It’s been nearly two months since we’ve returned from Puerto Rico, and I’m just now returning to center.
For the first two weeks after we got back, my husband sat in a chair, either reading or sleeping. No projects. No work. No responsibility. No eye contact. No talking.
I’m only exaggerating a little.
It kind of freaked me out. We had one, maybe two, weeks of downtime (he took a full two, sigh) and there was so much to do. We had no money! House guests were coming for an extended stay! We had three birthdays to plan and celebrate! The donut-making marathon was fast approaching! I zipped around, buzzed on cool weather and stress, trying to goad him into at least a little action.
He rallied then, but only just in time for us to plow headlong into hosting and donuts, and then, that behind us, we switched roles. My husband swung into high gear, working long days and fretting about money, and I, for the first time in five months, relaxed completely.
It was so odd, having no events looming large on the horizon, nothing to do, nothing to be responsible for. Day after day stretched wide open before me. I slept in, watched shows in the middle of the afternoon, played in the kitchen, invited friends over for coffee, read books, went running, all the while with the distinct feeling that, no longer firmly anchored by a slew of responsibilities, I was hovering a couple feet above the ground, just floating on a delicious cloud of do-nothingness.
That glorious feeling lasted about two weeks and then I got ritchy. I floundered for a bit, longing to do something but reluctant to put forth the energy. When I finally could stand it no longer, I dug out my briefcase, stuffed it full with my laptop and keyboard (since my laptop’s keyboard is broken) and mouse and cords, and headed off to Panera. It was time to start writing again.
But I was worried. For the last five months, I’ve never once missed my writing. What if I found that I no longer cared about the subject? Maybe it wasn’t worth my time. Did I even want to keep working on this book? Maybe I should quit.
I needn’t have worried. The book files opened, I was promptly sucked back in. Once again my mind is a-whirl with ideas. Days I can’t slip away to write, I feel out of sorts.
Home again, home again, jiggety-jig.
This same time, years previous: 2017 garden stats and notes, letting go, growing it out, cilantro lime rice, reading-and-ice cream evenings, the quotidian (10.27.14), random, in the garden, sweet potato pie, the morning kitchen.
