The frost crunched underfoot as trot through the prairie before coming to a trailhead and ducking into the woods. I wasn’t far from civilization, indeed, a few more paces in the other direction and I would be running along chain-link fence separating modern suburbia from the wild that now surrounded me. The prairie, the woods– both provided the perfect setting for this two-day retreat I was attending with fellow writers and illustrators. All of us were looking for a balance of both quietude and camaraderie to hone our craft.
As I ventured further into the heart of the woods, toes flexing over the odd stone or fallen branch hidden by the colorful leaves, I could imagine though that I really was quite alone. It was just me and my breath, sending small puffs of vapor into the chill air as my feet pounded the forest floor, each step a muffled thud to the beat of my heart.
At a fork in the path, I came to a crashing halt. Before me stood a deer, a mere ten feet away. I’d seen the white-tufted tails of frolicking deer the day before as I crunched through the underbrush, but the noise of my feet sent them fleeing before I got too near.
But this one didn’t run. Instead, she stood gazing silently as she gently pawed the ground with her front hoof, as if to ask where in the world was I headed in such a hurry?
While it could not have been more than a minute that we both stood at opposite ends of the path, it felt much longer. In the end, she took the first step, prancing lithely through the foliage. I resumed my run at a gait far less graceful.
“It was just me and my breath, sending small puffs of vapor into the chill air as my feet pounded the forest floor, each step a muffled thud to the beat of my heart. ”
Later that morning, we all paused mid-sentence to watch a couple of deer prance past the windows. Inside, we counted the minutes remaining for each of our twelve illustration critiques. Outside the deer paused to nibble short blades of grass, seemingly unconcerned by the passage of time.
Of the many things I learned during the weekend, the biggest lesson is this: you can only work as hard as you can with the time you have. And sometimes, you must pause your stopwatch, cease counting the minutes and the miles.
I’d spent months refining the story I started over a year ago now. And since last August, it has progressed by leaps and bounds. But the longer I work, the more I come to understand, the work itself cannot be rushed.
I left Hiawatha on Sunday morning, my head abuzz, though not from my requisite caffeine consumption. I was eager to get back to work on my book, especially in light of the feedback I had just received. And yet, for once I wasn’t sure which path to take. My muscles may itch to take pencil to paper, to tap a mad tattoo on my keyboard, but in my heart, I know I need time.
Time will march on, seasons will pass. The leaf-covered trails will soon be a frosty white. And by the time the frost begins to thaw, I will surely have a new set of feedback to give me pause. And that’s okay. The road to publication isn’t a race. Nor is it the smooth asphalt surface my city feet are so accustomed to pounding. No, it’s a leaf-strewn trail winding through a forest.
