A little over a year ago we slipped out of town for a long weekend. Thanksgiving weekend, it was, and our intent was to have the distance from deadlines and ought-tos to be able to really breathe. Packing up for an event that sort of revolves around home isn’t the easiest, but with the desire to get away being so potent, we seemed to think of nearly everything and what we forgot was easily forgiven. Forty five minutes into the drive our shoulders rolled down into a soft resting place and we began to sing and sway to a melody that wanted nothing but to be enjoyed.
I was scrolling through those pictures and I wouldn’t trade those four days for the world. We took snowy walks at dusk, stoked burning embers in the fireplace as we read stories and worked on a Blue Line puzzle until our eyes crossed. Thanksgiving looms and as much as I’d like to, there won’t be a getaway this year. What I’ve realized is that if we take the time to have our minds far enough from our worries or the ruts, we rediscover the techniques to being present. We can still take walks, like we did yesterday on the prettiest Sunday morning in memory. We can read stories, like the four we borrowed from the library Saturday morning and read tonight. We can have a backyard fire or we can tussle through the absurdity that is sharing one blanket between the five of us.
I’m looking forward to another trip one day, but for now, I am grateful for my family. I cherish the memory of the getaway we had and rejoice in the prospect of a few days at home being happy to be together.
To pajamas at noon and cuddles all the day long.