by Elizabeth
Today, I am not at our retreat.
Today, I will brew coffee, catch up on the news, jump in the shower, wake the kids, brush little girl's hair, make the bed, load the crockpot, fix school lunches, shoo kids out the door, empty the dishwasher, take the dog to the park, peel apples and bake a pie, sweep the floor, wash and fold a few loads of laundry, dial some work calls, vacuum the carpets, take out the trash, scrub a toilet or two, check on the ancestors, send a birthday card, descend on the supermarket, visit the dry cleaner, scarf down some lunch, sneak in some Christmas shopping, gas up the car, nag the phone company, drive carpool, drag a kid to the doctor, patronize a second grocer, buy and wrap a party gift, help with homework, cook and serve dinner, clean up the kitchen, pack for the weekend, hit the gym. And whatever else I forgot. Hopefully find some time to write. If I'm very lucky, to read.
Tomorrow, I'll be at our retreat.
I will eat, and sleep, and read, and write. And write, and write, and write.
Any questions?
Showing posts with label Elizabeth; retreat. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Elizabeth; retreat. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Retreat, ReTREAT, RETREAT!!!
by Elizabeth
It's been a heckuva couple of weeks and, by the time this one screeches to its race car crash of a stop on Friday, I will be ready to climb gratefully into the back of Pamela's van and let it take me wherever she feels like steering. Hopefully, she'll keep to the plan and deliver me and the cooler o' goodies to our appointed house three hours southeast of here. But if she feels feisty and decides to drive to, oh, I don't know, Santa Fe? Pecos? Chunky, Mississippi? instead, I won't mind. Mainly because I probably won't notice.
For a variety of reasons, mostly familial, I've been whipped lately. This retreat is truly a retreat from life for me, a chance to withdraw from the daily tasks that scream for attention but will be unhearable in a rented house a hundred or so miles from home. Last year I looked ten years older and square that for how I felt by the time we pulled into Glen Rose. (NaNoWriMo had more than a little to do with that.) The time spent at the cabin went a long way toward a cure. This year I look a little better (we won't mention my hair), largely because I haven't run out of moisturizer like I managed to do in November 2009, but my edges are nearly as ragged. Bring on the countryside, the reams of fresh paper, and most of all, the luxury of time with no more commitment than half of dinner Sunday night.
The emails have been flying the past few days as we all anticipate this getaway. Some of them are warnings (Julie cautioned that no one better complain if they ask for four pancakes and she delivers three. It is my belief that Julie's life is gorgeous fodder for hilarious women's fiction.) Both Pamela and Joan hinted at possible grouchiness. I pre-authorized the good smackings I'm sure I'll earn, and Joan suggested we just get her deserved smacking over with now. At least Kim and Susan remained cheery, though Kim did threaten her inner Oscar might erupt if her allergies hit.
All this to say, I am really looking forward to throwing my ill-packed bag into the trunk come Friday, and that night sharing a few of the many fresh words I hope my manuscript will have gained by then. To sitting around the table later than my current exhaustion level would recommend, reaching for another chocolate pomegranate seed, and laughing with my gut spilling over my unbuttoned pants. To climbing into a bed I didn't have to make and sleeping as long as I want with no animals to feed or lunches to pack or appointments to keep to force me to rise.
We will all write. That's the main thing, right? You would think so, but I have to admit, a highlight for me is that we plan to dine well. Joan and Pamela promise salmon and steak on Friday night. Susan's husband is making venison lasagna to accompany one of Julie's famed salads and wonderful fresh bread. We've been promised killer pie, too, courtesy of Ms. Ishmael-Poulos herself, who claims she can't cook. Come Sunday Kim and I plan to deliver the kind of Asian feast my kids covet: all-you-can-eat pot stickers (and chicken and rice and veggies to make it seem somehow less gluttonous). Add to this slabs of cheese, pounds of crackers, piles of fresh fruit, pot after pot of good coffee, and whatever other goodies, alcoholic and otherwise, that we will tuck into our eastbound vehicles.
It's a treat, this retreat. Have I mentioned I can't wait?
For a variety of reasons, mostly familial, I've been whipped lately. This retreat is truly a retreat from life for me, a chance to withdraw from the daily tasks that scream for attention but will be unhearable in a rented house a hundred or so miles from home. Last year I looked ten years older and square that for how I felt by the time we pulled into Glen Rose. (NaNoWriMo had more than a little to do with that.) The time spent at the cabin went a long way toward a cure. This year I look a little better (we won't mention my hair), largely because I haven't run out of moisturizer like I managed to do in November 2009, but my edges are nearly as ragged. Bring on the countryside, the reams of fresh paper, and most of all, the luxury of time with no more commitment than half of dinner Sunday night.
The emails have been flying the past few days as we all anticipate this getaway. Some of them are warnings (Julie cautioned that no one better complain if they ask for four pancakes and she delivers three. It is my belief that Julie's life is gorgeous fodder for hilarious women's fiction.) Both Pamela and Joan hinted at possible grouchiness. I pre-authorized the good smackings I'm sure I'll earn, and Joan suggested we just get her deserved smacking over with now. At least Kim and Susan remained cheery, though Kim did threaten her inner Oscar might erupt if her allergies hit.
All this to say, I am really looking forward to throwing my ill-packed bag into the trunk come Friday, and that night sharing a few of the many fresh words I hope my manuscript will have gained by then. To sitting around the table later than my current exhaustion level would recommend, reaching for another chocolate pomegranate seed, and laughing with my gut spilling over my unbuttoned pants. To climbing into a bed I didn't have to make and sleeping as long as I want with no animals to feed or lunches to pack or appointments to keep to force me to rise.
We will all write. That's the main thing, right? You would think so, but I have to admit, a highlight for me is that we plan to dine well. Joan and Pamela promise salmon and steak on Friday night. Susan's husband is making venison lasagna to accompany one of Julie's famed salads and wonderful fresh bread. We've been promised killer pie, too, courtesy of Ms. Ishmael-Poulos herself, who claims she can't cook. Come Sunday Kim and I plan to deliver the kind of Asian feast my kids covet: all-you-can-eat pot stickers (and chicken and rice and veggies to make it seem somehow less gluttonous). Add to this slabs of cheese, pounds of crackers, piles of fresh fruit, pot after pot of good coffee, and whatever other goodies, alcoholic and otherwise, that we will tuck into our eastbound vehicles.
It's a treat, this retreat. Have I mentioned I can't wait?
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