For now she need not think of anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of—to think; well not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others . . and this self having shed its attachments was free for the strangest adventures.
Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse
It is dark now at this early morning hour, when not so long ago the sun would be rising at about this time. The coffeemaker grinds and burbles to life—a sound Ladybug Girl says lets her know she is here—and day begins.
Gerry gathers a few last-minute things, and I run through the standard checklist with him. He leaves in these wee hours for his annual salmon fishing trip. Maya and I are alone.
In past years I used these days as a canning retreat. This year the only canning-related things I have planned is to move the jars of beets I did yesterday from my kitchen counter to my canning shelves downstairs and, in a few days, wash salmon jars in preparation for my husband’s homecoming and subsequent salmon canning activity.
This year I am weary. This year I am leaning in hard to listening—to my body’s rhythm and need for rest; to my mind’s need to sit with all the gifts this summer has brought with; and, most of all, to the still small voice of Love. This year is different, but it is exactly as it should be.