Thanksgiving

The elm tree stands naked and bare in the backyard. Saturday it was full of big yellow leaves, a radiant splash of color next to the green pines. Yesterday's strong winds have stripped it of glory. All so quickly gone.

It's Thanksgiving weekend. The Lost Boys have been off on their annual weekend away, and I have had a blissful, creative weekend of solitude and silence. Large, expansive silence soon to be broken by the return of my fine young sons who will fill this space with TV, music, arguments, and the ringing of the phone for the Social One. Their presence will fill each room.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh used to go away for a week at a time and seek solitude in a cottage by the sea. She sung the praises of solitude and the need for the creative soul to be alone for a time in her book, "A Gift From the Sea".

I have no cottage to escape too. Instead I count the days each year until October, and the opening of the hunt. Then, my house becomes my place of retreat and their weekend away my gift of solitude. I soak it in and save it up until the next time I am gifted a weekend.

The leaves on the elm are gone, my weekend of rest soon to be over. I savor the next few hours, wanting to return slowly to the busyness of life. * o

Thanksgiving