Off for a holiday

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17 August 2005; a walled garden in Helmsley, England.

Tomorrow we're leaving for a couple of weeks away; admittedly it's strange to think about traveling, but I have purposely kept from my head the less stellar parts of this adventure, concentrating on where we'll be and what we'll do. Which is far from home and not much beyond sightseeing and visiting dear friends. Or I hope that's the outcome; only yesterday I packed a suitcase, not wishing to overstep any bounds by prepping too early in advance. And if things fall through at the last minute, I won't be overly saddened. There's a book to write, tomato plants to get into the ground, quilts to make, that sort of thing.

Sipping my morning coffee, I admired the stars, then conjured an essential plot point for the new story. If I'm smart, I'll make some notes, but the folder for this book is at the bottom of luggage, so I'll stash it in my backpack for later perusal. I never did finish Chapter One, but tinkered with it excessively when the mood to put things in a suitcase emerged. Not that I generally procrastinate, but this trip has seemed otherworldly and while I'm very excited about it, my normal sense of Get Ready Now has been altered, perhaps permanently. Or maybe age has allowed me to relax a little more than previously. Younger me would have spent the last few days in a housecleaning frenzy. That urge is long gone.

Which is FINE; younger me wouldn't have started a new book on the cusp of a vacation, but older me appreciates the need for whimsy amid schedules. Older me acknowledges that life is indeed short and cleaning the shower can wait another day (or more). Older me is FAR MORE GRATEFUL than younger me for accumulated word counts among other blessings. And older me accepts that twice in a lifetime holidays can't be delayed despite war and pandemics. Which might sound strange, but life does go on.

Because at some point, life ends. Corporeally, emotionally, whatever other adverb you want to throw into the mix; our existences are mere footnotes in the grand scheme, but we are all here for some purpose and a part of living is knowing one day it's going to cease. Which could negate the reason for getting away; why go to all the trouble? But I can't wait to see a sunrise in a different place, observe the close of day in another time zone. Embrace the goodness that while difficult to find for some, still remains in abundance if the long view isn't obscured by hazards and hardships. The last two years this entire planet has been gripped by death and destruction, but the human race has weathered greater traumas, not losing its sense of recovery and grace. We have to keep going forward despite all attempts at grinding our hearts into dust. As a writer, that awareness is the fuel for finding the happy ending. And it's essential to remember that beyond the fiction. Novels, tomato plants, and quilts on the wall will be here when I return. Time for a break as well as a reminder of my place in this rather unpredictable sphere, that of one itching to understand something new. And aching to translate that into hope for a greater good.

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