I am becalmed. Three years ago I truncated what had become at times a punishing professional occupation, a relentless agitation with no foreseeable abatement. Then in a sudden mixture of foresight, decision and serendipity it came to an unprecedented halt. I quit working and sold everything. I was at last set adrift!
The day began with more than its usual industry. For one thing we were out of the door by 8:40 am and seated in the car headed for breakfast at a nearby favourite diner. We hadn’t even paused after the morning ablutions for a coffee or fruit.
Uncommonly I wasted in bed buried below the feather duvet until almost eleven o’clock this morning. It had rained during most of the night, hard at times, and I could see through the diaphanous draperies that the skies were still murky and grey. The grippe had thoroughly undermined my vitality. I willing succumbed to prolonged rest. I needed it. Besides it is a luxury to stay in bed as long as one wishes and to get up when one has the urge. It’s an advantage afforded a singular set of people, people without children, people of means, the elderly, idle people generally, people without an agenda, people not agitated by conscience, people who have a broad enough view of the world not to feel constantly imperative.
Though it hardly qualifies as reckless indulgence, this morning we breakfasted out. Such sybaritism! As usual we went to Low Country Produce & Café where we cavorted with three of the regular staff, one of whom (a sister of one of the co-owners) had been absent for about the past six weeks (which I know for a fact since it has been at least that long since she referred me to her hair stylist nearby and I have been there twice already).
As gung-ho as one may be to see the world and to witness all that there is upon the broad face of this intriguing planet, in the end we see it through a porthole.
Like an old dog I am comfortable with old habits, among them getting back to business. Thirteen years of school, eight years of university and forty years of working didn’t exactly prepare me for a life of indolence. I prefer putting things in order, taking care of what needs to be done. It’s time to put away the empty-headed holiday mindset for another year. Frankly it is a bromide for the hysteria of Christmas and the New Year. Though we can hardly be said to have drowned in the seasonal ambitions, the contamination howsoever slight is impossible to avoid. Re-engaging with the routine and comparatively tedious mechanics of life has both a practical and stabilizing effect. Instead of dreamily planning social engagements, dinner parties, family rendezvous, gifts, decorations or what to wear, the substantive agenda of groceries, diet, exercise, personal and property maintenance and generally putting one’s affairs in order can at last be reclaimed. Even if it is nothing more than a purgatory it is a necessary and welcome transition, a dusting-off.
About a week ago we arranged with our friends here to convene for breakfast at Low Country Produce & Café at 9:00 o’clock this morning. The reason I am fairly certain about when the plan was made is that unusually the gathering was proposed and confirmed almost immediately on the heels of our having had dinner together. Not only is one’s appetite for breakfast normally diminished – if not in fact dissuaded – by dinner but also most social commitments customarily have far more breathing space. In this instance however – being seasonal interlopers on Hilton Head Island – our time together is limited and neither we nor our friends have any local competition for similar get-togethers. More important I suppose is that we enjoy one another’s company, a fact which trumps the sometimes diaphanous feature of blunt society. We have what I call a pleasantly languid alliance which contributes to a laid-back idiom.
Perhaps prophetically I am staring at the soothing late afternoon sunset overlooking Calibogue Cay on the first day of January, 2017. Though there are clouds and slender grey streaks, the predominance is a soft orange light evaporating into the blue and pink ether. The alluring sunset has transfixed silhouettes of people along the sandy white shore. They stare into the mauve distance. A restfulness has descended as the year 2017 approaches the conclusion of its first day.
It is a common mockery of older people that they lose track of the day of the week. Understandably when one no longer has a schedule to conform to nor an agenda to observe, the confusion is rife. There is however one barometer by which I can be assured to judge my present circumstances – my inclination to write. There is almost nothing other than physical impossibility which impedes my yearning to write. When however that impulse lapses – as it recently has – it is equally certain that I am ill.
Five years ago we met the Andersons on the beach near Coligny Park. The very plausible causal connection was their French bulldog Max who was reminiscent of our former Frenchie named Monroe. As chance would have it the Andersons hail from Ottawa. The serendipity of our meeting was repeated the subsequent year when we encountered the Andersons once again walking their little dog on the paths in Sea Pines. In the third year of our acquaintance they invited us to join them for Christmas Day dinner on Hilton Head Island.