Monday, June 9, 2014
For example: My husband was to have been in Seville all weekend long to celebrate his mother's birthday, and I was to be writing my novel. A snafu with a still-very-valid passport (!) and a US Airways approved boarding pass sent my husband home. My quiet days became:
* a lovely Wednesday evening dinner with my father and my suitcase-still-in-hand husband
* many trips to the Wayne Art Center, where my husband's work was showing and where new work was delivered from the kiln
* a trip to the Bryn Mawr Film Institute to see the fabulous "Belle"
* a casual conversation with a neighbor that turned into a shared starry-sky meal
* a Sunday outing with our friend, Julie, who came to Wayne to see my husband's clay, then deigned to walk and sit with us
* a Sunday dinner with my father—just three of us in a farmhouse restaurant enjoying a hard-earned peace
Did I write all those planned pages of the novel? No. Not exactly. Did I live? Oh, yes. I did.
I'm pretty sure that, in this life, living comes first.