Tuesday, February 18
a little trip
In past years when I've needed a true break I go to Kripalu, a yoga retreat center in western massachussettes. When I think of being there I think of compassion and peace, being supported and taken care of and with freedom to sort out my brain and come home with cleared abilities. I do not do yoga there. I sleep in the dorms and read a little at night and turn out the light early. I wake up and get dressed and take my journal, sewing, and a book down to enjoy a silent breakfast and cups of tea. I wander around the carpeted hallways and search out the sunniest rooms and read the quotes in the stairwells and feel my soul get fat and happy like a bulb feeling the rays of spring or bread rolls rising in a warm kitchen. I stare at the crystals in the gift shop and read about them. I gaze at the bunnies on the front lawn who gaze placidly back at me, tamed by years of visitor's gentleness. I go down to the sauna and take off all my clothes and go into the whirlpool and chat about life with other women of all ages and it feels medieval, biblical. So calm. I make myself do the cold water dip and my skin tingles for hours afterwards. I visit the Grandmother Elm.
I went for one night a couple of weeks ago, my first night away from home and Cedar. Driving the four hours there felt a little shaky and a lot wonderful; I knew he would have a great time with Tim. I wrote and sat for hours in the empty, sunny corner room there and followed my thought train way over the horizon and back again, writing down inconsequentials and matters of great import, furniture making plans and decorating schemes and garden structures. I let loose all that flotsam and jetsam of the complexity of mamahood and artist-being and wifeness that had been bottled up like a genie in my head, and captured it in the net of my journal.