Vacation

I love the rush of my days.  I put in a full 8 hours, or more, every day.  Twelve yesterday.  Some days, I actually sit with the mediators for 10-15 minutes and eat lunch.  Other than that, I am doing something, helping someone, consulting with someone else, emailing, writing a document, teaching a group of kids, planning a meeting.  The days whiz by.

And yet, and now, I have this: five days.  Five days.  Someone asked me today what I was going to do with the time, and I said nothing.  That, right now, seems flat out stupid.  I know I could rest, sleep, watch TV.  Tinker with this, putz around with that.  But I ought to do some thing, many things.  The art museum.  Drive to Detroit.  Find that apple farm I once went to a sit by the fire.  Make a pie.  Read Exodus. Go away, if only for a night, to see life from another vantage. I ought to make a recipe I have never made.  Go to an aquarium.  Write a letter, with pen to paper, to someone I have not written in a while.  I should get a book out of the library.  Answer a wanted ad.  Ride my bike.  Visit the eye doctor.  Right a list of the things I need to do before I am fifty.  Fix the hole in my black turtleneck. 

Five days, I have the gift of five days.  What am I going to do with it?  Something, I tell you, something will be done.