The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
but I have promises to keep.
And miles to go before I sleep,
and miles to go before I sleep.
~ Robert Frost
The trouble with today, a rainy day spent almost entirely at home, wasn’t about tinsel or ribbons or shopping on-line. There was some of that, but there was lots of wiping up dog vomit (which The Spouse stepped on in the dark this morning), laundry, general damage control. There was no reading, no writing, no nap—and on a wonderfullly dreary day with such potential.
People were killed 70 year ago today, and it mattered. They barely mentioned Pearl Harbor in school, the girls report. I can’t say I thought about it enough, although it haunts.
Instead I filled my head with the here and now. I had the idea we needed a real family meal tonight and asked if The Spouse could try, just try, to make an appearance by 6-ish. He got stuck in a meeting, so I chopped onions while Sadie tugged at my sleeve. I didn’t want to be sad or mad or discouraged—again. So I wiped my onion-tears and stomped back to the bedroom and straightened it up, then laid Luke’s housecoat and newly arrived issue of Star Wars Insider on the bed, with his bedroom shoes neatly on the floor beside it. There. I couldn’t be grumpy when he came in now.
The house is brimming with small touches here and there, our tokens of birthday love. It will look so sparse in January, I thought while I tied fat red satin ribbon on a hanging lantern in my grey bedroom. But there will be more writing in January—and maybe a writing nap or two.
I wanted to run out after supper tonight and get my toenails painted red for a party tomorrow night. But I glanced at the clock while I dried the last dish—the ladies who work at the nail salon are home soaking their feet by now.
Good for them, and good for me. I’ll wear closed-toe shoes. We’ve got Christmas carols playing on CD, and the teens are for once not studying but playing with their collection of flower fairy ornaments in front of the fire. The dogs are snoring and the grown-ups are banging away on keyboards. At least we’re all in the same room.
There’s a perfect storm of parties over the next four days, one of which I’m hosting. Hanging in my closet are dresses that still fit reasonably well despite a few extra pounds. They are pressed and brushed pet hair-free, my red shoes got a good polish this afternoon, and it’s supposed to be cold enough to wear a coat—and maybe even the black fur muff I bought at the end of last winter. It’s all delightful, but exhausting.
I’m rambling, I know. I guess I’m saying I’m blessed by being able to bend. By being kind of okay with letting go of expectations and being given the grace to choose the better (housecoat and magazine instead of sour face; hearth instead of red toenails). I’m trying to remember that it’s not my birthday in December.
There’s bad tired (in spirit) and good tired (in body). There’s no ache in me that can’t be fixed with a long, hot bath. With a book.
May you find time for the same.
