I'm under that hat and towel.

...sun-lover that I am.  And I'm on my back as you can tell from my ample bosom.  See 'em?  (Photograph by Becky Breslin)

As they say in England, I was on holiday---which sounds much lovelier and not so socks-and-sandals as vacation.  Dan and I were in Chatham staying with my family at a house that  Bec and Jeff rented down there and generously opened up to all of us.  Then Dan and I  took our time (and an overnight) getting off the Cape before heading down to RI where I am now on this perfect 10---sunny, breezy, glistening river---day.  I am writing from a rocking chair on my parents’ front porch, if you must know how truly picturesque this scene is.  

I should have told you I’d be gone but I really thought I was going to check in during our trip.  In fact, I have about five half-written entries from the last two weeks that I just never got to posting. It’s a hard thing for me---that balance between living life and writing about it.  I remember thinking that I should have been writing more during my mom’s illness---capturing every conversation, every handhold---and then realizing that I didn’t want to miss a minute that I could be spending with her to be alone writing about it (in any capacity that required my spelling words correctly).  It was much the same in Chatham. Should I find a quiet spot to write about how the joy of my family gathering at the beach like we did as kids is tempered by the sadness of knowing how much my mom would love to be here?  Or should I head out to the back deck with my sisters and eat blue cheese on rice crackers with a cold glass of chardonnay?  


You see the dilemma?

It’s one I have here at my mom and dad’s house too.  Like with my parents, I am aware that these are my last days with the house.  Do I find a quiet spot to shape my feelings on all of this into a topiary?  Or do I scribble out pages of messy reflections in my journal and then get out in the gardens for a good bye with this home and the sense of my parents that dwells here.  I will spend my life fighting the urge to stay in my head and analyze and the need to get out of it and live, but this is different---this is death.  Any day now---any day the universe decides upon---these gardens will no longer be mine to tend.  I would regret missing my chance to prune my dad’s roses and water my mom’s brilliant purple hydrangeas were I to miss it.

And while vacation doesn’t hold this same weight, my trying to engage with the world and allow moments of joy does---which is why I tried so hard to stay on vacation rather than retreat into writing.  But there’s so much joy I get from writing and hanging out with you guys here, so I’m never really sure where I should be.  Mother fucking balance---I’ll be trying to find it forever.  

I’m going to try to shape what I wrote while in Chatham into some sort of “How I spent my summer vacation” to post here but I’ve put in eight writing hours already today and the yard is calling me.  Maybe today I found a smidge of balance.  Maybe I just have to accept that this is a time of imbalance.  The truth is---whether it’s in Chatham or New Hampshire, in the gardens or on the porch---I have to consider it a good day when I’m standing at all.