I woke up in a cabin on a futon next to a stone fireplace, surrounded by many windows. The sun was fighting through the dense foilage to shed more light on my situation. And if I turn off this iPod and listen closely, I could hear Lake Michigan coming to rest along the nearby shore. Time to let out a yawn and return home.

Look, mom: a new world!

I forgot I trekked 25 minutes through the storm last night in a Mustang GT with sh***y tires to get up to my lawyer’s cabin. Not drunk, just distracted. Distracted from being anxious. The anxiety that comes to a child with ways and means on Christmas Eve. It starts with the anticipation of getting what one wants and wears one down to the point where they’re afraid of getting nothing at all.

When I got here, Octoberfest brew in hand and backpack over my shoulder, my lawyer was half-asleep watching Catholics beat on each other (go Irish).

He’s been fighting anxiety on his own.

Anxiety that comes from the percieved pace one is supposed to live their life and accomplish the tasks that keeps the species going.

Therein lies the bond from which our friendship is forged.

But in a cabin in the woods along the lake, reality left for a little while. I could open up my laptop and start back on my book of blues and put in a couple hours of good work while his girlfriend’s kitten chewed on my hair.

No expectations, no deadlines, no consequences. Just the brazen joy that used to fill me when I started the project.

In a few minutes, I’ll go back home and continue to struggle to catch up to myself. But for now – kitten in lap, iPod playing on this iPhone while I scribble down these notes – I am me, again..

Speaking of that little yawn, but Bartlett’s Grill is right, over, there…

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