We’re watching the weather lately to see if this hurricane/ tropical storm is going to affect us for the 4th, and I’m a little embarrassed to say that I’m the Scrooge who’s hoping it might put a small damper on the festivities. I’m not hoping that the fireworks will be cancelled altogether, but if it could just discourage the unofficial explosives that happen throughout the neighborhoods- the backyard pyrotechnics that freak out my elderly dog and give me a bit of the weirds, too- I’d be okay with that. Better than okay: I’d be happy. I know that “blowing stuff up, sometimes under varying degrees of intoxication” will be the theme of the weekend no matter what actually comes out of the sky this Friday, but it’d be nice if the 4th itself was a bit more subdued, as that’s always the worst day.
It’ll be so good to have a long weekend, though. I love that the 4th fell on a Friday this year; we can hide out and get some much needed- rest. No trunk shows this weekend! Just cooking, knitting, organizing, nesting, and maybe some writing. Snuggling my big old Rottweiler, who gets so nervous about fireworks sneaked over the Pennsylvania border, and trying to convince her to go outside a little- that, too, which is always an adventure. Poor Lilu, she’s a good old girl.
Every year around the 4th, we think about heading for the hills. We talk about taking off for Canada, maybe, or a cabin out in the woods, just hermit- ing away, campfires and books and no connectivity, my favorite sort of vacation. We never do it, which always surprises us, and I’m still not sure why; possibly because the 4th itself seems to surprise us each year. It doesn’t really register on my list of holidays, which might just be denial- if I don’t think about it it doesn’t exist?- or maybe, because we don’t celebrate it, it doesn’t really ping on our radar. Either way, disappearing for that week- or even just a few days- would be a spectacular piece of self- care that we really should prioritize. I think next year we’ll toss that cabin idea up to a few vet friends and see how it shakes out. Besides, I miss the woods.
I’ve been sneaking off to the woods- or approximations thereof- a fair bit lately. Baltimore has all these lovely green spaces tucked in the middle of the city, and stopping off to take a moment in Gwynns Falls Park or Druid Hill gives me a moment of peace. I love these places year- round, but in the summer there’s this blissful coolness to the canopy and a very specific, heated- earth smell that I’ve always loved. It makes these places feel secret, hidden, and special in a way that they somehow miss in the other months. My family still refers to me as a city mouse, and they’re right- I am that, and my mistrust of small towns still runs deep. I prefer a bevy of resources. I miss the quiet, though, and I miss spaces like these, full of trees and moss and fallen logs. My cities need to be of a certain size— large enough to have Parks Of Some Substance. I can’t do the large- scale hikes I’d like to take on- I still have aspirations regarding the Appalachian Trail- but I love having these quiet, sweet pockets of woods tucked into my city, waiting for us. I can duck into a park, pull out a book and some water, just hide away for an hour or two in order to find my center again.
I keep thinking that if I’m clever enough to know that I require an hour or so of quiet in the trees throughout my week, I should be clever enough to take a few days out of my year, too, and run off to a cabin in the woods for the 4th, as well. Why don’t I just do the thing, then? Why do I just ignore it? Is it my trademark bullheadedness, my desire to just push through any emotional inconvenience and keep trucking forward? I don’t hide that the 4th bothers me; instead, I just ignore my own needs and move through this period of the year. It isn’t that big a deal. And it isn’t, but it’s unpleasant: less so, year by year, but why experience that unpleasantness at all when I could replace that with something calming, something potentially healing, something definitely better? Ach, but then I’d need to extend the effort, I suppose.
Self- care isn’t always simple, you guys. Maybe next year I’ll be better at it. What was it I was saying a few entries ago, about hitting the age of adulthood and being, magically, an adult? I remember hitting specific age markers and thinking, This is it, now is when I will have gotten it… right? The more I talk to my older friends, the more I begin to realize that we never do really “get it”, though; we’re all still puzzling it out as we go. I used to find this so frustrating, but there’s a comfort in it now. We are all just sussing it out. We are all constantly getting better at this. We are all progressing. There is no end goal, no point at which we begin to stagnate, unless we allow it. There’s something really exciting about that thought, too. I’ll keep getting better at self- care. I’ll get better at everything, as long as I work at it. Oh, I like that set of thoughts very much. And maybe next year I’ll find that cabin, take that trip. Something more than a few stolen hours in the woods sounds very, very good.