Why must vacations end? I've lived in my bathing suit for the past ten days, which is something I love doing. Do you think work would mind if I showed up in that and my flippy-floppies tomorrow morning?
Last night I returned from 9 days in Hawaii. Life could be worse. On the flight home, I was doing some journaling and shedding a few surprise tears, and I realized that I had cried on both the outbound trip last week and on the return flight. Last week it was because I'd put several Sex & the City episodes on my iPhone to pass the time and I'd included the episode where Carrie's computer crashes and Miranda's mother dies. My god, that's a good episode.
Last night my tears weren't as easy to trace back to a single source. It could have been my wonderful vacation coming to an end, or saying goodbye to my BFF, whom I truly love, or listening to Joni Mitchell and her heartbreaking honesty. Maybe it was the book I was finishing (I can't wait to tell you all about it), or it could have been the book I was starting; both deep, amazing stories that engulfed my soul.
It was probably a combination of all those and more, but the image I kept coming back to in my mind was of me and my surf instructor for the week, Ray, sitting on our boards, the top of my board resting on his, secured by his hands, my back to the horizon and Ray facing me, keeping watch, Diamond Head to my right, sun beating down, feet out of sight but keeping a slow rhythm of motion . . . simultaneously waiting for and experiencing perfection.
The vacation was great and so was the surfing. To be honest, so were the tears on the plane on the way home. I think sometimes you just have so much feeling happening that it squeezes out of your eyes.
More to come.