The last few weeks have been a blur to me, a singular procession of stresses and activities, decisions and obligations, opportunities and compromises and weekend trips all rolled into one, life rushing by at twice the speed limit and with little time to do much more than hold on for the ride.
This weekend has been a welcome pause. Greg's parents are in town for a bit, and we drove up yesterday morning to meet them for a relaxing do-nothing couple of days in the country. We're in Vermont now, watching the rainclouds drift in and out of the valley below, an abundance of greens and greys and hazy blues in the distance. There's a slight chill in the air, a pleasant chill not at all unwelcome, and in the background I hear the gentle hum of early afternoon Sunday tv.
It's hard to believe that time goes by so quickly. Faster and faster and faster yet it seems, quicker even the older we get, and twice more perhaps so in the big city. Six weeks have gone by since I've written here, and I find myself at the cusp of an August thrust suddenly onto me. I should write more, I know, if not for anything but to document my life for myself. We all should. Because when we stop to breathe, when we pause and look back to take stock of ourselves, it's so easy to forget things not written down--even the simple, ordinariness of daily living--and it becomes altogether too easy for life to pass us by, too easy to forget the personal histories we're creating.
Like now.
I gaze off to the horizon and take a quiet sip of coffee and wonder to myself, "Where has my July gone?"
