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Solitude And Writing
When I reached the age of 44, I purchased a seven acre farm with an old frame house on it, and lived alone. I raised animals, including horses, ferrets, chickens, and two calves. The farm was located in a rural area of Northern Florida. It was a friendly, but rednecky town. I didn't fit in, and for that I am happy. I met enough friends to make life bearable, and made the best of my situation. I did have practical help when I needed it, but my main goal was to be THE Homesteader.I had been raised near the USDA farm in Maryland, and promised myself I would "be like my grandparents." I grew vegetables, gave up eating meat, took care of animals in all weather conditions, sold animals, and hand made ceramics in order to pay the bills. I did horoscopes, as well. I never went to church, because I found Christianity to be far too narrow for the mind expansion coming to me by degrees. I believed in God, a flexible, kind, loving God, and what I found coming from many Christians was not what I would describe as God. My God was Male, and Female, found primarily in nature, the mind, and the heart..they danced with nature. He/she wasn't separate, but a part of everything. I grew closer to nature, and learned to respect most life forms. I stopped killing many insects, and I even let the poisonous snakes continue on their way, unless they were hanging around the house too much outside. I never used poisons, never fired a gun, helped anyone who needed help, and I began writing a bit. I had male friends, but it was difficult to connect with the local women on other than a superficial level. I was single, with no husband, or children, so I must have seemed a bit of an oddity. I considered myself lucky to be able to do what I wanted. It was good to find that I could develop skills to keep me stocked for up to a month without having to shop. I did my own baking, and canned my own vegetables. The electric company hated me, because I had the lowest electric bill in the county. They even changed my meter twice, because it "ran too slowly"..so I told the man.."I will make my bill lower just for you, and it isn't a slow meter." I had a wood stove. I had a gas stove with a small gas tank, which I half filled every 5 months. I washed clothing by hand, and had a well. My hair grew down to my hips, and I remained somewhat lanky, but active. It was nice to be my own boss. At night, I would dance, and watch a rare tv show. Generally, aside from the news, and romantic English PBS dramas, or garden shows, etc..and a slightly naughty film every now and then (hey I wasn't dead yet) I had a distain for TV. I listened to music all day. Essentially, I had written myself off as an old maid. Then, I discovered writing soon after meeting a young man. Younger men seem to trigger my writing urges. Always dark haired, and sensitive types...tall...I have never had the desire to write poems called "For The Love of Bubba" unless, of course, I am in the creative, but not personal mode. My early stories took a bizarre turn, and will most likely become naughty novels. So, to make a long story short, I enjoy living alone most of the time, with intense romantic interludes, because I dread falling into a bad relationship where people get so much alike, and drift into such deep ruts together the magic is not only gone, it is dead, and buried before the people are. I dont want to wander thru a house, wondering when I will die, taking a lot of medicines, flattening my rear end by watching TV...or wondering when he will die. My evenings alone on the porch at my farm often found me gazing at the sunset, and the rising moon, feeling that I had to move to a new climate. I speak to nature, and she speaks back in her/his own way. I have looked at the sky ever since I can remember. Eventually I did sell the farm in December of 2001, and I lived in the Maryland suburbs for 6 months helping out my ailing mother.(The culture shock nearly killed me) A friend invited me to go West with him, and I fell in love with the West. I knew I would. Pictures are one thing, but being there...puts me there. Now, I find myself once again headed toward a semi-reclusive writers life, and hope the desert likes me. As long as I respect her, she/he will respect me. I'm not anti-social. To the contrary, I find social gatherings to be addictive.(especially my Rt 66 crowd of old Teens with gray hair) But then, retreating can be addictive, as well. There are people who can write in the midst of utter chaos. I am not one of them, altho, many writers do scribble quick notes in noisy places...the mind is usually hungry....and the heart is always hungry....
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