Once, when I was stuck, Curtis sent me to Santa Barbara. I brought a journal, bible, and maybe a couple of books. The drive is one of my favorites, the ocean peeking through around Ventura until you get to the full fledged beauty of the Pacific on your left, the hills on your right.
I sat at at table outside Starbucks with a cup of tea. I never drank tea. But white tea, half and half, a bit of raw sugar we’re just the thing for the day.
Then I wrote. I wrote mundane things with words that felt like my own. Then I wrote big things, scary things, things I hoped for, things that confused me. I wrote it all, closed the notebook, and went to the beach. I didn’t sort through the words or thoughts, I just got them all on paper.
I have some of that tea now. Sometimes I brew a cup just to be taken back to that sunny table by the 101 where the air smells like eucalyptus and salt.
