This is a DELICIOUS day. Saturday. From my vantage point, I can look out onto our small inset patio. It’s along the narrow side of our back yard and is ringed with Queen Palms, an Ocotillo with its little ovate leaves swaying in a rare breeze, iridescent flowers set atop the arms of a needle-sharp cactus. The neighbor’s tree hangs over the side fence like it wants to start a conversation. I almost feel obliged. A little society of bunnies congregate across the street to breakfast on soft leaves and tender flowers. A single, skinny Coyote trots along the street, hoping for an easy meal of bunny or, perhaps, a more substantial offering of yard cat or small Bichon Frise. The sight of a hunting Coyote tracking down a suburban street is startling. But then, this is the desert and it’s nice of the Saguaros and snakes to accommodate us. Dan has made coffee and we sit quietly, sipping and sharing a newspaper, commenting now and then. Shaking our heads. Laughing, even.
I love Saturdays.
Saturday is school day for Wilson; of course, he thumps his tail wildly at the prospect of any car ride. Scarlett is happy to have a rest from the constant onslaught of Wilson’s adolescent pranks. Dan’s looking forward to a couple hours of golf this afternoon. All is well.
I move across the day like a kite in a breeze — running, lifting, flying. Figuratively, at least. A woman with a broken leg can’t walk, much less launch into the sky. It’ll be several Saturdays before I’m well again. Nevertheless, it feels like I’m skipping through the day; a book here, a movie there. Here a scrumptious bowl of soup, there a delectable glass of wine. Now a dwindling sun.
I’ve gotten lots of lovely emails congratulating me on my HuffingtonPost publication of an opinion piece. Thank you, everyone. It seems odd to be on the fringe of things. Neither in nor out, but sort of like some creepy cyber lurker. Other than my dear little Bloggybirdery home pack, friendships are conducted via email, blog responses and mail that comes addressed to Dear Occupant.
But like some Waldenesque solitude, it’s not so bad. Really, it’s not. Unlike so very many, I at least know there will be an end date to this forced confinement. I’m not exactly purifying or sanctifying my heart during this time of quiet, but then again, I’m not exactly wilting either. If nothing else, there’s plenty of time to think. To write. To be who I am, without apology, without excuse. Without makeup.
It’s not so bad to be nearly through this particular Saturday.
It means I’m one day closer to driving myself to my favorite latte joint, ordering up and sitting down to spend time in the company of strangers. I’m still a long way off, but the breeze is back and my mind is once again flying like a kite toward that first day back out in the world.
I think it should be a Saturday, don’t you?