45 minutes is all it takes me to be a writer. 45 minutes a day in my study lets me live those other parts of the day with a calming secret, a persona I can revert to when the job and the stress become too much. I am that, I can say, pointing to the study. That I go to it every day makes it live on in me. Do I live on in it?
All day, does my ghost sit typing at the keyboard, the cat reaching for my fingertips, wanting to gnaw on them to clean me? Does the dog play with the bone behind, do the autumn piano sonatas ring out, even when I am not there? Does the voice whisper quietly, the wine slowly empty, the day get checked off on the index card, over and over again, every 45 minutes, while I am not there? Because it certainly feels that way when I return.
There is meant to be something special about places. Everyone knows but isn’t there probably a moment where you discovered it, too? I am trying to teach through place-based education, allowing children to learn about their world through the place where they are, and all that comes with that: care for nature, for community, wonder and connection and exploration. But do I really write through place? More than I meant to. More than I thought I could.
I keep writing Rossland. I thought when I left Vancouver I could write Vancouver, but is it that a heart dwells somewhere and you move to that place to pick it up and take it with you somewhere new? Because I’ve found a writer here in Rossland, in my study, and she seems to be me.
45 minutes a day, 100 days. A combination of a challenge given and a challenge taken, a house bought and a house lived in, a dream set and a dream set upon. I’m doing it. I’m doing it every day.