There is a place I go to, several actually, every chance I get. They are places of refuge where I can think about something, or nothing at all. Sometimes I will use the time to do the inevitable paperwork, sometimes to text a friend, sometimes to write an essay, sometimes to just be.
I love Lake Erie. The place where I view it has a host of migrating waterfowl in the spring and hot sand in the summer. Fishing boats come and go. Beach glass pickers abound. A hound dog chases seagulls; a black lab takes a swim. Sometimes the Flagship Niagara, the magnificent brig that calls Erie "home" is in sight. I sit under a tree and people-watch. No one bothers me. No one knows I am there.
I love the cemetery where Mom and Dad reside now along with other family and friends. I think of how happy they must be, all together again. The geese live at the pond. Occasionally I see deer and turkeys near the gazebo. The chapel is simple and peaceful. The cemetery is on a hill overlooking a gorge with tall trees and the proverbial babbling brook. I walk there when the weather warms, me and many others. It is a place of comfort.
I love the parking lot behind the grocery store. There are other salespeople like me, all taking advantage of the spot for a quiet lunch in our cars before donning the salesman's smile again and returning to work. As I watch the trains go by, I can recoup. They energize me.
Everyone needs a thinking spot, somewhere you don't have to smile the salesman's smile, laugh at the boss's jokes, argue about anything at all. Everyone needs a place where they can cry without having to explain, or sneak a Twinkie without recriminations. We can daydream or nap, file our nails, read a trashy novel.
My thinking spots are one of the things that are just mine. Few know about them, fewer still will catch up with me there. Even fewer will be asked to share even a moment there with me.
If you are invited to my thinking spot, try to come. The peace you will find will be well worth the effort.
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