The incomparable Carey Mulligan in Never Let Me Go
Since we took the desert getaway last month I've been in a pretty zen place trying to maintain better balance in my life. Inside time vs outside time, reading vs watching some tv, work vs down time. I'll just go ahead and state the obvious:it's a lot easier said than done. I'd go so far as to say, at least for me, it takes some focus and deliberate action to stop working, stop watching tv (I am on a reality hiatus though!) and give myself permission during the work week to go outside and get some fresh air. Ahhhh the joys of working at home.
Something I've been trying to do on the weekend is leave my immediate neighborhood and explore another. For some reason it's so refreshing and helps me return with a fresh perspective, despite the pile of laundry still waiting upon my return. This weekend we went on an antiquing adventure in a neighboring city. There was no set agenda and we mostly wandered, but that time spent amongst other people's old things was really great. Everything has its own story, belonged to people who had their own stories and if we took anything home, helped add to that journey. This must be what getting old is because I spent a lot of time dawdling around thinking about where things must have come from and what they must have lived through.
Fresh off our antique adventure, the Chef zipped off to work and I sat down to scan for a good movie. Enter Lars and the Real Girl. I've easily seen it 10 times, yet every time I gather some new nugget that changes the way I think. Continuing on in movie mode, I caught Never Let Me Go just as it started and dove right in. Far from lighthearted and much more gut wrenching, I sat as riveted as the first time I saw it in the theatre and went to bed that night completely content. Good movies are like good books: they're almost better the second and third time around.
For some reason Monday was a brutal day. You know those days you open your eyes and just know it's coming for you? Yeah. One of those. By 5pm I was so past done it was all I could do to make it down the hall and crawl under the covers, blankets over my head. As I laid there in the semi-dark I couldn't help wishing Zoila (Jeff Lewis's housekeeper) would appear, turn on the tv and put in a season of Felicity to wash my less than stellar day away. As I continued lying there--no Zoila in sight--it donned on me: after all these years I still love for someone to tell me a story. I've been an avid reader my entire life, spent many a childhood night reading by flashlight after lights out, and count books amongst my dearest friends. Somehow getting lost in a well-written story, wherever it's coming from, helps me get centered and feel less alone, more connected.
Light at the end of the tunnel before I threw in the towel and went to bed at the same time as a second grader.
