Whew. Friday, 5:00pm. The girls are with their dad. There goes Fred Flintstone sliding out of the building. For me, this means putting on running clothes. The poor mums aren’t digging this 80-degree weather, but it sure compels a girl to get outside at the end of a long week.
Really, all the weeks are the exact same length, down to the second. Still, some feel longer than others. All the doings packed into my body like the tea-tree toothpicks that spilled in the bottom of my purse the other day; I imagine myself spilling internally that way in the next 48 hours of no plans but to be myself and not be doing something.
I’ve been looking forward to it all day, in fact, the nothing: The call of stillness, the absence of having anywhere to be. Maybe yoga tomorrow morning. Maybe folding the never-ending laundry. Maybe running. Maybe sleeping. Maybe reading this because I have time to do that. Maybe having a dance party in the living room by myself, to tap into the high of the “How you doing, ya’ll?” that Michael Franti must’ve asked us a dozen times during his two-hour show Tuesday night in Northampton. Maybe talking to my fiancée for more than six minutes on the phone. Or writing. Or seeing one of the movies that looks good at Amherst Cinema. Oh, the possibilities.
I will probably wind up spending a good deal of it right here, weather permitting, on my little side-street perch. Just being. Integrating the effects of my practice, which is to say my life. Noticing where I’m holding tight and where I’m letting go, knowing there is plenty of both. Of course, there will be coffee in the morning–that much is certain.
And then, I close my eyes for a moment, feeling the tired, and wondering if I could use the release and relief of a good cry.
What will bring that to the surface? I think I’ll just have to sit here and see what happens.