The Poplar Grove

When I took a writing group to France in June, we walked from the chateau to a poplar grove. This was as close as I got to the trees. Others wandered through the swampy grass–you wouldn’t know it was there by looking–and tried to get into the grove. At one point the trees had been surrounded by a moat and finding a way in was almost impossible. Only one in the group succeeded.

I was content to lie in the grass and write, from afar. Sandra, who sat with me briefly, said: “I’m having explorer envy.” I wasn’t. And when the others came back, shoes ruined or as somebody with an artistic bent called them, “distressed,” Sandra was just as glad she had stayed put.

So was I. I don’t usually care about going the extra distance. I don’t have to pitch a tent and camp to get the feel of a mountain. I’m happy to spend an hour or two on the trail and then return to the comfy hotel.

Same with museums. I can spend a morning in one gallery and be perfectly happy. I don’t want or need to take in the entire collection.

And when I’m in a foreign city, I’d rather walk the streets and sit at an outdoor cafe, soaking up the ambiance, than tour the famous sites.

Some would–and do–call me lazy. Maybe they’re right. But I like to say that I enjoy letting my mind fill in a lot of the details. I don’t have to experience everything up close and personal.

And I try to tell writers that too. Give enough details but leave room for the reader’s imagination to fill in with its own vast vision.