Take the Long Way Home

I can't quite believe that it's taken me this long to find the time to post. But then again, it's not surprising when you consider in the last two weeks I've held down the fort at work while everyone else was on vacation, written three exams, saw my favourite band live, celebrated my wedding anniversary (that's twelve for those of you keeping score at home) hosted a stranger for three nights, shopped for souveniers and clothes to wear to the weddings that we'll be attending at home, reconnected with a very dear friend, got sick and somehow managed to gain five pounds!?!

Today is supposed to be devoted to stripping beds, doing laundry, making lists, saying goodbye to friends who won't be here when we get back and so long to those that will, organizing the feeding of the fish and the minding of the house. I'm currently drinking coffee and telling you all about it, but I digress...

Tomorrow is about last minute shopping, packing our bags, organizing a lift from the airport, renting a car and rechecking our plan to see everyone we've ever known in the 29 days we'll be in Ontario. I have an itinerary. It's quite full. I have a fantasy. It involves setting fire to the itinerary and skipping the flight to Toronto. I'm pretty sure that's just my anxiety talking though.

Monday we fly to Rome. Cause I wanted to take the long way home. Actually, it's because I wanted to take the cheap way home. I saved 600 euro by travelling this route. I doubled the time it will take. Haven't determined yet whether an overnight stay in Italy will be a pro or a con for the first day of our holiday. I have determined that it won't be free. I'll letcha know whether it was worth it.

I should have net access for most of the month, so I'll be keeping tabs on all my favourite bloggers. I may not post much, but hey... I'm a reader, not a writer!

The Invitation

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your
heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking
like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are
squaring your moon...
I want to know if you have touched the
centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of
your fingers and toes
without cautioning us to be careful
be realistic
remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are
telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of
betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with
failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live or how much
money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or
with whom
you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you
keep
in the empty moments.

© Oriah Mountain Dreamer 1999.

Camp as a Row of Tents

This post isn't about gay people, but it's been so long since I managed to blog anything, I thought I needed an attention-grabbing title. What I really want to tell you is that I slept in the tent last night. In the back yard. And loved it.

I could tell you that the reason I did this was that my daughter's little friend was sleeping over and had never slept in a tent before and her mother was having kittens about it. This would be true.

I could tell you that the reason I did it was because it gave me a chance to cuddle my son who is morphing into a man before my very eyes and won't be interested in sleeping with his mother for very much longer (well, we hope that happens, anyway). This would also be true.

I could tell you that my mother never let us sleep out and never let me spend the night with a friend who was sleeping out and I'm making up for lost time. This would also be true.

But the underlying reason that at my age, I chose sleep out in a tent in the backyard instead of in my really comfortable bed with my really comfortable husband is this: I wanted to.

It was an absolutely gorgeous evening and as I was setting up the tents for the kids, I felt myself go into camping mode. So, I kicked off my shoes and got into it. Once the tents were "furnished" and the kids were in their pyjamas in the tents, I felt a bit sorry I wasn't staying out too.

During my "this is the last" trip into the house to fetch the torch, I threw on my pyjamas and grabbed my book, telling myself I'd hang out in the tent with the boy and read until I was sure that they were all settled for the night.

The boy was delighted with this plan and pressed his warm back into mine and promptly fell asleep. I lay there in the cool night air, lulled by the sounds of whispering girls and a sleeping boy, the warbling birds and the traffic in the distance and thought, "I think I'll stay".

As I drifted off I tried to capture the sensations; I'll cherish this memory in my old age....assuming of course that I reach old age with any kind of memory intact.

Why...

do hangovers start so early?