While Mandi is in her last day at a Thai resort, after days of beach swimming, inexpensive massages and delicious food, she comments about returning to "real life."
I understand the distinction, but I mind-quibble with "real life" versus "vacation" or temporary life. I don't think there should be a great difference--yes, A Thai beach life under a palm tree is much different than duplex living in Chicago Illinois, or commuting to work on a snowy day versus walking the beach, but I believe it's important to create more regular parallels with "vacation" life. Otherwise, we will be of the mind always, "to get away."
A "get away" can happen anywhere. Soft music. Two minutes of meditation. Sitting in a park. Enjoying an apple. Sitting down with oneself. And yet, as soon as I write this, I think of all the exceptions: my friend with a handicapped child; the husband who is a caretaker for his dementia-afflicted wife; me with a writing deadline that makes my MFA cohorts crazy-nervous.
Two semesters ago, I told my advisor that somedays I spend ten hours writing and doing critical research. She strongly suggested I do otherwise. Now, even with a Monday deadline and a lot of work left, I'm intentionally cutting little windows for the "vacation life." Meeting with friends. A morning hike. Reading a book not on my book list. These chunks are intentional and very choosy. I love to garden, but the garden must wait with her millions of weeds.
We cannot say, "someday," to everything. I can say it to the garden, but I can't say it to pleasure reading, swimming, or meditation on the deck. Sometimes the chunk is only ten minutes, but ten minutes can be restorative. When children were small, their nap time was divine. When a child was hospitalized for several days, a shower was divine.
We have to build "vacation minutes," into real life. Mini "getaways" help us stay.
In a moment of irony, after participation on a panel on teaching writing at a community college, I walked away from the venue in a happy mood. Not knowing what to expect, the panel had gone well. I came upon these words etched into a sandstone wall: The antidote to exhaustion isn't rest...it is wholeheartedness. David Whyte.
The irony came when I reached my car and found a parking ticket. I'd had a parking code but in my rush, in my unfamiliarity with the college's protocol, I hadn't seen the parking kiosk. I wholeheartedly engaged in petitioning the parking services for a refund. But first it required paying for the ticket. That was painful; it was a hassle, and what if they didn't refund my request? With my whole-heart, it became a playful endeavor. I paid the ticket, wrote up my petition, waited.
It was fun when I received my email notification that my petition had been granted. The fifteen dollar violation was refunded minus a $1.62 charged in fees and taxes.
What could have exhausted me, didn't. And after the ordeal, I went for a swim.
My friend Connie has always been the best example of wholeheartedness as the cure for a task that could be exhausting. While caring for her dying husband, I asked her if it was difficult. I was solidly chastised by her response, "This isn't difficult, it's a privilege." She said it with a puff of steam and her intention was to chastise me. I've never forgotten. She was wholeheartedly engaged in her husband's care. She wasn't exhausted.
And yet, I'm sure that Connie had her needed "getaways" and I think it may have been allowing friends to visit in that tender time. We sat in the kitchen when Frank was in a hospital bed in the living room. She "got away," but she was never far.
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