The Pits and Pieces

  The summer continues. I’ve grown herbs and poppies from seed, which brings me so much joy.   I’ve seen specialists about bones and joints (and I think there’s a plan forward), and I commuted into the office – once, in what, two years? – and it left me exhausted and grateful I don’t have to do that on a regular basis.  my poppies All that hurrying for trains, being jostled and pummeled by commuters’ backpacks. Of course, everyone is carrying a backpack on their commutes, laptops tucked inside, as they alternate work from home days with going into the office. I do not miss those commutes. I much prefer my slower-paced work-from-home days with four day weekends each week. Life, along with writing and painting, has slowed down this summer. But am I languishing? Do you remember when ‘languishing’ was the word for a short period during COVID? Languishing, the opposite of flourishing. We were languishing in our lockdowns. It’s a word that has seemed appropriate lately, with t...

  Remember those essays we had to write in school on how I spent my summer vacation? I wish I’d saved even one of those.  I did not enjoy writing them, and yet, here I am writing this, no one twisting my arm, maybe no one even reading this. I’ve just come off a 12-day stretch of staycation, timed perfectly to coincide with the first week of Wimbledon. If you’ve followed along for a while, you know I love tennis. So I spent a lot of my staycation sprawled on the couch, watching Wimbledon. Did I feel guilty that laundry spilled over in the basket; last week’s clean load still on the bed in the spare room, patiently waiting to be folded and put away; specks on the rug glinting in the sunlight awaiting vacuuming? Not in the least. There might have been a time when being home on days off meant catching up on chores. But no more. With age comes a certain type of freedom, the freedom to indulge oneself, even if that means occasionally adopting the lifestyle of a sloth. I did ge...