The trunk sloped upward at a forty-five degree angle, perfect for climbing. It had been blown over as a young tree, no doubt, but its roots had held. It was now thick and hardy, the branches that reached skyward were as big around as some of the smaller trees that grew nearby.

She pulled some of the brush away, making sure there weren’t any creepy crawly things there—like a snake slithering by or a nest of spiders.

It appeared safe, and she pulled herself up, the rough bark of the tree digging into her palms. She stood on the trunk, holding on to one of the thick branches to balance herself. She walked higher along the trunk, although quite a bit more cautiously than she had as a kid. As she got as high up as she dared to go, she finally took a look at the view. And…

“Wow.”

It was still there…the clearing, the open space of a hay meadow or valley that sloped down and out of sight, leaving her with a perfect, unobstructed view of a summer sunset. Of course, it was still hours before the setting sun would creep into this window. It was pretty now, nonetheless.

She sat down on the trunk and leaned against a branch, enjoying the view. She had been lost in thought on her hike out here, and she had no idea where she was or if she could find the tree again on another day.

She closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of the woods; the leaves rustling in the breeze, the chatter of a squirrel, the sound of a male wren as he sang from a nearby tree, the sharp call of cardinals, and the thundering sound of a woodpecker as he hammered his beak into a tree. She opened her eyes slowly, letting the peacefulness wash over her. She looked skyward, seeing only a handful of puffy white clouds dancing across the blue.

Another glorious day—yet she was feeling like a bit of a slug. How long was she going to take a break from writing? Or was this permanent? She had to admit that since she’d stopped trying to force words onto the page, her stress level had decreased significantly. But still, she was a writer. Writers wrote. Writers didn’t mow lawns, tend to flowers, hike the woods…and play in a crystal clear pool as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

She sighed quietly. Was she a writer? Was it a fluke that she’d managed to actually write a novel that got published? It must have been. She hadn’t been able to produce anything since. Her publisher had long ago given up on her.