In-Between Days

The relative life of leisure which I currently have been fortunate enough to enjoy has left me a lot of time for filler. Okay, so maybe that isn't the best turn of a phrase. But how else to describe all the tiny things that you normally might really love doing but get shelved for the 'shoulds' and 'musts' that build up during the coarse of a day/week/month that is otherwise loaded down with work, class, or any other number of things that comprise life as we know it.

There's my bright spot. One of them, at least.

Lacking work in the traditional sense to fill up my day I am able to pick and choose what I'd like to focus on so long as it meets the following criteria: 1. cheap, and 2. entertaining. I've found a good deal of solace in cleaning and reclaiming little areas of space which might otherwise have been left forgotten the way that old houses are when kudzu slowly devours them whole. Baking, too, has been cathartic in a similar sense. Changing something from one form to another. It's rather like alchemy. At least, I like to think so. Lately I have also found that I've been getting back in touch with my crafty side as well. Where this might have formerly meant painting or decoupage art projects worthy of any five year old, I now am turning to fiber arts. Specifically, knitting. Not that I am any good. And not that I have turned out anything more exciting than several Fish Hats. But it just makes me feel productive in a way that doing the dishes or playing the Sims just isn't able to compete with. There's something lasting about the products (barring mishaps with moths or horrifying laundry incidents).

This summer has also been one of books. Lazy day reading when I am left to my own devices is a guilty pleasure of mine. I love devouring books. Quickly pushing through the words so that I can reach the author's meaning...rereading passages in a futile attempt to commit them to memory or else simply savor the flavor that a particular turn of phrase might have. It feels terribly decadent to be able to sit down with a novel and be able to devote my full attention to it without having to think about anything else more pressing. The most recent of these indulgences is The Geography of Bliss by Eric Weiner. While a fairly quick read, it felt dense. Heavy with thoughts and words. Not surprising, perhaps, considering it was written by a life-long Journalist and NPR Correspondent. He was funny and thoughtful. In the end the book made me want to travel more and gave me a little more insight to things that I already knew. Or thought I knew. Things like 'What does happiness mean to me?' and 'How do I get there?' Are the answers to those questions so different when you consider them in the individual sense versus giving them a hint of your nationality? Or is it possible to consider them at all without lending your cultural perspective to it? Maybe not. But it's interesting to try.