Boston rain

A friend's post about the simple pleasures leads me to ponder that subject on this rainy night three thousand miles from home.

MacDowell is all about stripping away distractions so you can work on your art. Toward that end, the staff works its collective butt off housing you, cooking for you, and just generally trying to take as many tasks off your hands as possible so you can focus.

And that's great. How often do you get a lunch basket delivered to you in the middle of the day, dropped off as quietly as possible so that you won't get distracted? (Not that I didn't run out to greet Blake most of the time, overjoyed as I was to have company.)

Here's the thing, though: the many simple things in daily life are lost when you leave home. Bantering and bickering with Adam, watching dorky YouTube videos with my feet in his lap (yes, I know, you can commence to gagging now), going to the gym (don't even talk to me about eating rich food and not working it off -- at least I've been hiking my ass around Boston), hell, even doing dishes and laundry and feeding Oliver. Oliver -- another one of life's pleasures, a kitty who loves you and shows it by leaning his head against your knee or puking on your floor. But I digress.

In a sense, MacDowell is beautiful deprivation, and I mean that in the most positive way possible. You're up on a hill above a small town in New Hampshire. Your meals are cooked, your linens washed (though you're on your own when it comes to laundry, and I enjoyed this small task because the laundry room was Mr. T the kitty's domain), and your solitude undisturbed. Cell-phone service is poor throughout the property, though Verizon customers did better than AT&T (I, of course, have the latter), and if you want wifi, you've got to go to the library or get a PC card for your laptop.

Therein lies the matter of simple pleasures: They are many, and they are varied. My simple pleasures at MacDowell included singing at the top of my lungs in my studio -- no one around to distract, and the acoustics were wonderful. I liked to take walks, pacing the meadow area in front of my studio, that part that led to what felt like the darkest heart of the woods. I didn't dare go there; I just peeked inside and shuddered. Sometimes I talked to the woods: What's up, woods? Glad we had this talk. Sometimes they'd answer with a shrill blast of wind, and I'd shudder once more.

I watched a swatch of leaves change color more quickly than I'd have expected this early in the season, framed by a small pane of glass in the huge window overlooking my desk. I made tea, listening for the snack! that meant the electric kettle had shut off. I drank it contemplatively, sitting on the porch in the rocking chair I'd relocated from the inside, propping my feet up, rocking a little too quickly if my mood was askew.

At night I lit scented candles and incense, sat in my bedroom wondering who had been there before and then gave up because I knew the list was too long. I got up early for breakfast and ate bacon. Lots.

But I missed city pleasures, missed petting strangers' dogs, walking from neighborhood to neighborhood, people-watching. I missed the connection and the kinetic feeling of a city. Most of all, I missed my family and friends. I can't wait to see them when I return.