Linda Stout

I went on a mini retreat two weeks ago, for two wonderful days of making friends with winter for the first time in years, making better friends with myself and having what has continued to be an intimate, nearly monogamous relationship with my baritone ukulele. I don't always like to talk about what I'm writing or analyze my innards too publicly, but I definitely felt invited into the woods at Light on the Hill (you can see www.LightontheHill.org). I stayed in the little retreat hut on the lip of a frozen pond. It was warm inside in record cold. Lawrence brought the most amazing steaming dinners in warm crocks, and I got the concept of saying grace. I heard coyotes, at least three one night. I saw a pair of blue jays. I read poetry by Hafiz (1300s Persian and just so darn playful and sensual), and later bought the book for my grandmother, too. The morning before I left I not only saw all the frost on the seat and all around in the outhouse, I also saw tiny feathers of frost an inch over the edge of a dark little stream. I did write -- words, even -- which come so much harder than melodies, harmonies and structure for me. I almost always write, but it was good to devote days only to that and hiking and sleeping.