Our entire household is in stasis.
We are, literally, sitting around, waiting for something to happen. Even the dog seems to understand that now is not the time for frolic.
It is a wait of privilege, but it is also nearing torture.
C jr staves off boredom by immersing herself in a book. C plays show tunes on the piano. I cruise the internet until my retinas ache, then turn to writing.
We await a phone call. We await the knowledge that certain paperwork has come through (not ours, for chrissake – we got ours in PRONTO) and then we will load up as much gear as possible and drive.
We will drive to a retreat that holds so much possibility, you can see it brimming over the treetops. Out there, where we will go, it smells like cedar and pine and earth and rock. Out there, the birds gather right before sunset and holler the day’s gossip back and forth. It’s an orchestra tuning up, but all in the same key.
For me, the fantasy also involves cleaning. Is this possible? I dream of rolling up the old carpet and getting down on my hands and knees (with the knee pads purchased yesterday!) and scrubbing – yes, scrubbing – the floor. This may be the one outlet for any kind of pioneer spirit I fancy myself possessing.
I dream of emptying the cupboards, doing a thorough inventory; airing the beds and putting on fresh linens; sweeping the dust and dirt gathered in the corners; finding the dessicated corpses of former wildlife and disposing of them while silently screaming.
Yes, this actually holds appeal for me.
Went away to play Send in the Clowns. Now back.