Pity me, a recent victim of our faltering economy. Read articles lamenting our nation’s near ten percent unemployment rate, and picture me hollow-eyed and weeping as a bitter winter storm rages outside the window. A waif I am, blown about by the blustery winds of discontent, struggling to find a handhold of meaning in my jobless life.
Or, envy me.
My position was eliminated during the apex of the holiday season, a Christmas present the likes of which I’d never before received. In the weeks since then, I’ve easily adapted to a slow-paced lifestyle that is completely removed from the Maelstrom that is the workaday world. My new daily rhythm is unhurried, my inner music joyful. There are no alarm clocks, no conference calls, no reports and no obligations around which I must plan my life. My tomorrows flow blissfully one into another and my calendar is unencumbered. Completely. Empty.
Finally, time is plentiful.
When they learn of my current jobfree status, people inevitably ask, “So, what do you DO all day?”
To which I answer, “A whole lotta nothing.”
And I mean it. I wake when my body feels rested. I read the entire morning newspaper. I shuffle around the house with a mug of coffee. I cook a hot breakfast. Everyday. I stoop to pet my hairy Labs, and then I take the time to roll on the carpet and wrestle with them. I bundle up, head outside and let February envelop me. I strap on cross country skis and meander through the hills, re-stamping my trails after overnight snow storms. I read books, watch Ellen on TV and experiment with new recipes. When I’m tired, I sprawl on the couch under an old patchwork quilt and take a nap. Maybe even a long nap.
It’s a sweet time, this interlude of solace. Here in my rural Montana valley, the winter skies shrouded with gray and my neighbors distant, I’m savoring the days. Like a long, slow exhale.