Finding Rhythm
December 10th. It’s been ten days since I left the United States for France, and six days here in Orquevaux. Though it remains a bit of a struggle, I am starting to find a rhythm.
As someone whose schedule has been absolutely gorged with tasks, appointments, meetings, obligations, and caretaking over the past . . . well, many moons . . . it’s been challenging to sort out what to do with myself in the absence of all that. Wipe a day clean, and what do you do with it? At home, with a full schedule dictated by a must-do life, it’s easy to laugh helplessly and shrug. Nap? Be creative? Breathe?
But when the luxury of time lands in your lap, the question becomes more complicated. My brain, so acclimated to urgency, is suddenly at war with itself:
“Don’t waste your time!”
“Be creative, this is a gift!”
“Be grateful!”
And then, creeping in like an unwelcome houseguest: “Are you doing enough?”
But what counts as “enough”? What counts as “creative work”? And what if the energy required to create hinges on the deadlines of daily living? What if sleep decides to abandon you entirely and every anxious thought you’ve managed to wrangle over the past year suddenly takes up residence behind your sternum? And what if the energy in the space you occupy feels like home, but you can hardly swallow because you’re also homesick?
All hypothetical questions . . . obviously.
A Day in Orquevaux
The rhythm of my days here, rich with the luxury of time, looks something like this:
I rise at an unusual hour (for me), make coffee, and step outside for fresh air. The mornings here feel unhurried, as though the countryside itself takes its time waking up. I’m trying to walk as much as possible, letting my brain and heart soak in this gorgeous landscape. It’s quiet and lovely, and pastoral. The weather reminds me of mid-to-late October in Minnesota. The leaves have dropped, rain is a constant threat, and the wind rises out of nowhere. A coat, hat, and mittens suffice, though, and if you walk long enough, you warm right up.
Then I perch myself inside for several hours, feet propped on a stool, coffee within reach, staring out a massive window as I rummage through the corners of my mind to see what words might rise out of the dust. It’s a process. I’ve stumbled over all kinds of debris, making a neat little pile to shuffle over to my therapist later. I’ve also found some beautiful things I’d tucked away for when I had the time to return. Mostly, though, I’ve collected questions—bins full of them—which are excellent fodder for poems.
Lunch follows, then more walking and word-rummaging until around 5 PM, when a handful of writers gather for free-writing prompts. Sharing unedited work is a heart-pounding experience. The fear of being rubbish is real, but on the whole, I love it. It has sparked some of the best conversations of my time here. There’s a kind of vulnerability in throwing unfinished words into the air and waiting for them to land among strangers. The generosity with which they’ve been received is something I’ll carry with me long after this residency ends.
At 6 PM, the wine cave opens. Residents toast the day’s creativity before dinner, which is served family-style in the massive dining room at three long tables. Thankfully, there are no sorting hats or house divisions. We move around, checking in with one another on projects and ideas. The conversations often spill over into the evening, winding through art, storytelling, and the shared humanity that binds us all.
Yesterday, we welcomed a model and photographer to the château, and I participated in my first live-drawing session. Sitting quietly in the corner as the visual artists worked, I found myself ushering new words onto the page—thoughts about what it means to be a person with a body, how we navigate culture, health, and the various phases of life with all our collected flotsam and jetsam of experiences. It was powerful and beautiful, and I left convinced I need more visual-artist friends, more time in galleries, and more moments to sit with the raw, unvarnished human experience.
Lessons Halfway Through
Halfway through this magnificent experience, I’ve come to a handful of realizations:
Creativity is a practiced discipline. While inspiration exists, it’s far harder to access without regular practice. The distractions of life keep us from diving deep into our own hearts and experiences. Practice—not for perfection, but to keep the wheels from rusting.
Beauty and heartache go hand in hand. You can’t tell the truth about one without acknowledging the other.
You can find home in foreign places. It’s possible to feel as though you’ve lived somewhere your whole life and still remain a pilgrim in your own story. Both truths can coexist.
America is woefully self-focused. Our arrogance as a culture blinds us to the tenderness and humility found in stories that de-center us. We desperately need these perspectives.
The power of shared experience is transformative. Asking questions like, “Have you ever felt this way?” or “Do you experience this too?” opens doors to understanding, validation, and connection. The things we can learn from one another are myriad and beautiful, humbling and generous.
Time is a mirror. Give it to yourself in as much abundance as possible, and it will reflect everything you’ve tucked away in the busyness of living. Some of it will be beautiful, some of it messy, and all of it worth examining.
Orquevaux is teaching me that creativity isn’t simply about producing—it’s about listening. To the rhythms of a quiet morning, to the questions that linger in the shadows, to the stories waiting in shared moments over meals. It’s about discovering the courage to sit with what’s uncomfortable and finding beauty even in the things that feel unfinished.
As I pass the halfway point of this residency, I’m reminded that the work we do—whether with words, paint, or music—is less about what we create and more about the connection it fosters: to ourselves, to others, and to the world around us. This experience is a gift I hope to carry forward, not as a fleeting inspiration, but as a way of being. For now, I’ll keep walking, writing, and asking questions, grateful for every moment this place offers.
