Vacation with ... friends

Family vacations are great. They're the usual means of travelling, relaxing, and savoring the experiences of vacation. But there's certainly times when family vacations become... tiresome? Sometimes, the personalities with whom I spend most of my waking moments with begin to grate on me. Or there are times when I suddenly realize, my child would really rather be with friends than with family. Or times when just Bill and I would like to get away together sans les enfants. Children grow up, and away, and begin to experience their lives, including vacations, away from parents and siblings. There are times when, gasp, I'd really just rather be by myself, thankyouverymuch.

I don't remember exactly when the first one was, but for the past 6-7 years, Bill and I have begun taking separate vacations, in addition to the ones we take as a family or as a couple. He goes to the beach for a long weekend. I fly off to visit my internet friends. He goes with his best buddies to Utah to ski. I go away for a week of silence at a Jesuit retreat center. He goes off to participate in one of his new passions, adventure racing. And so this easy give and take of individual vacation time has slowly become a healthy part of our life landscape. This year, I thought I'd love to have a week at the beach with just girlfriends....to provide a place at the beach house for my buds to chill together, new and old, ones who live near and ones who live away. So I asked a few close friends to invite one of THEIR close friends, and join me.

And so they've come. So far it's been perfect. We've walked the beach, drunk margueritas, played games, practiced yoga, listened to one share a chapter of a book she's writing, napped in the sun, drunk wine, cooked and cleaned up (no one has to be asked! no one says, "But it's HER turn to take out the trash!"), gone out to eat, petted the dog, drunk tea, laughed ourselves silly, eaten donut holes and ice cream and chocolate, drunk coffee, surfed the web, sketched, made monoprints, worn pajamas all day, sudokued, laughed, drunk whiskey sours, watched a movie and American Idol... In a word we've had fun. And this from people whose only commonality is that they know me or someone who knows me!

In what's shaping up for me to be multiple vacations, there is an ebb and flow here: someone comes, someone leaves, several stay. It's a changing landscape with enough stability of guests to maintain continuity, and enough rotation of fresh faces to keep things interesting. Today Kathy and Judy will leave, but three others will come. My old friend from elementary school is here, alongside an artist friend I just met this past year. I'm anticipating the ones who are coming (5 more), I'm sorry for the ones who couldn't make it, and I'll be sorry to see the last friend leave. And I think, by then, I'll be ready to go home, meld back into the familiar rhythms, and embrace marriage, family, and real life.

It's been a great event to mark my 45 years in the galaxy.

Lent is good for setting things right

...for returning to the place I should be.

For too long, I go along slip sliding into a comfortable place. Lent is to some degree about discomfort...fasting, abstinence, denial. All those kinds of discomfort bring my soul into a place to better address my need to be shaken up a bit: to return to a path from which I've strayed, to confess the faults I'd sooner forget, to right the wrongs I've perpetuated in my world, to renew the intentions I've made in the past and bring them into line with the present. It's a good time to recognize how I've taken people for granted... Bill reminded me of that this past week. It's a time to come face to face with the sly way controlling tendencies worm themselves back into my relationships. It's a time to return to prayer, to attention, to deliberateness. It's a time to approach my spirit with greater reverence. It's a time to challenge myself to be the one I claim to be.

In this vein, I spend some time:
- in solitude. Not reading blogs, not posting my photos, not scanning articles. But thinking my own original thoughts, being with myself and my thoughts long enough to glean from myself.
- with friends, strengthening connections that are real and not superficially based.
- in yoga. Working on my fitness, my inner awareness, and my body/spirit connection.
- in prayer. Actually doing what everyone talks about.
- envisioning my desired life.
- returning to my roots in non-coercive parenting and non-controlling spousing.
- designing compassion projects that are doable for me.
- loving Bill well. Doing something, however small, to let him know he's important to me.

Where I am From

I am from sweet tea and Little Debbie cakes, from biscuits from scratch and from real butter. I am from fried chicken and Uncle Ben’s, from three square meals, with a yellow and a green vegetable, a starch, a meat, and maybe if I was lucky, a big bowl of ice cream. I am from Sunday dinners with the missionaries from Jordan, Kenya, Peru, Japan.
I am from a blue and white Delft kitchen, from wide porches and colonial pillars, stone fireplaces and murals of the Matterhorn. I am from rabbit ears and rotary phones. I am from cedar split rail fences and bamboo hiding spots. I am from a drafty cedar closet lined with piles of old National Geographics. I am from wrought iron balconies and shag carpet. I am from cool basement and attic fan, from the hook and eye on my mom and dad’s door, and from wobbly crystal doorknobs. I am from the porch swing that lived inside, for courting. Because of course, when the squeak, squeak, squeak stopped, one needed to take note.
I am from towering magnolias, fragrant blossoms with matchstick centers and red seeded pods when the blossoms faded. I am from boxwoods so large I could hide in them every afternoon and play school, and house, and lead the choir. I am from weeping willows I could climb when I was sad. I am from sand dollars and shark’s teeth, palmettos and scrub pines. I am from creeks and boulders, birthed from the ancient Appalachians. I am from Pop’s roses, and Grandma’s jonquils, and the occasional stolen hydrangea from Mrs. Ballentine’s yard.
I am from the Cobb reunion, and I am from early to bed and afternoon naps. I am from judgment and generosity. I am from Papa Cobb, patriarch of my mother’s line and I am from Lib and Katy and Fran and Ruth and Sue, steel magnolias all of them. I am from bad grammar and good hearts. I am from Pop, who took me fishing and drove 30 miles back to Greenwood once, when I left my Barrel of Monkeys at the restaurant. I am from Grandma’s fried pies and paperdolls, and I am from rockers on her porch. I am from alcohol, and pedophilia, and drugs and mental illness; and I am from bedside prayers, and faithfulness and love that withstood.
I am from good humor and laughter. I am from not saying what you truly feel. From being a good girl and not breaking their hearts, like Bob did.
I am from Wesley and Calvin. From altar rail and font. From twice on Sunday and once on Wednesday night. I am from red church doors, the Trinity hymnal and offering envelopes. From soloists and organists and people who had it together, no matter what.
I am from Greenville, from the foothills. From grits and gravy, and Grandma’s lemon pound cake. I am from the summer scent of chlorine. I am from the comforting aroma of leaf mold quietly decaying under a canopy of oaks and hickories.
I am from black-leafed leather albums holding black and white squares of dogs and smiling children and Easter hats. I am from carousel upon carousel of aging colored slides, journaling trips to Egypt and Greece and France, to Kennebunkport and Myrtle Beach and Abbeville.
This is where I am from.