I arrived in the woods around 4 o’clock, the evening light cutting through the trees and casting a glow on the cabin. The moment I closed my car door, I was enveloped by the quiet. The only sounds were the creaking of surrounding trees and the wind rustling what leaves managed to hang onto the branches for the entirety of winter. I took my first of many deep breaths.
I was nervous for the weekend: I decided to spend the time alone (well, alone + my dog) with just my journal, a pile of books and the trees. Alone time is usually my favorite, but it seemed more daunting in the wake of a rough mental health year(s).
My boyfriend encouraged me to spend the weekend with my thoughts, knowing in his wisdom the creativity (and feelings) would flow. “This will be just what you need. All the outside noise will be quiet. It’s just you and your thoughts and feelings.”
As I was leaving Nashville, that concept was terrifying. I didn’t want to be alone with any thoughts and certainly not any feelings. After a year of profound loss, I wanted to be at home on my couch next to him while watching reality TV and scrolling Instagram. Not one original thought could creep in under those conditions! That’s where it’s safe.
About thirty minutes into the drive, I realized he was right. I turned off my podcast and sang Noah Kahan without Spotify (service dropped). I let go of what I couldn’t control and trusted that my gut was right: maybe I did need a weekend of silence in a beautiful place to process and move forward.
We live in an age of multi-tasking. I’m watching the latest reality TV while eating my dinner. Washing dishes while food is still cooking. Listening to a podcast while I walk my dog. Talking to a friend on the phone while folding my laundry. Making a mental to do list while getting ready for my day. The popular concept of “habit-stacking” is essential for some eras of life but does not provide much in the way of achieving a calm nervous system.
Being at Postcard Cabins was an exercise in just doing one thing at a time. I didn’t listen to a podcast while I cooked dinner; instead, I cooked in silence. I listened to the garlic and scallions sizzle and took in the aroma it produced. I ate my dinner and was surprised at having to stop the urge to start washing dishes while I was eating. I noticed that feeling, and let it pass, continuing to twist pasta noodles with my fork and stare out the window.
I made coffee the slow way: rather than preparing a machine the night before, I boiled water in the kettle and used my AeroPress to make one mug at a time. I made a point to tune into every part of the process. I literally waited for a kettle to boil. And it took AWHILE. But I didn’t mind one bit.
We can learn a lot of lessons from spending time in nature: everything is cyclical, all things heal with time and have a purpose, change is the only constant. But what stuck out to me the most this weekend was this: you have worth just because you exist.
I brought my dog for the weekend and watching him take in the nature healed something in me I didn’t know was broken. I love him so much just for existing. He doesn’t have to always obey me (which is good, because he doesn’t). I love watching him watch the world. I imagine this is the feeling good parents experience with their children, only at a heightened level.
Adjusting to the quiet felt like adjusting to night vision. Acquiring forest hearing, maybe? The first day I arrived, I missed the cows mooing in the distance, birds flapping their wings, playing in the wind. But on the second morning, those sounds were coming through crystal clear. I walked outside with my dog and was struck by the brilliance of the stars. My head lamp was no match for the light of the moon. So many glimmering lights cutting through the deep darkness.
I am grateful for the opportunity and space to do one thing at a time. To write when I wanted to write, read when I wanted to read, go for long walks with my dog, and make pancakes. And to do all those things without an ever-present to do list haunting me. A true escape, a true getaway. And the feelings did bubble up to the surface, but I was in a safe place to process and move through them. I poured thoughts into my journal and felt lighter than I have in ages.
And genuinely, 48 hours later I felt like a different person. A calmer, more capable, more well-rested version of the me that has always been here, hiding underneath the anxiety. I ran from the noise of the city, and I found my way back to myself.
You can follow my writing at https://thepostcalvin.com/author/olivia/ and travels at @thecampgals on Instagram.