julierichmond

I’m home from vacation.

This morning was packing and loading. Peering under beds and wiping down counters. Filling up coolers and throwing things out. Twenty minutes of yoga on a mat in front of my bed before climbing into the car just because.

Saying goodbye to my friends in between gulps of coffee and wondering what the hell I did with the bungee cords.

From March on, there was anticipation, negotiations about bedrooms and coldcuts, and long conversations about what we wanted to do.
There was the arrival, the filling of the fridge, wresting with sheets, and the search for just the right place to put the bikes.

There was the exploration- of the house, parking spaces, the location of the blowdryer, convenience store, wine glasses, dumpster, pool towels, pool, bike path, convenience store, scissors, and bandaids.

That was in the beginning.

Then time flew.

We went on a boat, took in a drag show, rode to the beach, rode to the pond, ate far too much food, watched the Olympics, retreated to our rooms, and found each other in the kitchen.

There weren’t board games.

We only cooked once, and there were issues, but the dinner was salmon and salad and everyone ate.

There weren’t many photographs but there were too many of us to coordinate a picture that captured us all.

Some of stayed, some left.

We missed seeing a sunset over the ocean.

But we watched a sunset over the dunes, those of us that were left, just last night. I took a photo of the musicians I posted on Instagram but we got there late because I thought the collection of people was there for a wedding.

A vacation is a little life.

There are the Mondays and Tuesdays when there is all the time in the world,

The realization on Wednesday that there might not be time for the walk at the the old naval base

.
Then, the dark recognition on Thursday night the hotel might not fix it before the dryer before
Monday and on Monday, I’ll be scrolling through photos, wondering where summer went, if I’m the only person pissed off about back to school sales, and why I don’t care about the olympics.

Everyone else does or they’re faking.

On Saturday and Sunday, there is checkout and the eighteenth conversation about phone reception, dog walks and cleaning the bathroom.

I’m sad that’s it’s done but find comfort in coming home.

Sophie the most amazing of dogs spoke when she saw me. Usually she only communcates in the morning, after a good sleep, when I don’t wake her too early and linger to rub her shoulders and tell her she’s beautiful.

I managed a workout, and it wasn’t as sweet as a bike ride to Petite Boulangerie.

The bikes are in the shed. The cooler is empty. I don’t know why I brought home two tubs of cream cheese or if my nut milk survived the traffic on the bridge, but
my life is good.

Just not as good as it was on Wellfleet with the people I love where my big choice was
Beach. Pond. Pool.
Bike or car.
Swordfish or tuna.
Smoothie or waiting till lunch because I ate so much at dinner.

I hope all of you have the time to take some time to spend some time with the people you love.

It doesn’t really matter where you land.

(That sounds so stupid. Of course it matters where you land. It is hard to love people if they snore, there’s no air conditioning, someone eats your bagels, plays Celine Dion endlessly, doesn’t flush, or is cheerful before 8 am. If that sounds like I’m not pleased, I’ll admit- I had air conditioning. I snore. I don’t care about bagels and I am cheerful at 730 though stupid.
Add to the list.)
What I want to say is
I hope you take some time this summer to put the phone down and spend time
With the people you love,
like a lot
Might love,
but you’re making up your mind.
Or yourself.

When I ride my bike, I don’t listen to music. It’s the only workout I do without a soundtrack.

It’s awesome to have time, anywhere ,
with anyone, or alone, when it doesn’t require a playlist.

(Says the woman who created the Spotify game, thinks she can sing when she can’t and has actually fought with people who insist free Spotify is just as good.
It’s not.)
Love,
Julie Richmond Blackburn