Time, Off
When the first day of your vacation starts with a massage/acupuncture session, the remaining eight days are fragrant with new and unexplored interpretations of the word “relax”. To be unstrapped from the clock and a schedule is a most delicious state of affairs for which one might almost need a confessor. Or a cigarette. Or both. I’ll get back to you on that.
Driving home that first day, muscles and pathways improved and cleared once more, I looked my agenda-less day square in the eye and let loose the hedonist within. Which means, I had a popsicle for breakfast alongside a handful of blue corn chips dipped one at a time in salsa, and thought about hand-pulling some of the weeds that fringed the raised beds’ burnt wooden frames. I thought about it. Then I lost track of time until just a few hours ago, having promised our granola customers I’d be waiting for them in a grocery store parking lot an hour from our home for a no-contact drop-off of their pre-paid orders. A slight creeping back in of a work agenda, but it did not involve a copier, conference call meetings or drafts of documents needing to be proofread or spell-checked. The purist in me stamped her approval of this humble business transaction and let me get on with it.
It’s a strange feeling to disconnect from a routine that involves so many other people, and tasks that really can’t be accomplished in the company of bees and trees. Over time, I’ve learned how to do it immediately or, like a high school senior at the beginning of May, divest a bit early but still retain some sense of productivity. We prepare in advance for so many life events; can’t vacationing be one of them? I don’t mean packing or making hotel reservations or changing the oil in the truck. Those will get done, of course, but what about the gear-shift of the mind? The mental calisthenics of putting down and turning away from the undercurrent of others’ expectations and letting a day stretch out in front of yourself so wickedly random, so free that it resembles, well, nothing comparative in your current existence so far? I can only speak for myself—I have stringently few days like that, and I’ve clocked in for a few decades now. Relaxing into an open-ended day is a bit unsettling at first, but it gets easier to slide into with practice. Which is why the first thing I do my first day back at work is submit my next time off request. It’s a shrewd and practical self-care strategy I recommend to everyone still framed by a clock, some HR policies and an office (or cubicle). Doing so keeps one’s outlook wider than the computer keyboard and monitor waiting for our obedient (and recently-massaged) fingers to do their duty. Please hear this clearly: I’m grateful every day to still be employed and have all the faculties necessary to be successful in my field and my office, but it’s not the core of me. It’s not what plunges me happily down the wooded paths of promise that today might actually be the day I spot a cedar waxwing eating a berry from a branch hanging over the creek. Work makes vacation possible, and vacation makes work the proper size in one’s life. It’s important to remember that.
Now fully six days into my vacation, I’m trying to call up some of the things I’ve done, and so far, most of them involve food. Day one is a happy blur, and I’ve mentioned the culinary high points (popsicle, blue corn chips, salsa). Day two involved a call to a possible new dentist, a modest attempt at downsizing all the fabric in the sewing corner of my studio and then leaving piles of soft color underfoot for sorting tomorrow (does that day ever come?), and a spectacular dinner made from our own Lacinato kale and five-color silverbeet leaves (chard) wrapped spring roll-style around sesame-ginger seasoned TVP and plant-based meat crumbles, minced onions and garlic, cabbage, carrots and zucchini, dipped in a spicy peanut sauce. How we managed to have leftovers, I can’t tell you. Days three through six are back to somewhat blurry, but if I sat still long enough, I might remember setting up our market canopy outside and falling asleep under it. Several times. I have forgotten what my office looks like, and recall mostly first names of co-workers.
Given the history of Alzheimer’s and cognitive decline in my immediate family, I realize that someday, being unaware of what day it is will not be intentional nor paid for by the company that signs my checks. If it comes to get me, I can only hope to spend my final days pleasantly confused and mildly entertaining to the nieces and nephews who come to visit. For now, I am completely and blissfully immersed in the unfolding of time as experience, not numbers on a clock, and sense I’ll be better for it when Patrick reaches over in the middle of some gentle yellow and blue sunrise to remind me that I was supposed to be back at work yesterday.
I’ll have my apology rehearsed by the time I cross the parking lot.
