Good food, good company, exotic locales and the time to talk books with adults who love literature—there’s much about a writing residency to love, and love, and love. Late nights, bottles of wine shared on balconies, laughter. The classwork is challenging, the friendships rich.
Add to all this goodness a week of spectacular weather, most days clear and sunny.
Add to this a room with a terrace.
Last night after dinner I sat on the terrace with my roommate—the first stretch of open evening we’ve had. I looked up the hill above our terrace, where I saw a woman on a swing, in a huge pine tree, legs pumping as she swung the big arch, again and again. I’d not been up that hillside, didn’t know about the swing. When she stopped swinging and disappeared, I threw on my shoes to run try it myself.
Add to all the beauties of a writing residency: one long sunset with a rim of mountains, one classmate playing guitar on the hillside, one long session to swing from the tall pine until my hands grew too tired to grip the ropes.
And then a reading night, around the circle, wonderful, and a movie of Dante’s Inferno done in Victorian paper puppets. Add a few more glasses of wine, good conversation.
Today is my last set of classes for this residency, and I pack up this stack of books to send home. Perhaps by the time the books arrive home, by the time I arrive home, I’ll be ready to break away from this beautiful place. But for today I remain blissfully spoiled, and if there’s time, I’ll get to that swingset again.