These last three weekends have been pretty hectic. An avalanche of event after event, celebration after celebration, meetings beyond meeting. It's been so busy I find myself constantly behind, unable to keep up with the emails, phone calls, housework, personal hygiene required of an adult human being...
During the week we work, and on the weekends we, apparently, party. Luckily, there is usually a Monday, or a Tuesday, blessed days still quiet enough to catch my breath, do the sink-fulls of dishes, and update my calendar for the next round of events.
When we are busy:
We bike down to beach weddings, and visit with playful toddlers, dear, beautiful faraway friends, and strain our ears for whispered promises.
We go our separate ways to meet artists and carvers, or to square dances for birthdays, to dinners, and car rides where we hash out the good, the bad, and mostly, the funny...
We take ferries to visit family so that we can celebrate, and play vicious croquet matches with them, and go to yard sales to house of some guy, who used to be the sound technician for Steely Dan...
We get to visit with our Portland transplants, to have dinner with them and all of our younger friends two nights in a row, because Piper and Mali have a show at our local gallery. It's packed with so many folks we know, all eager to celebrate these two creative wild cats, that the party ends up spilling out onto the deck, and later, to the biggest table at our local bar.
We go to memorials, and help in friend's gardens, read the tarot, and try to work at the coffee shop, which is impossible, because everyone we know is there too.
We get visitors from the distant lands of the far South, or so it seems to us up here on the Northern edge of the country. They come with stories, seaweed, and sea-legs too, telling of boats and fish, surfing, of tiny kitchens, tree houses and campers, of other small pockets, towns and rugged coastlines, that are good, kind places. If you'd like to get to know them better too, follow their adventures here.
And by now it's Sunday night, a new week is about to start...
When we are not busy, though:
We find little pockets of free time, fifteen minutes here, half an hour there, and we practice our uke skills, we read magazines and the Tarot. Ten pages of a novel before bed. Five minutes of meditation in the morning. Half an hour nap with the cat on our chest.
We gather eggs, and wild greens. We wash them carefully.
Sometimes we eat a whole cauliflower with butter, pepper and salt and nothing else. We write snail mail letters on an old blue typewriter, and embroider a few more fir trees onto stiff, dark denim, with four, or more colors of yarn. Maybe catch up on emails. Write a little blogpost.
We take the time to watercolor birthday cards, but forget about the time it takes for them to dry. We weed the garden in the last rays of the sun, and patrol the yard with a rifle. While we were gone, a mink came around. We look up at the twilight birds. The swallows have returned, just last Thursday. After they go to bed, under the eaves of the house, or some other house, the bats come out.
It's not much, but it's ours. Soon, the merry-go-round will pick back up again. Hold onto your horses.