Though taking a week off to stay at home and rest isn't a revolutionary idea, surely it is an inspired one.  Joel and I were trying to get to Hawaii this month, but realized that we simply couldn't afford it in the capacity we wanted (I'm a bit of a primadonna and do not vacation on the cheap).  However, the idea of saying goodbye to a week off as well as those gorgeous tropics was a bit more than we could handle.  I suggested we just take the time off and stay the hell home.  You know, read a book, water the tomatoes, etc.  Not terribly exciting, but I cannot tell you how much we both looked forward to the week.

Alas, I must tell you that despite these great expectations, the week was angsty for us both.  I am glad we didn't drop a ton of money on a nice hotel room when really what we needed most was just to sleep, and sleep, and sleep some more.  I'm happy to not have bought airfare or a rental car or a surfing lesson in lieu of a quiet bookstore, many trips to the pub, wandering a garden, and watching the ocean.

Vacations are tricky.  Joel and I are moody people.  One day he woke up cranky and couldn't shake it until evening; the very next day brought a similar sourness for me.  There were days where we were just completely uninspired, or preoccupied with work, or able to carry on any kind of intellectual conversation.

When people asked how the stay-cation was going, we mustered a shrug and said it was good; don't get me wrong, we were so grateful to have a life where a week off is feasible.  However, despite the mehness of the week, what I didn't anticipate were the benefits post-vacation. Joel and I woke up Monday morning with energy and motivation, both heading back to work.  He said everyone there seemed so tired, haggard.  He was buzzing around the office with stories of his kegerator project and his research on electric cars.  My coworkers also commented on how rested I seemed.

Now I say to people who ask, "That was the best fucking vacation I've ever had." I say it with zero angst.

Take that, exhaustion.

I've always been more in love with the idea of hard work than with the actuality.  I imagine Plath pouring over her poems in the early morning (Ted got the afternoon to write), blowing on her hands to keep warm in that drafty house in Devon.  I've romanticised the writing life, of course I have.  There is a paradox I possess; two voices battling.  "Work harder. For Hours.  Daily."  Then the other "Enjoy, be less serious, live your art."

Amidst the guilt and the voices saying it wasn't enough, I worked.  Since not much slips my notice, my perpetually-peeled eyes, I consider this a private and profound victory.  Intentionality, I have plenty of.  What's new is the surprise of enjoying the work so much that it feels absolutely nothing at all like work.

We kicked off a week of vacation with a perfect Sunday.  French breakfast, checking 1 item off my "bucket list" with the viewing of Les Misérables, too much booze before 1pm, BBQ at Mom's, and late night lounging with the pup.  If today was an indication of how the rest of our "staycation" will unfold, I will be ever so pleased.   We have some other big things on the itinerary as well as plenty of beautiful nothings like watering tomatoes and reading in the sunshine.  

This is therefore acting as a service announcement to let you know I will either

A) Be taking a bloggular break 

or

B) Be blogging more than usual.

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ALL TOO OFTEN

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