I am just going to say it. I try to do too much. I always have. I suspect I always will. My life is marked by periods of furious bursts of working, living, adventuring, and intermittent crashes where I spend long days as an introvert in pajamas, indoors, sleeping long hours. As I get older, the ratio between the two types of days seems to be shifting. I have a hard time with this. Somehow I have always found rest...shameful. To stay home, to sleep extra, is to sacrifice life's short time that could be spent seeing or doing, for none of us are granted the time and means to cover the globe and endless possibilities of a life in this universe. Despite enjoying a weekend with books, purring kitties, and much needed sleep, I feel as though I have done nothing but squander the precious gift of August days in Alaska. Even if it kind of feels like October out there today, and it feels more like 2am than 5pm, the knowledge that no tomorrow is promised usually haunts me to continued efforts, explorations, or just exhaustion. But not this weekend. This weekend I was a slug.
A fit pairing for this weekend is a book called "The Little Paris Bookshop," an excellent read. At present the main character is taking forever to recuperate from a period of mourning long delayed. He is learning what the mind, body, and soul need to heal. 'The hurting period' of the bereaved. It isn't yet clear what lies beyond yet.
So this weekend I rested my own weary body and mind, immersed in my book. I wrestled my guilts. There were the obvious guilts of wasted time and squandered days, even guilt at the loss of a friendship that died out some time back. Guilt at the relief of the end of tension. But mostly I read. Reading a good book makes me want to write my own stories, those that were real, that may be, and even those that flitted briefly at the dawn of consciousness after sleep but stayed with me for years. There would be summer meadows, dances in the rain, moments when hearts broke against one another, and, of course, a vampire or two.
The Panthers weathered the melodrama and melancholy of the day. Such things must not interrupt feeding time, nap time, or play time. So I have now finished my book, packed away the emotions it brought, and swear to find some new adventures this week. It should be easy. The phone has already been ringing from work (yes it's Sunday). And I have guests arriving on Friday. Some of the former Bermuda crew will be en route in a few days. Adventure, it seems, shall come knocking on my door this week after all.
The Little Paris Bookshop by Nina George...I challenge you to read it and not feel it. That's it for now!