Three weeks off. It’s not as fun as it sounds. Ok, for you, it might be. But for me, it is like a flat tire: deflating, and something I don’t know how to fix.
Three weeks off isn’t a vacation. The threat of possible work dangles overhead, a Sword of Fickle Employment ala Damacles. In olden times (about 3 years ago), clients committed to their schedules 2 or 3 weeks in advance, at least. Some projects were locked in more than a month out. Now, I feel lucky if I get a cancellation call as early as the Wednesday before; usually I hear on Friday. Sure, I make some use of my time. Good use? That’s harder to do than it used to be. Uncertainty seems to diffuse my ability to focus and concentrate.
In this interlude after my parent’s death, I have to trust that the time off has been beneficial for its own sake, fecund beyond any obvious accomplishments or productivity. No important endeavors have moved forward. Trolling for new clients, starting new projects, not even the memorial book I want to create from the pictures I took at Mom’s – remain stalled in the doldrums.
I did, however, sit down in front of a breezy window and take this picture. I am really, really happy about it.