After a night in which I slept less than I have for the last several, I’m especially thankful that, this morning, we’re looking at some, however brief, cessation of our anxiety. Nothing is over, really, but the assault of the last several days can only wane for a time. What we’ve finally stumbled into is a rest, a time away.
Last night I put the fishing gear in the car, then readied the cameras. Beside me as I type, a bag full of clothes waits to be zipped up and lugged out. I’ve got my week’s reading to pack—and a bunch of CDs. A day of work and we’re off.
By tomorrow night, I’ll have a line in, the sun will be dying, and the only sound will be the woeful baying of the loons, some of this earth’s most divine chanting.
This year, even more than others, I’m thankful, really thankful, for vacations.
Three years ago, almost to the day, I kept an actual thanksgiving diary, writing those lines. Much has changed in those three years; much has not. I didn't sleep poorly last night, but tomorrow we're off, once again, for the loons and the lake.
This year, too, "even more than others," I'm thankful, really thankful for vacations.