Took a few days off (well, mostly: the gyrations in the markets I cover for work meant I was about as connected as not), hit up two bookstores, bought some new glasses, met up with some old friends, had several excellent dinners. A successful vacation, however brief.
How long is long enough for something to feel meaningful? How much is enough for something to be fulfilling? Can you ever really know?
I think you can know, but only in the moment. In advance, mere speculation. In retrospect, narrative creation.
There is so much to learn from being present.
There are so many ways to be absent. Sometimes loud, sometimes silent.
We all know specialists in absence. We all have our own feats of absenteeism.
May we learn how to show up, still.
A man called Dad walks by
then another one does. Dad, you say
and he turns, forever turning, forever
being called. Dad, he turns, and looks
at you, bewildered, his face a moving
wreck of skin, a gravity-bound question
mark, a fruit ripped in two, an animal
that can't escape the field.
— In the Airport by Eleni Sikelianos