I had thought I would write and write and write and I haven't. I have, instead, spent all the time in the world sitting in the sun reading, staring at the sky, the birds, the driveway's border of Norway spruces with their new growth . . . green soft toes all over their trunks and limbs. I have regularly refreshed the oranges on the birch trees for the orioles.
Occasionally I remember to have the camera with me.
On Tuesday morning I took off my watch and put it in a brass candy dish near the kitchen sink. I have thought about replacing it on my wrist, but haven't.
This morning Husband said something about the weather . . . wondering if it would be good weather for lawnmowing when he gets home tonight.
"Tomorrow is supposed to be a great day," I said. "Sunday too."
I have lost all track of time; what a relief.
Four days off to recuperate, two more (weekend days, they don't count for as much) to go, before the Monday morning descent from the hill across the valley to work.
If I had no job, no place I needed to be at any given time, would I develop a routine?
Would it seem desirable to do so?