play music in my head in an attempt to quiet my thoughts, or at least mask them. His footsteps go right to the pile of clothes, but he does not investigate at all. He does not move within the room, but I can hear his stupid breathing.

He can breathe just fine. Nothing makes him want to stop breathing. Nothing makes him try to control an asthma attack, so his beater doesn’t find him. Nothing makes him want to run away and give up. Nothing.


Something in the other room must have fallen over. I have no idea what it is, but he actually leaves the room to find the answer.

Run now.
“No way!”
You can make it.
“No, I can’t.”
There are the stairs. They’re a hurdle for sure.
“Told ya.”

His footsteps leave the other room and start back. Panic is just the beginning and fear is always there.

He is yelling, and it is deafening. I can hear all the nasty names and whatever else he wants to make up. Just because all he spews are lies doesn’t mean the words don’t hurt. The tears run down my face and on to the reeking clothes. My breathing becomes more strained, roaring inside my head. I try to stifle the sound with a sock. It works… almost.

All too soon, yelling is no longer enough. Objects are flying around the room. I can hear them crashing into the walls, the lamps, and the dresser. Something strikes the pile and the sock does not muffle my “oomph.”

“NO!” That is the only thing I can scream as he grabs me by my hair.

I am always here. I will pray with you.

“Our Father….”

His blow to my mouth makes me move my prayer from my speaking voice to the one inside my head. My thoughts and me stay in prayer. When we finish the, I hear a soft melody.

Can you hear the music I started?
“Yes, I can.”
Sing with the music in here. The music will help.

I retreat further into my mind and let the music wrap me in a warm blanket. I sing in my mind and I let it help me slip into sleep. Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose and know it instantly, but sometimes you have to wait to win.

“Oh, there you are. Welcome back.”

The Ambulance is cold and unforgiving with every bump. The paramedics tell me that I was unresponsive in the house. They managed to restart my breathing and moved me into the ambulance. I cry and cry.

“Can you play some music? Please. I love music.”

“Sure thing.”

With a push of a button the radio comes alive.

What luck! It is your favorite singer on the radio with one of your favorites playing.
“It seems like I am lucky in more than one way today.”
Indeed. Sing now.

I begin to whisper-sing the song with tears going down my cheeks. My eyes close as I see the paramedic give me a small smile.  I let my mind go and fall into song.

I will be a hero one day.
I will find my way out.
I will get away.
I will escape.

I will be a hero, even if it is for one day.

About the author, Selena Taylor

Selena TaylorSelena Taylor is a wife, a mother, and a woman who strives to tell the many stories that occupy her mind. She is active in the Rhett & Link fandom and appreciates dark humor.  She and her family live in Illinois, where she takes every opportunity to lose herself under the stars and let her imagination run wild. For more from Selena, check her out on Facebook.

Instrumental: When the Well is Dry by Megan Gunnell

Where do we go when the well is dry? Where do we find our creative inspiration? How do we escape and not in a way to avoid, but rather to reconnect to our soul?

In our everyday, busy lives we need to make a conscious effort to connect, to seek inspiration and to find space to think, breathe and awaken. We can do this through mindfulness. When we practice being mindful, we pause and open our senses. When we do this, we bring our attention to the now. It’s an escape from ruminations on the past or anticipatory anxiety about the future. Being in the now also affords us a sense of gratitude and enriches our quality of life by helping us feel present and engaged in the moment before us.

When we do this, we tend to notice the sanctity of life and the miraculous wonders in nature.

We can bring mindfulness practices to everyday living through food and cooking. We can lose ourselves in new recipes with exotic spices and new ingredients, cooking slowly to downshift our life pace. The chopping and peeling and prep work of cooking engages our mind in the moment. The smells, tastes, sounds and feel of cooking becomes a sensory immersion, an escape from what ails us.

When I want to fill up my well, I go to nature. I take a mindful walk without my phone and listen to the birds or the wind in the trees. I notice the colors around me. I experience my breath and come into the moment. I connect with my body and my movement in a way that recharges and reinvigorates me.

I pause to notice small changes in my garden as the seasons change. New growth, new colors, new buds opening and also notice things dying back, changing shape and returning to the earth.

Moving beyond cooking and nature, I give myself permission to explore creating with art materials or with music.

My focus is always on the process, not the product. When I allow myself to make mistakes and create for the sake of creating, I’m not inhibited by perfection or expectations of what it will look or sound like in the end. Blending paint colors can be a visceral experience. ‘What does it feel like to mix this color with that one?’ ‘What do I notice?’ ‘Does this new shade please me or does it need more of this or more of that?’ Painting and music making are opportunities to escape into the moment.

Access to creativity can be simple and small.

We don’t have to make masterpieces to experience the joy and benefit. Creative opportunities expand us and create space. They break the bonds of limitations that we live in and help us see that other possibilities exist. Being creative helps us remain psychologically flexible and reduces rigidity in thought, feeling and behavior.

But we all know that being creative requires some element of risk and fearlessness.

We must suspend judgement in order to dive deep into the wells of creative expression. If we struggle to fit in or make something perfect, it will block our capacity to create. When we allow ourselves to stay in impermanence, knowing that what we’re creating today isn’t a statement about forever, but rather an expression of the now, then we can free ourselves up to be in the moment. And that creates a sense of freedom from attachment to expectations and a real escape!

About the Author: Megan Gunnell

Megan Gunnell is a Psychotherapist, Speaker, Writer, International Retreat Leader with over 20 years experience.  She has presented and facilitated workshops and retreats globally and nationwide most notably in Finland at Jyvaskyla University, in Costa Rica at Anamaya and Ahki Resorts, at Miraval Resort and Spa, Arizona, the Bryant University Women’s Summit, Rhode Island and at Red Mountain Resort, Utah.  A leading expert in women’s health, self-care and mindfulness, her work helps clients transform, restore and reach their highest potential.

Floating with Piano Jazz by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

A stream rippling
in timeless riffles
slides into backwaters
wanders down a rivulet
slips back into its
liquid trail
ever downstream

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

PatriciaWellingham-JonesPatricia Wellingham-Jones is a widely published former psychology researcher and writer/editor. She has a special interest in healing writing, with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew.

When Someone Chooses a Final Escape by Keva Bartnick

When I heard the news of Kate Spade, and later Anthony Bourdain I wasn’t saddened. But I wasn’t shocked. Suicide has never been an easy thing to navigate. It’s always horrible. When it does hit it’s like a tsunami; knocking us into a sea of sadness. Left to drift aimlessly until we find our bearings again. Standing becomes tricky and we are never quite the same again.

I realize that many of us keep hidden so many demons. They only rise to the surface when someone else decides to take the plunge into the unknown. We all go thru some litany of grief. Yet, for many who never knew them, their life doesn’t change. Why should it? They didn’t know the deceased. Their lives become completely untouched for the most part. It becomes another headline in a long string of them.

I didn’t know Kate or Anthony, yet I can say that for each suicide I hear about my life does change. I make it change so that the life that was lived doesn’t feel like it was in vain. I take several moments to myself honoring the person that they were. Knowing that the world will always be less now because they are gone.

In Kate’s case I bought a cup she designed from Amazon, a reminder to me every time I use it that life is short; drink up. It has lemon’s on it. When life gives you lemons be sure to make lemonade. If you can’t it’s okay to ask for help. Suffering from depression and anxiety myself, it’s a stark reminder that I am not alone in my struggles.

In Anthony’s case it was a little different.

I remember flipping thru the channels and running into him on television from time to time. I wasn’t in a space to appreciate what he was putting out into the world. I’m not a foodie, choosing the route of eating to live instead of living to eat. Now older and wiser, I can now see the value he brought to everything he did. How every person who had the chance to meet him and get to know him became blessed. With Anthony, in death, he taught me how to enjoy new food and new experiences.

I’m all for adding good things into my life. It took me awhile to understand that in order to change my life I didn’t have to get rid of anything. Opting to add one good thing in at a time, changing my life for the better. Change doesn’t have to be dramatic or painful. Sometimes it can be small, seemingly insignificant at the time, but in the end making a bigger impact than we thought was possible.

After Anthony passed I decided that we were in a food rut.

Don’t get me wrong I’m all for anchors in my life with little ones and how they can be helpful. But there was something to be said for always staying in the safe end of the pool. Like Anthony, maybe it wasn’t something that should be taken away, things always staying the same. Yet, something that needed to be added.

So I decided on New Food Friday’s. An odd mix of anchors and setting sail for the horizon, destination unknown. Each Friday, we as a family, find food that we’ve never tried before. Last week it was kiwi (for the kids) and plantain (for my husband and I) and this week for the kids it was sushi and potstickers. We are starting out small with normal food you can find close to us. Later graduating out into the world to find the real interesting food stuffs.

Either way, it’s in the endings that we find new beginnings. For you can’t have one without the other.

I like to think that Kate and Anthony are looking down on me in someway with little smirks on their faces. Happy with how I chose to honor their lives, even though they weren’t always happy. Understanding the struggles and realizing that I always have a choice in how I go forward. Infusing what I knew about them into how I integrate their lives into my own. Hoping that in a way they can be honored and remembered.

In the end knowing that life is hard, but it is beautiful.

That each day is a new beginning, remembering to set sail for great things. Understanding there will be storms, but it’s how we weather them that shows our strengths and our weaknesses. Learning from those who have gone before us. Living more boldly in our own lives. Thanking people for coming and for being who they really were. No strings attached and no reservations; adding on to their legacy after they have passed.

Infusing good things into our lives as we go along, not only because of death, but because we truly know what it means to live.

About the Author: Keva Bartnick

Keva Bartnick is an artist, writer, and lightworker. Happily married mother of three; she’s been inspiring people to be their most courageous selves since 2015.

Sunday Salon: Armchair Escape

I can’t help chuckling at the theme for this issue of Modern Creative Life – ESCAPE. It’s particularly ironic for me at this moment because six weeks ago we brought home a tiny puppy, so we’re spending most of our time tethered to the house or the puppy’s needs. When we do “escape” it’s to make a quick run out for a meal, or groceries, or more chew toys, or to the veterinarian’s office.

And while I absolutely adore this little critter, there are times when I do long for a real escape – somewhere the sights and sounds consist of other than squeak toys, kibble dispensers, puppy pads, and all the assorted accoutrement puppies now seem to require.

Here is just where art and life intersect in a marvelous way. In the past few weeks I’ve traveled to India and South America, to Spain and France, and even back in time to the 1930’s and 1940’s. All while ensconced in my favorite chair, a bundle of fur curled up beside me snoring softly.

If you’re a reader you understand what I mean. Books have always been my preferred means of escape. In reality, I’m not much of a traveler anyway. I always prefer home over foreign locales. For many years, I wasn’t inclined to admit that, because it seems most people count traveling as a huge life goal and have exotic locations lined up on their bucket lists. Alas, I’m happy spending the majority of my time in my own home, especially as I get older and admittedly more persnickety about my personal spaces. Whenever I do travel, I’m usually disappointed. As Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote in Self Reliance: Traveling is a fool’s paradise…I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea and at last wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the stern fact, the same sad self, unrelenting, identical that I fled from.”

Yep, there’s just no escaping that “same sad self.”

So books – and also music and movies and artwork – take me most anywhere I want to go these days. Add in some rich coffee grown in the Andes mountains and a buttery Parisian style croissant, a cold crisp glass of Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand with some cheese from the coast of England, and the armchair international experience is complete.

Maybe a few months from now when the puppy is grown up and settled I’ll decide to take a real trip instead of a virtual one. I’ll hire a pet sitter, pack my trunk, wave farewell to my friends, board a plane, and take off into the friendly skies toward unknown and interesting destinations.

Then again, maybe I’ll just settle back in my armchair with a pile of good books. Think of all the money I’ll save to buy chew toys and dog treats.

How about you? Are you an armchair traveler or an explorer for real?

Here’s a list of books I’ve “traveled” with in the past few weeks:

A Place for Us – Fatima Farheen Mirza

The Masterpiece – Fiona Davis

Another Side of Paradise – Sally Koslow

The Story Hour – Thrity Umrigar

Moonlight Over Paris – Jennifer Robson

Women in Sunlight -Frances Mayes


About the Author: Becca Rowan

becca_rowan_bio_may2016Becca Rowan lives in Northville, Michigan with her husband and their Shih Tzu puppy Lacey Li. She is the author of Life in General, and Life Goes On, collections of personal and inspirational essays about the ways women navigate the passage into midlife. She is also a musician, and performs as a pianist and as a member of Classical Bells, a professional handbell ensemble. If she’s not writing or playing music you’ll likely find her either playing with (or cleaning up after) the puppy, or curled up on the couch reading with a cup of coffee (or glass of wine) close at hand. She loves to connect with readers at her blog, or on Facebook, Twitter, or Goodreads.

Latest Escape by Patricia Welllingham-Jones


A friend is slogging her way home
from Buenos Aires, thirteen air hours
topping off an arduous trip:
flights around Chile and Argentina,
bus rides along sharp Andean ridges,
four days on a boat in rough Patagonian seas.

That doesn’t take into account
the mountain-miles hiked
with aching joints
where her real knees used to be.

So now she’s heading for Atlanta,
hoping their record snow has stopped,
the power’s back on. Wishing
she didn’t have a seven-hour layover.
Wishing she was a long-flying bird.

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

PatriciaWellingham-JonesPatricia Wellingham-Jones is a widely published former psychology researcher and writer/editor. She has a special interest in healing writing, with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew.

Creating Small Opportunities for Escape is Good for the Soul! by Laura Pursley

Creating an escape for yourself doesn’t have to entail some grand plan, some grand vacation, or be a huge undertaking.

When you can’t actually get away on a vacation, doing little things to evoke the feeling of escape, peace, or calm is the next best thing. With so many responsibilities, like being a Mom of two young kids, having a full-time job, running a décor blog and all the things that come along with those, I know that I am not alone in that getting even a moment to yourself is a blessing. Whatever keeps you busy in your life, whatever your responsibilities, taking time to relax, or to be still, or to be calm should have some place in your life.

Sometimes, if I am being totally honest, even being in the bathroom by myself can seem like a blessing, but that doesn’t really count as an escape.

I recently did a self-imposed organizing challenge where I committed to organizing 5 spaces in 5 days. While it was a lot of work, the feeling of calm that it evoked for me after was so great! Because we are all so busy, we let things pile up, and sometimes don’t even realize how bad it has gotten. In my case, when it was a struggle to close the drawer in my bathroom because of all the stuff, this was a sure sign that it was time to take action.

Now, when I go into these organized spaces every day in my home (master bedroom closet, bathroom drawers and cabinets, my kids bathroom linen closet), I truly have a feeling of calm because the clutter is gone, everything is organized, and I can find what I need for my daily tasks. Now, if I could only get my kids to keep the playroom organized!

Here are a few pics of some of the spaces that I organized. I won’t bother you with the messy before pics!

A side organizing tip: If you don’t use baskets to organize the smaller things, you are missing out!

Another small, yet impactful thing that I do every day to make me feel at peace, or calm, is to make my bed. For some reason, having my bed made puts me at ease. If the bed is unmade, (kind of like living with the clutter), I feel a little disheveled.

One thing that I tell people is to find small things that you enjoy that give you peace, or the feeling of an escape, even if it’s for a short time. One thing that I like to do on a Sunday morning is to make a cup of coffee, sit on the front porch, and read a magazine. This doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it feels so luxurious.

I am sure that you can think of a few things that give you peace, make you calm, or create an escape in your home. It may be organization, it may be a cozy spot to curl up and read a book, or it may even be hiding in a room if that’s necessary. Finding a way to do some of these things are good for the soul, and good for your sanity!

About the Author: Laura Pursley

Laura is a home decor blogger, marketing professional, mother of 2, living in Michigan. Laura has a passion for design that she uses to transform her home into a comfortable, livable, beautiful space for her family. Her design motto is that you don’t have to be a designer to have good design in your home. She believes that everyone deserves to be in a space that they love, whatever that means to you.

Laura likes to mix a little bit of modern with a little bit of farmhouse, and she likes textures, patterns, and in some instances, is not afraid of color. It is her hope with her design blog to inspire others to transform their own spaces into something they love.

Visit her blog at to get inspired, or follow her on Instagram, Facebook, Pinterest

Edge of Dusk by Bobbi Sinha-Morey


By the edge of dusk I’d
escaped just in time
through the broken slats
of a fence, into an orchard
where I stole enough plums,
kept running farther away
till I could no longer see
the farm my stepfather owned
and my insane family who did
nothing but abuse me. All I
ever wanted was a peaceful
sanctuary, a loving touch to
waken my senses, a nurturing
light so I could find my passion
in the sun. Too wary to put my
thumb in the air when I reached
the open road, I walked for three
miles before I arrived at a bus
depot, and I counted my change
for an overnight ride out of here.
And when I slept I dreamed of
my future—barefoot in the wet
grass in back of my one bedroom
home, peaches ripe on the vine,
the stillness and quiet of an idyllic
life. New faces, new memories;
pancake breakfasts every Sunday.
And, maybe, if I lost my ponytail
and let down my hair, a man would
come into my life, wrap his arms
about me forever.

About the Author: Bobbi Sinha-Morey

Bobbi Sinha-Morey’s poetry can be see in a variety of places such as Plainsongs, Pirene’s Fountain, The Wayfarer, Red Weather, Oasis Journal 2016, Helix Magazine, and Uppagus. Her books of poetry are available at, and her work has been nominated for Best of the Net. She loves taking walks on the beach with her husband.

A Summer Escape by Jeanie Croope

It’s a quiet Monday morning at the cottage. The lake is draped with a haze of fog, the opposite shoreline barely visible, like a pencil drawing that had been badly erased and only a light shadow remains. The lake is still and gray, barely a ripple. Islands of foam rest without moving on its surface, like globs of whipped cream floating in a sink of dirty water.

The monochromatic palette is broken only by the brilliantly colored water floats tied to the neighbor’s dock. A bright pink flamingo, a yellow trampoline, a goldenrod inner tube, a floating island with a green palm tree protruding from the top. Their cheerful colors signal the lively activity of the day ahead.

The weekenders have returned home to their regular routine of work, appointments and obligations and it is quiet, oh so quiet. Only the well modulated voices of dulcet radio anchors on “Morning Edition” and the sound of the neighbor’s lawn sprinklers break the stillness.

Why, oh why, do people have lawns at the lake? This is where we come to escape the routines of the city and the suburbs. Mowing lawns. Street traffic. A faster pace.

On our morning walks we might encounter Mr. Bird and his dog, Snoopy; Karen and Lou, with their dazzling garden; Penny and John, who are laying in their own driveway; Steve, who is married to the Little Free Library lady; Paul, the painter, who has a smoker and who, if we are lucky, may offer a taste of delicious smoked meat; Josh and his dad, with Josh’s kids packed into a double-stroller and their blond German shepherd by their side.

We greet each other with a smile, maybe a bit of chat, swatting away a mosquito or two if the day is damp or humid. We note the flower pots with black eyed Susans in an otherwise neat little garden, tipped over the day before in the breeze, are now planted, straight and tall.

The occasional red-tipped leaf is a sign of days to come.

Our minds relax.

The solo walker will perhaps dream up plots for stories that may or may not be written or notice the way light hits a cluster of leaves, trying to determine how to capture that light in paint. Those traveling in the company of others will notice all about them as well, pointing out bunnies or birds, or simply share a morning conversation.

A car may go by, carrying its driver into town, perhaps for a day job, perhaps for groceries or a trip to a breakfast restaurant. They slow as they approach, giving the walkers plenty of room and all parties wave as they pass by. It’s part of the unwritten etiquette code.

And yes, there are different types of waves.

The open-handed royal wave, the windshield wiper wave and the wiggling finger wave. The two-handed steering wheel wave finds the driver wiggling the fingers on both hands as it holds the steering wheel at “ten” and “two,” the official drivers education position.

There is the open window arm-out wave and it’s not so pleasant cousin, the cigarette-out-the-open-window wave, leaving behind an after-fragrance of dubious quality.

Back on the porch, the radio has moved from news to classical. The black-and-white cat sits on the cushion of a faux-wicker chair, alternating naps with a careful perusal of the beach as she awaits the passage of a bird or chipmunk.

Yesterday’s swimsuits and towels hang from nails on the porch beams, drying out for today’s swim. A potted sunflower sits on the table, herb gardens and small begonia pots seem to thrive.

The lake is still clam, the white foam seemingly barely moving in the almost-non-existent current.

A long boat passes by and the fog, if one looks straight out, is moving gently to the north, like slow-moving smoke. Yes, it’s still there, that fog, but lifting now, the trees on the opposite side more visible than a half hour before.

In another hour the sun will break through the clouds and bring with it the warmth of another summer’s day.

There will be the sounds of more boats, a barking dog, perhaps the laughter of children or adults, enjoying the water.

A lone swimmer will stroke in the deep water along the shoreline, from one buoy to another, counting strokes and attempting to do more than the day before. And more than one fisherman will slowly move their boats boat down the lake, hoping for “the big one” and more likely later telling stories of the one that got away.

And, in due course, the sun will sink slowly beyond the horizon, leaving streaks of orange, pink and gold on the surface of the lake.

The sky will move to inky blue, then black and stars will emerge, perhaps the moon. The lake will again be calm, the stillness after a day of play will set in as it does for us. Time for rest.

There will be tomorrow in our little heaven on earth. And we will treasure it as much as today.

About the Author: Jeanie Croope

Jeanie Croope bioAfter a long career in public broadcasting, Jeanie Croope is now doing all the things she loves — art, photography, writing, cooking, reading wonderful books and discovering a multitude of new creative passions. You can find her blogging about life and all the things she loves at The Marmelade Gypsy.