Leaving the Sandlot

I'm going to a writing retreat in August, led by an author I've not known a whole lot about until recently. It's one of those stories where everything came together quickly and easily, and I just knew it was meant to be.

I've been on other writing retreats, with mixed results. I guess all of that is coming up now in my sub-conscious, because last night I dreamed I was at my future retreat, but a former teacher was hovering nearby. I came to understand she was using my writing for her students to workshop. All kinds of boundaries were crossed and I felt there was little to nothing I could do about it.


Then, I spotted on an end table, a book I'd apparently written, Leaving the Sandlot. I could see the white jacket, the blue lettering, my name on the spine.

I woke up and repeated the title in my head a few times, so I wouldn't forget. Such a weird title. A sandlot? My only familiarity with that word is with some kids' movie, made before I was even a parent, and taking place before I was even born.


Maybe the message is in the word "leaving."

Maybe the message is in the definition of sandlot: a piece of unoccupied land used by children for games.

Maybe the message is in the combo, moving away from that which is unoccupied.