The Writer's Bench

Guided by a 3-day scruff, ponytailed man of 36 who had never heard of a blog and doesn't own a television, we made our way through the mangrove tunnels. We came to an opening and pulled our kayaks onto a small strip of beach that wears only several variety of grasses, low lying salt-tolerant vegetation and The Writer's Bench.

In the softening light of evening, what could be more appealing for women fond of the word? A wooden seat for three--only accessible by boat--overlooking the bathwater shallows chocked with hermit crabs, sea urchins and petite starfish.

Oddly, some of us stood around it and one might have propped her feet on its side, but no one sat down. We observed, seeing ourselves outside of the picture of quietude, pining for more time--for a space where creativity does not yield to cell phones, insistent children, mothers who want to inform our wardrobes, and thoughts of small checks in exchange for our soul-words.

The reality of visiting that place frequently enough to satiate the need for calm, neutralizing solitude is slimmer than the single vessels we paddled. But the thought of The Writer's Bench, sitting there in all weather and circumstance, creates a light in the mind we can go without hesitation, guides or bug spray to summon the right sentence for paper or screen.