Reflections on a Vocational Happenstance
All of a sudden Spring is here. Just like that.
And just like that, Winter gone away.
A switch is thrown and the clock moves faster. So much to do; so few days. Yes, the busy birds nesting in drain spouts are delightful, but their cheerful banter is muted by the tick-tock, tick-tock in my head.
May 1st I will move from Brooklyn to Delaware County, exchanging apartment life for cottage life. Leaving behind all that I love in the city I will open my arms to all that I love in the country.
Then on November 1st I will return, and Autumn with me.
This migration pattern has become familiar. Goodbyes are less painful; recurring hellos more easily believed in. But still the process is difficult. Letting go while holding on does not come naturally.
Planning ahead helps lessen my uneasiness. For example, I am registered to volunteer at the New York City Marathon on November 6th. That note on the calendar promises my return. But it also contributes to the tick-tock, tick-tock. Each day between now and then is a pearl on a strand. Perfect in its roundness, too precious to waste.
Before leaving here, am I maximizing every opportunity?
Once arrived there, will I accomplish all that I want?
My calendar for the upstate months already contains many notes. Like the November 6th commitment, they are buoys I can spot up ahead. They help me steer while crossing open waters.
I have been invited to participate in The Jefferson Historical Society's Textile Day on June 4th. Knowing the date of that event tells me that the Hobart Farmer's Market will begin on June 3rd, the first Friday of the season. I will need to have new merchandise ready by then (7 weeks from today!) and the new DIY shop in the Hobart Book Village has asked if I might sell my work there or teach a class.
My garden calls out loud. I can hear it from Brooklyn. Perennial flower beds want cleaning, plants need dividing. A fence needs replacing and trees need trimming.
My husband and I will travel for 3 weeks in August -- a wonderful trip! -- and then, do you see? It will be September. Time for the West Kortright Centre Faire followed closely by the Hobart Book Village Festival of Women Writers on September 9-11.
Meanwhile I have words to write, meals to cook, guitar lessons to practice, books to read, guests to welcome, mountains to hike, albums to play, constellations to identify, and family to nurture.
And then there are the hours.
The hours spent in communion with birds.
The hours when I belong to the sky, which is never still.
Those are the hours,
the hours when I am home.