I’d go somewhere upstate. Take a long drive in the early morning. Through the fog, through the cold. My mind would be as clear as the road ahead of me. I’d look out the window to see pine trees the entire way through. Tall, with orange leaves. It must mean winter is coming. I wouldn’t be sure of the seasons, months, or even days of the week. I’d only know morning, afternoon and night. That would be enough.

Eventually, I’d spot a small cabin out in the distance. I’d arrive and immediately get the fire going, as here, it is always cold. Not the sort of cold that makes you suffer, but the kind that gives you shivers and settles deep in your bones. I’d get the kettle going as well. Hot tea, to the right measure. I’d drink it sitting on the porch, looking out at everything I left behind to be here.

I’d think of it all, every little detail. But not for too long. I wouldn’t let my mind pull me away from what I came here to learn. I’d walk back inside, sit on a brown couch and take in the paintings hanging on the wooden walls. I wouldn’t try to understand them. I’d just observe. I’ve spent most of my life believing everything has an explanation or a purpose. This time, I’d let things exist, and find peace in what just is.

I’d be far from all I’ve ever known, and it would hurt me just as much as it would heal me. I’d go down to the market for fruits, meats, vegetables. The butcher would be the only person I’d speak to for weeks. I’d make dinner for myself, plate it nicely for the fun of it. I’d take a long, hot shower. Sleep early to sleep in.

By late morning, I’d ski. Through tall mountains, over fresh snow. The sun would hit my face just right. Not a single thought would pass through my mind. I’d give in to motion, to the quiet inside of it. After a few hours, I’d come back to the lodge. Take off my gear. Lie on the floor. Maybe think about tomorrow, maybe not. Whatever feels right in the moment. 

Soon, I’d get the fire started again. Make tea. Sit alone. Remember. Have dinner. Shower. Do it all again, throughout the winter. 

By the end, I’d pack my things. Try to leave something behind. Drive through the pine trees once more. Find myself somewhere between leaving and returning. Feel it on the interstate. Remember how it all goes. Make peace with it, in a way. Arrive back. Wait for next winter to come.