Woods ‘cation
“The woods is dark & deep at the best of times, but in the winter it becomes a place of a subtle, transcendental light, not emanating from anywhere in particular. The sun contributes, but doesn’t have much to say. On any trail, footing is bad, an icy crust, or punched holes that trip, or a place with no edges. You could fall through into a stream, or get confused & flounder up to your hips. I haven’t been out much this winter, and my excuses are adequate . Because if I did go out, it’d be to an obscure place, not any pandered track. That’s just me. An isolationist, of sorts. I have enough to deal with, traversing my own property at all hours. Well, we were sitting in lawn chairs, in my kitchen, just the other day. I guess i didn’t feel like moving them into the garage this year. The coffee was brewing, we had some news to catch up on. We were probably chuckling about something, when the familiar door latch sound of a new arrival, shut us up for a second. He pushed his way in, a clockwork I know by heart, by now. “Kristana!” he bellowed, using a nickname coined for me, on a post it note, that stuck. Funny, how the exits and entrances of wool coats elicit a visceral response, either positive or negative. Some green plaid, some red, some covered with wood chips, or stained with oil. Usually it means someone is going to help with something, for better or worse. In this case, there was an immediate offering of chocolate, before any other type of quasi-business transaction. The box held four fancy truffles, tied up with a tiny, shiny ribbon. He placed it neatly on the butcher block, then picked a lawn chair, and hunkered down into it, with a satisfying creak of rattan. “If you’re here to show off your tan, I don’t really care,” I said with a sniff, feigning indifference towards his recent sojourn to the south. It’s alternately cool and really not cool to take vacations around here. You have to walk a fine line, maybe pretend it wasn’t that fun, or that something great happened at home, that you clearly should have stuck around for. He played it perfectly. “I was miserable’, he lied. “I started drinking again. Just to get through it”. With a twinkle in my eye, I considered the gravity of his situation, with an equal measure of false concern. But practically speaking, any or part of this could be absolutely accurate. We’ve all found ourselves on both sides of the play, seriously enmeshed in either the pain or the pleasure of vacations, including what it feels like to be left behind. I know now to keep myself busy-er than a one armed paper hanger, making more work for myself and others occupationally, as a way of life. Which was the other reason he was in my kitchen. I looked at him expectantly. “Are you here to ... to work on the wood shed?” There was a short silence, in which chocolates were unwrapped, steaming cups of coffee poured, and cats lifted onto laps. “I don’t think so”, he said. This was understandable. Because things are always way more complicated than they seem. So we headed to the woods, later in the afternoon. With the dog, a couple cameras, and no reason to keep pushing any rocks up any hills. “I was gonna do a lot of things today,” I told her, then that thought just sort of evaporated. I shook off the chill, a few degrees colder as we dropped down into the river bed. The path twisted left, then right, then slowly opened into a cathedral of hemlocks. The dog ran ahead, then doubled back, then sat and looked up at her. It was quiet. Kind of like a vacation should be.”