Something happened this morning that alerted me to a writer's need for peace of mind. Ever since I felt called to write, I've dreamed of a retreat, a trailer in the desert, a mountain cabin.

But over the years, I've come to see that a retreat doesn't insure peace of mind, only the opportunity for solitude, which is perhaps as valuable as peace of mind, but not the same.

Fabre d'Olivet, in The Hermeneutic Interpretation of the Origin of the Social State of Man, contended that: "Only in the heat of battle did the ancient Celts, besieged on all sides by demons, find a sort of repose."

I guess I've met a lot of the ancient Celts' descendants. Maybe I attract them. Or they attract me. Or they're everywhere.

What happened this morning was neither unusual nor particularly tragic. Yet it soured my spirit, dimmed my hope, and lured demons out of the labyrinth. Then, for hours, while I tried to write, every phrase I put together struck me as verbal slop. And every thought felt like trivia.

I wish I had a point to make, some pertinent or provocative advice. But I'm stumped. Except I'm remembering a time when peace of mind had fled far away, and a book by Thomas Merton helped. It's called No Man Is An Island, Thoughts on Solitude. I'll read it again and report.