I've had enough excitement lately. I need a change of pace.
Coming home after months away sounded wonderful until it turned into weeks of cleaning, repairs and increasingly forensic investigations into walls, floors and smells. Every time I announced, “I think we're finally done,” the house seemed to hear me and produce another project.
So I found myself in a ridiculous mood to do absolutely nothing interesting. Organizing my bookcases. Making and losing my coffee in the garden, returning hours later to discover the thermal cup did its job. Watering without making mental lists of everything that needs doing. Sitting in the sun. Enjoying the rocker. Going somewhere without trying to squeeze another errand into the journey simply because I'm already out.
I used to think a good day needed something to happen. Something to show for it. A new place. A good meal. Something found. Something accomplished. At the very least, a story worth telling at the end of it.
I'm not so sure anymore.
There is a peculiar luxury in reaching the end of a day and having absolutely nothing interesting to report.
“What did you do today?”
“Not much.”
Wonderful.
Nothing needs fixing. Nobody needs an answer. There is nowhere I need to rush off to and nothing I should have remembered yesterday.
Everything is where it belongs. Everyone is okay. There is food in the refrigerator. The dog is asleep.
For a little while, life requires nothing from me.
I don't want that forever. I know myself better than that.
Just long enough to miss excitement again.
More soon.