It would be interesting to count up all the different types of stress that we over-programmed, over-busy, over-privileged people work ourselves into.
As I notice myself feeling like a blob of ever-changing emotions, I try to be more aware of what kinds of stress is happening to and around me, so as to be a little more sensitive and kind to myself and others. Why? Well, to paraphrase a quotation I like, always assume that others are having a worse day than you. We'd all be nicer people.
My cousin, whose lifestyle is one of lots of driving long distances alone for work and not so much reliable income from said work (note: but she has lots of fun at work, at least most of the time), has been feeling what I would term Lonely Slogging Stress. I am most definitely in the throes of Manic Stress caused by not knowing if anyone but me will be paying three people's worth of rent come Saturday (aka September 1). As well as the fact that the previous tenant came yesterday and took back her couch and other furniture we've been using. And the fact that a mechanic is going to call me sometime soon and likely tell me that fixing my brakes will cost many dollar signs.
The combination of Lonely Slogging and Manic could have made it a really bad idea for us to go to my CSA farm potluck last night. Luckily I figured (very correctly) that being out on a farm on a perfect August evening to play in the dirt and share good food and meet the lovely farmers who have been overloading me with beautiful produce all summer might actually be just the right antidote to how we were both feeling. Not to mention going to a friend's house afterward to watch Oceans 13 and play with his seven - SEVEN - tiny foster kittens, which could draw Voldemort out of a bad mood.
And that's a whole other kind of stress I'm feeling: Harry Potter Stress. I'm on number five (DO NOT spoil the ending). It took me about two years to feel ready to tackle this one, not because of the length of it but because number four took over my life. I was living in New York City at the time and consistently ended up many subway stops past home because these books get me too engrossed to notice piddly things like time and space and people around me.
The other day (when I was in Maine!) I put the book down after a sweltering morning of reading to accomplish (somewhat against my better judgment) one or two other things with my day, and checked my voicemail to find yet another voicemail from someone saying "thanks, but I found a different apartment." Of course, the stress bubbled up (more Panic than Manic at that point). And I could totally hear the little part of me that wanted to go find the friend I was visiting and wail "it's hot and nobody wants to live with me and Voldemort might be possessing Harry and...waaaaah"
I didn't. But I wanted to. Because really? Harry Potter Stress is far more enjoyable than the other kinds. And even if I could skip to the end to see how my housemate situation ends up, I'm more afraid of how that story turns out than anything Voldemort might do.
Well... mostly.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Friday, August 24, 2007
looking for housemates SUCKS
There's just nothing more to say.
Unless you are looking for a place to live in Brattleboro for September 1st and you're relatively normal and can speak and write in complete sentences with appropriate punctuation, at least sometimes (IS IT TOO MUCH TO ASK??). In that case, there's plenty more to say, and I would love to talk to you.
Unless you are looking for a place to live in Brattleboro for September 1st and you're relatively normal and can speak and write in complete sentences with appropriate punctuation, at least sometimes (IS IT TOO MUCH TO ASK??). In that case, there's plenty more to say, and I would love to talk to you.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
how did i offend a whole mountain?
It's actually, unbelievably, been nearly four months since I strolled over to New Hampshire and found the trail up to the top of Mt. Wantastiquet, with its glorious view from the top of Brattleboro and the farms and mountains beyond.
I was really happy and proud of myself that day, despite the fact that my fear of letting The Dog off the leash (because I didn't know him well enough to know if he'd actually come back after running off into the woods, and because I know he's not scary but someone else meeting an 85 lb. pit bull on the trail and not seeing his owner immediately behind may not have that faith) meant that I was dragged down the mountain by a large over-eager dog. Hence the orthopedist visit in June, once I finally admitted that my knee still hurt. A month and a half later.
Finally last night my desire to see that view again caught up with my frustration at not exercising regularly and not hiking enough (as summer slips away). I went home after work and got The Dog (with whom my time is slipping away with the summer, as he's most likely moving out with his owner at the end of this month. Expect a lot of I-miss-the-dog posts in September.), and we set out.
Problem: it's now late August, not June, and it really doesn't stay light until 9:30pm anymore. Of course I knew this, and all the way up the mountain I argued with myself about the wisdom of going all the way to the top. But I can get pretty single-minded sometimes, so I kept going, knowing I'd have to hoof it back down. I wouldn't even let The Dog stop every two feet to sniff things, which normally I have strong principles about, because it seems to me that not letting a dog sniff everything on a walk would be liike someone giving me access to the news for only an hour a day and then pulling me away from every story I started to read.
We made it to the top fine, but the light really was going as we went back down, and I don't know if I can blame that or the fact that I'm kind of klutzy in general, or the fact that I was wearing my glasses instead of contacts and they kept slipping down my nose. But of course I stepped wrong on a rock, twisted my ankle, and fell hard, earning some pretty good bruises on the way down. I lay there for a minute, waiting to see if The Dog would heroically race to my side (verdict: he's no Lassie), and then for lack of better options got up and kept walking. I twisted my ankles a lot as a kid and I know that ultimately you just have to walk it off and wait it out, but I must say I'd have preferred not to immediately walk for 45 minutes on a dark, rocky trail.
(Hi Mom. Don't worry, I had my cell phone with me and I know I get reception on that trail, so if I'd really been hurt I could have called for help.)
So the moral of the story is that I really like that hike, and I love taking the dog and going off to the woods, which has an incredibly soothing, strengthening effect on both my body and my spirit. But maybe that mountain and I just don't get along. Maybe it doesn't like The Dog. Maybe I should go slower on the way down and leave earlier so it's still light out the whole time I'm hiking.
Nooo, that couldn't be it.
I was really happy and proud of myself that day, despite the fact that my fear of letting The Dog off the leash (because I didn't know him well enough to know if he'd actually come back after running off into the woods, and because I know he's not scary but someone else meeting an 85 lb. pit bull on the trail and not seeing his owner immediately behind may not have that faith) meant that I was dragged down the mountain by a large over-eager dog. Hence the orthopedist visit in June, once I finally admitted that my knee still hurt. A month and a half later.
Finally last night my desire to see that view again caught up with my frustration at not exercising regularly and not hiking enough (as summer slips away). I went home after work and got The Dog (with whom my time is slipping away with the summer, as he's most likely moving out with his owner at the end of this month. Expect a lot of I-miss-the-dog posts in September.), and we set out.
Problem: it's now late August, not June, and it really doesn't stay light until 9:30pm anymore. Of course I knew this, and all the way up the mountain I argued with myself about the wisdom of going all the way to the top. But I can get pretty single-minded sometimes, so I kept going, knowing I'd have to hoof it back down. I wouldn't even let The Dog stop every two feet to sniff things, which normally I have strong principles about, because it seems to me that not letting a dog sniff everything on a walk would be liike someone giving me access to the news for only an hour a day and then pulling me away from every story I started to read.
We made it to the top fine, but the light really was going as we went back down, and I don't know if I can blame that or the fact that I'm kind of klutzy in general, or the fact that I was wearing my glasses instead of contacts and they kept slipping down my nose. But of course I stepped wrong on a rock, twisted my ankle, and fell hard, earning some pretty good bruises on the way down. I lay there for a minute, waiting to see if The Dog would heroically race to my side (verdict: he's no Lassie), and then for lack of better options got up and kept walking. I twisted my ankles a lot as a kid and I know that ultimately you just have to walk it off and wait it out, but I must say I'd have preferred not to immediately walk for 45 minutes on a dark, rocky trail.
(Hi Mom. Don't worry, I had my cell phone with me and I know I get reception on that trail, so if I'd really been hurt I could have called for help.)
So the moral of the story is that I really like that hike, and I love taking the dog and going off to the woods, which has an incredibly soothing, strengthening effect on both my body and my spirit. But maybe that mountain and I just don't get along. Maybe it doesn't like The Dog. Maybe I should go slower on the way down and leave earlier so it's still light out the whole time I'm hiking.
Nooo, that couldn't be it.
Monday, August 20, 2007
hurricane season
I am officially very very scared for my friends and their communities in the Yucatan peninsula.
http://www.noaawatch.gov/2007/dean.php
http://www.ssd.noaa.gov/goes/flt/t1/sloop-vis.htmlSunday, August 19, 2007
one more step toward becoming my mother
There are many traits I inherited from my mom. My impatience with bullshit, for one; also, I think, my love of dancing. My tendency toward being a packrat. Definitely my love of reading, including my enjoyment of reading cookbooks.
It's hard to say, though, whether my inclination to join a thousand different groups and committees comes from her, my dad, both, or (most likely) is a trait handed down through the generations of my civically engaged family, evolved and perfected just like our OCD and hair loss.
Regardless, I am definitely a joiner. In high school I was in 17 clubs, played two sports, directed plays, joined the orchestra. What they don't tell you then is that it's all preparation for when you become an Adult and have to actually do the dirty work in order to keep getting to do any of the fun stuff. I figured it out fairly easily along the way, though, and I believe strongly in doing some of the dirty work, particularly when it benefits something that in turn benefits me, like the contra dance community.
Well, thinking that way apparently is the same as putting a big "Gullible" sign on your forehead, because I had barely settled into life here when it was suggested to me that I join pretty much every dance-related committee in western New England. (I choose to think it's flattering, rather than thinking they simply smelled fresh blood in the water.)
Tonight I became an official member of the board of the "Friends of the Guiding Star Grange," and honestly I'm thrilled with this because the Grange is what drew me up here in the first place, and it's where I found the community of people in which I felt instantly at home. The dancing that happens there, which it's the mission of the Friends to support, is one of the greatest sources of joy in many people's lives and allows a beautiful old American tradition to live on. It's exciting to get to actively support that mission, not to mention that the board members are fun people to hang out with (or that I'm an opinionated person, and here is a forum in which I'm supposed to be opinionated about the way things happen, as long as I am willing to back it up with some work).
Before we even got to the part of the meeting agenda where the board voted me on as a member, I had volunteered for several tasks, most notably a joint effort to overhaul the semi-annual FGSG newsletter. My mother would be so proud. There is nothing I've known her to volunteer for more over the years than putting out the newsletter, be it of the synagogue, the local Community Foundation (of which she just became - talk about being a joiner - the unpaid interim director), the environmental learning center, what-have-you. I come from a family of writers and editors, so we not only enjoy these types of projects but tend to go up the wall when we see how (badly) they're usually done by others.
The good news is that I get to work on it with some great people, and there's space for creativity and new ideas about how the newsletter can hopefully really be fun to read and get more people interested in dancing and joining the Friends, rather than just another source of clutter for my fellow packrats and me. The bad news is that I feel like it's a little early to turn into my mother, especially since her example shows that from newsletter editor to 50-hour-a-week-unpaid-organization-rescuer is a slippery and often thankless slope. And that turning into her probably doesn't mean I can avoid the hair loss gene, even though she did.
Oh well. You win some; you lose some. (Though hopefully not all... at least not for a while.)
It's hard to say, though, whether my inclination to join a thousand different groups and committees comes from her, my dad, both, or (most likely) is a trait handed down through the generations of my civically engaged family, evolved and perfected just like our OCD and hair loss.
Regardless, I am definitely a joiner. In high school I was in 17 clubs, played two sports, directed plays, joined the orchestra. What they don't tell you then is that it's all preparation for when you become an Adult and have to actually do the dirty work in order to keep getting to do any of the fun stuff. I figured it out fairly easily along the way, though, and I believe strongly in doing some of the dirty work, particularly when it benefits something that in turn benefits me, like the contra dance community.
Well, thinking that way apparently is the same as putting a big "Gullible" sign on your forehead, because I had barely settled into life here when it was suggested to me that I join pretty much every dance-related committee in western New England. (I choose to think it's flattering, rather than thinking they simply smelled fresh blood in the water.)
Tonight I became an official member of the board of the "Friends of the Guiding Star Grange," and honestly I'm thrilled with this because the Grange is what drew me up here in the first place, and it's where I found the community of people in which I felt instantly at home. The dancing that happens there, which it's the mission of the Friends to support, is one of the greatest sources of joy in many people's lives and allows a beautiful old American tradition to live on. It's exciting to get to actively support that mission, not to mention that the board members are fun people to hang out with (or that I'm an opinionated person, and here is a forum in which I'm supposed to be opinionated about the way things happen, as long as I am willing to back it up with some work).
Before we even got to the part of the meeting agenda where the board voted me on as a member, I had volunteered for several tasks, most notably a joint effort to overhaul the semi-annual FGSG newsletter. My mother would be so proud. There is nothing I've known her to volunteer for more over the years than putting out the newsletter, be it of the synagogue, the local Community Foundation (of which she just became - talk about being a joiner - the unpaid interim director), the environmental learning center, what-have-you. I come from a family of writers and editors, so we not only enjoy these types of projects but tend to go up the wall when we see how (badly) they're usually done by others.
The good news is that I get to work on it with some great people, and there's space for creativity and new ideas about how the newsletter can hopefully really be fun to read and get more people interested in dancing and joining the Friends, rather than just another source of clutter for my fellow packrats and me. The bad news is that I feel like it's a little early to turn into my mother, especially since her example shows that from newsletter editor to 50-hour-a-week-unpaid-organization-rescuer is a slippery and often thankless slope. And that turning into her probably doesn't mean I can avoid the hair loss gene, even though she did.
Oh well. You win some; you lose some. (Though hopefully not all... at least not for a while.)
Sunday, August 12, 2007
at the considerable risk of sounding nuts
I'm willing to admit this to you, dear relatives/friends/blog-trolling-strangers: I talk to myself every now and then.
Not in a disturbed way, or a conversation-with-people-who-aren't-really-there way, but in the way that Totally Normal People sometimes talk to themselves when they're alone. Oh, come on, you do it too. Sometimes it's just soothing to say things out loud, to vent them or to hear how they might sound if you actually said them to someone else.
Today I was giving voice to some very negative feelings about my ability to do my job well, to create the friendly and cozy and clean (someday, damn it) home I'd really like to have (and to find two new likeable roommates to share it), to be a good friend (starting with calling - or calling back - the many many people to whom I own phone calls), and to take care of myself in basic ways like getting regular exercise and enough sleep (these and a social life have not figured out how to coexist in my life as of yet) (at least not with a day job in the picture).
(Why did all this come up today? Because the need to do all of these things is feeling very immediate, and because I have been and will be working too many hours a day all last week, all weekend, and all the coming week, and I have not been sleeping enough, and just maybe because I tend to be too hard on myself.)
And oddly, I think it was kind of good for me to disparage myself out loud for a few minutes, because it's a little easier to, uh, internalize the internal voice of negativity that (luckily doesn't gnaw on my self-esteem very often, but) gets all jumpy and excitable now and then. But when it's external, even when the voice is my own, it triggers my defensive "hey, be nice" reaction that cringes to hear mean things said and gets angry and self-righteous toward whoever says them because, let's face it, being mean is stupid and doesn't do anyone a damn bit of good.
Those of us that survived junior high most likely know what it feels like to be on either the giving or receiving end of belittling snideness, and that it's somewhat more fun to lock yourself in a well-used porta-potty on a hot day. Being on both the giving and receiving end simultaneously feels perhaps somewhat efficient, but saddening. And a little pathetic. And a little silly.
Which brings me back to saying things out loud (or journaling, I suppose... or blogging): It is a good thing to name my insecurities, for once named they become things I can hold to the light and consider and make some decisions about, rather than remaining an ache in my head or a lump in my throat. And it becomes clearer that it is useless to berate my own potential for overcoming them.
It is also a good thing to take a nap and then go for a 11-mile ride on the beautiful hybrid bicycle I just bought off craigslist, and to housesit in the woods, from where I will hopefully be able to see meteors tonight before I sleep (soon).
Not in a disturbed way, or a conversation-with-people-who-aren't-really-there way, but in the way that Totally Normal People sometimes talk to themselves when they're alone. Oh, come on, you do it too. Sometimes it's just soothing to say things out loud, to vent them or to hear how they might sound if you actually said them to someone else.
Today I was giving voice to some very negative feelings about my ability to do my job well, to create the friendly and cozy and clean (someday, damn it) home I'd really like to have (and to find two new likeable roommates to share it), to be a good friend (starting with calling - or calling back - the many many people to whom I own phone calls), and to take care of myself in basic ways like getting regular exercise and enough sleep (these and a social life have not figured out how to coexist in my life as of yet) (at least not with a day job in the picture).
(Why did all this come up today? Because the need to do all of these things is feeling very immediate, and because I have been and will be working too many hours a day all last week, all weekend, and all the coming week, and I have not been sleeping enough, and just maybe because I tend to be too hard on myself.)
And oddly, I think it was kind of good for me to disparage myself out loud for a few minutes, because it's a little easier to, uh, internalize the internal voice of negativity that (luckily doesn't gnaw on my self-esteem very often, but) gets all jumpy and excitable now and then. But when it's external, even when the voice is my own, it triggers my defensive "hey, be nice" reaction that cringes to hear mean things said and gets angry and self-righteous toward whoever says them because, let's face it, being mean is stupid and doesn't do anyone a damn bit of good.
Those of us that survived junior high most likely know what it feels like to be on either the giving or receiving end of belittling snideness, and that it's somewhat more fun to lock yourself in a well-used porta-potty on a hot day. Being on both the giving and receiving end simultaneously feels perhaps somewhat efficient, but saddening. And a little pathetic. And a little silly.
Which brings me back to saying things out loud (or journaling, I suppose... or blogging): It is a good thing to name my insecurities, for once named they become things I can hold to the light and consider and make some decisions about, rather than remaining an ache in my head or a lump in my throat. And it becomes clearer that it is useless to berate my own potential for overcoming them.
It is also a good thing to take a nap and then go for a 11-mile ride on the beautiful hybrid bicycle I just bought off craigslist, and to housesit in the woods, from where I will hopefully be able to see meteors tonight before I sleep (soon).
Friday, August 10, 2007
you don't own me... except for right now...
Since when does work get to own my life, day and night, for two weeks every August?
Oh right. Since the beginning of last week. Until the end of next week.
Oh right. Since the beginning of last week. Until the end of next week.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
oh, and it was awesome
Last night I finally tried the other Thai restaurant in Brattleboro (not the one downtown; the other one. The good one.). Some friends were on their way through from Hartford to vacation in Montreal, and as we saw this past weekend, having visitors causes me to accomplish my little local goals that I am otherwise apparently incapable of getting off my butt and doing.
And the name of my dish?
"Green Awesome."
And the name of my dish?
"Green Awesome."
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
don't go stealing my houseguest; i don't think this is always part of the deal
I'm sitting at work and my cousin calls me. She's staying with me off and on for a few weeks. In fact, amusingly, she's staying at my house without me next week, while I housesit in the woods.
VERY IMPORTANT SIDE NOTE: I want my cousin to actually move in with me at the end of August when one or both of my roommates is leaving. I'm in the thick of sorting through emails from total strangers responding to my craigslist ad who think the house sounds perfect and are just sure we'd get along great. I hate every minute of it and want to live with people I already know and love. So, if you know my cousin and might interact with her sometime soon, please take every opportunity to matter-of-factly say such things as "so, I hear you're moving in with your cousin in Brattleboro! That's so great!" All assistance is greatly appreciated.
Anyway, she calls me (and yes - I know this will shock some of you - I answer my phone). She's looking at my overflowing dirty laundry basket and wonders aloud how many pairs of underwear I own (i.e. how long it's been since I washed clothes), and asks if there are any special instructions for anything in the basket or if she can just throw it all in with her laundry.
Someone else is doing my laundry.
I've done my own laundry since I was about 7 years old. It's really good that very early-on my parents got me used to the idea that it's just one of those things you have to do. Because after 19 years of doing it, it's still a chore I hate and delay as long as possible (answer: I own a LOT of underwear). BUT. Today. Someone else is doing my laundry.
Today is a Good Day.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Sunday, August 5, 2007
golden
Is five days too long to go without posting? Is that rude to the people who check my blog on a regular basis? Am I being totally full of myself to think people care that much if they don't hear about my life for a few days? My guess is "yes," but while you ponder that for a few minutes, I'm going to tell you about my day.
Today was about as close as you can get to a Perfect Day. Not The Perfect Day, because luckily there are many kinds of perfection and therefore many opportunities to experience it. The Perfect Day would be depressing in a way, because its end would suggest nothing but downhillness to come. But I digress.
The perfection of the day sort of began yesterday. A wonderful friend and former coworker came to visit on his way to a indie-Jews-hanging-out-in-the-woods thing in New Hampshire. I drove down to Hartford to pick him up and we enjoyed the intermittent and unfortunate lack of air-conditioning in my car (for which I will hopefully be on Car Talk soon; stay tuned) all the way back to Brattleboro.
We went to the People's Pint in Greenfield, a lovely local institution famous for excellent beer and slooooow service, for a great dinner, took a walk around town in the cooling twilight, and then went to the contra dance. It was my friend's first time, and of course he loved it (not because everyone loves it, but because I was pretty sure he would, and YAY! he did). (Quote after Friend's first contra dance: "I don't remember the last time I was in a room with so many people who were all smiling.") Then we came home and slept really really well because that is what dancing does to you.
Today, the official Perfect part, we awoke to insanely beautiful weather and walked downtown for brunch at a place I've wanted to try ever since I moved here (and it was as good as everyone says it is). Then we walked around, wandered into the few open galleries we could find, browsed in the used bookstores, walked across the river in order to experience the magic that is walking to another state, and then got hooked on the idea of renting a canoe and paddling on the Connecticut for a while before we had to leave to drive him to New Hampshire.
So we came home to gather things, Friend managed to resolve (in about 45 seconds) my lack of wireless internet access that's been driving me nuts for months, and then we went and rented a canoe and spent a fabulous hour and a half paddling up the Connecticut River and back down again. This was the first time I've actually gone to the canoe rental place and figured out what the deal is, and oh boy will I be back there. (Kayaks, here I come.)
After all that and a snack stop at the food coop, we drove down the little state route in New Hampshire toward the indie Jews, stopping at a roadside produce stand to buy fresh-picked peaches and green beans for a whole $3. And on the way back I stopped and went blueberry picking, because this is the height of the season and it was still a cloudless gorgeous day and a little voice said, go pick lots of blueberries and share them with your friends.
And THEN, as if all that weren't enough, I went to Greenfield (yet again) to learn a song with my friend the Renaissance Man, because we are going to surprise someone with it as his wedding next weekend, and instead of just learning a song and sharing some blueberries I was fed a delicious dinner and nourished by food and friendship and Ireland photos and general wonderfulness. Then I played blueberry fairy to some other friends who were apparently asleep already by the time I dropped by, and now I'm home again, up way too late because a) I now have wireless internet again, which means being able to be online in bed, b) I wanted to share this story, and c) if I go to sleep, the day will end.
Which brings to mind a lovely quote I heard recently, that "You must have been warned against letting the golden hours slip by. Yes, but some of them are golden only because we let them slip."*
I guess I'm writing this post mostly for me, so that I can let these hours slip, give in and go to bed, but look back to them later in the week when things are crazy and busy and stressful again, as they are wont to be these days. But I'm also writing it for you, so that you'll have more than enough to read even if I don't post for a few more days because of said busyness and stress.
(And if you live around here, ask me how to find the blueberry place.)
*J.M. Barrie, best known for writing Peter Pan
Today was about as close as you can get to a Perfect Day. Not The Perfect Day, because luckily there are many kinds of perfection and therefore many opportunities to experience it. The Perfect Day would be depressing in a way, because its end would suggest nothing but downhillness to come. But I digress.
The perfection of the day sort of began yesterday. A wonderful friend and former coworker came to visit on his way to a indie-Jews-hanging-out-in-the-woods thing in New Hampshire. I drove down to Hartford to pick him up and we enjoyed the intermittent and unfortunate lack of air-conditioning in my car (for which I will hopefully be on Car Talk soon; stay tuned) all the way back to Brattleboro.
We went to the People's Pint in Greenfield, a lovely local institution famous for excellent beer and slooooow service, for a great dinner, took a walk around town in the cooling twilight, and then went to the contra dance. It was my friend's first time, and of course he loved it (not because everyone loves it, but because I was pretty sure he would, and YAY! he did). (Quote after Friend's first contra dance: "I don't remember the last time I was in a room with so many people who were all smiling.") Then we came home and slept really really well because that is what dancing does to you.
Today, the official Perfect part, we awoke to insanely beautiful weather and walked downtown for brunch at a place I've wanted to try ever since I moved here (and it was as good as everyone says it is). Then we walked around, wandered into the few open galleries we could find, browsed in the used bookstores, walked across the river in order to experience the magic that is walking to another state, and then got hooked on the idea of renting a canoe and paddling on the Connecticut for a while before we had to leave to drive him to New Hampshire.
So we came home to gather things, Friend managed to resolve (in about 45 seconds) my lack of wireless internet access that's been driving me nuts for months, and then we went and rented a canoe and spent a fabulous hour and a half paddling up the Connecticut River and back down again. This was the first time I've actually gone to the canoe rental place and figured out what the deal is, and oh boy will I be back there. (Kayaks, here I come.)
After all that and a snack stop at the food coop, we drove down the little state route in New Hampshire toward the indie Jews, stopping at a roadside produce stand to buy fresh-picked peaches and green beans for a whole $3. And on the way back I stopped and went blueberry picking, because this is the height of the season and it was still a cloudless gorgeous day and a little voice said, go pick lots of blueberries and share them with your friends.
And THEN, as if all that weren't enough, I went to Greenfield (yet again) to learn a song with my friend the Renaissance Man, because we are going to surprise someone with it as his wedding next weekend, and instead of just learning a song and sharing some blueberries I was fed a delicious dinner and nourished by food and friendship and Ireland photos and general wonderfulness. Then I played blueberry fairy to some other friends who were apparently asleep already by the time I dropped by, and now I'm home again, up way too late because a) I now have wireless internet again, which means being able to be online in bed, b) I wanted to share this story, and c) if I go to sleep, the day will end.
Which brings to mind a lovely quote I heard recently, that "You must have been warned against letting the golden hours slip by. Yes, but some of them are golden only because we let them slip."*
I guess I'm writing this post mostly for me, so that I can let these hours slip, give in and go to bed, but look back to them later in the week when things are crazy and busy and stressful again, as they are wont to be these days. But I'm also writing it for you, so that you'll have more than enough to read even if I don't post for a few more days because of said busyness and stress.
(And if you live around here, ask me how to find the blueberry place.)
*J.M. Barrie, best known for writing Peter Pan
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