The Ordeal of Ninety-Five Steps
A not-so-epic tale of creativity and distraction
🌿 A Note to Readers:
Now and then, I like to pull back the curtain and share a glimpse of the everyday, slightly chaotic rhythm that hums beneath all the quiet moments I post about here. This one’s for anyone who’s ever set out to get something done, only to be sidetracked by snacks, laundry, forgotten notebooks, or simply… themselves.
Some people cross oceans to find themselves.
I cross the driveway.
It’s exactly ninety-five steps from my front door to the door of the carriage house. I counted once, out of curiosity, and now I can’t un-know it. Ninety-five steps—not far enough to call a journey, but somehow it always feels like one.
Before I even step outside, there’s a ritual. I pace around the house, gathering everything I think I’ll need: a laptop, notebooks, camera, lenses, to-do lists, a book or two, and my favorite pencils (the ones that just feel right in my hand). Maybe a sweater. Maybe a snack.
Of course, the snack is never available when I need it. Mr. H has a habit of raiding the kitchenette in the carriage house before he and Tani set off on their woodland wanderings. So back I go, adding one more thing to my bag, one more trip to the kitchen.
By the time I finally step out the door—boots on, tote over my shoulder—I’ve probably walked half those ninety-five steps already, circling the house in preparation. And when I cross the gravel drive, following the stone path beneath bare birch trees, I breathe a little easier. The house behind me, the carriage house ahead. A little portal between the busy and the quiet.
But showing up is only the beginning.
Because once I arrive and unpack my belongings like an explorer settling in, I inevitably realize… I forgot something. A charger, a file, a particular pen I can’t possibly work without. So back I go, retracing my ninety-five steps.
Or I’ll be mid-project, tangled in words or edits when I get that niggling feeling and wonder—Am I hungry? This is when I remember the kitchenette is empty (again) and I wander back to the house for a snack. And while I’m there, the laundry catches my eye. The dishes. A stray pile of papers I might as well tidy up…
The eight-hour creative day I imagined quietly unravels.
But today was different. I finished something heavy this morning—a project that’s been pressing on me all week. I closed the page on it. And now, this afternoon, the hours are mine. Studio time. The good kind. The kind that softens the edges and invites me back to myself.
I sit here now, in the quiet carriage house, the light falling just so across the floor, wondering—It’s 12:35. Am I hungry, or am I not?
And never mind, of course, that nearly everything I so carefully packed for the journey is already here, waiting for me in this studio. One day—maybe—I’ll accept that I have two perfectly functional workplaces in both buildings.
But honestly, where’s the fun in that?
The 95th step—
