In lieu of the standard apology that I have traditionally administered in the past after prolonged and unexpected blog absences I thought I’d take a different approach here. Dive right into the stream of consciousness that has been keeping me preoccupied and away from the computer. No redress or mea culpa, just this. Me. Away. From home and from this place. But I’m back now. And if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to talk about it.
Any parent knows that the word vacation is a misnomer. There’s no vacation from early rising toddlers or moody adolescent ‘tweens. I don’t know about your kids but mine need to be fed (at least) three times a day and even with the overwhelming success of my first vegetable garden—someone still needs to go grocery shopping (apparently cherry tomatoes and cucumbers aren’t enough to live on). Laundry doesn’t clean itself just because it’s vacation and toilet training tushies need wiping even in paradise. (Too much information?) It doesn’t matter where we are, someone needs to intervene when my children are bickering, and traveling or not, if someone is sick, I’m the designated nurse.
This isn’t a list of complaints, and I’m sure none of it is news to you. (It is, however, the reason that I’m in favor of leaving the kids with the in-laws or, in our crazy flavor of blended family madness, my ex-husband, and escaping real life for a weekend every now and again. But I digress.)
So we go on vacation and we don’t exactly take a break, but—and here’s the thing—we do it all in a different place.
In the past I’ve made no secret here that our lives are full of compromise. We don’t live in our perfect house or work at our dream jobs and times are tough. We’ve made choices and we’re making them work. Mostly. And it’s not always pretty. When we can, we go pretty places. Like this month. We went here:
I’ve been coming to this place or some place just like it since I was a child. Visiting with my own children carries with it equal elements of peace and longing. Hard as I try I still haven’t mastered the art of soaking enough of it in to be able to draw it back to the surface in the heavy darkness of a January afternoon. When I’m in it I spend rather a lot of time trying to come to terms with why we ever have to go home. The dichotomy between vacation and real life doesn’t make any sense when we’re standing on the beach at sunset.
How does vacation mean places that that inspire our senses and ignite our spent fires, and home means compromising on such things?
But it does. And we do.
I’m hoping this year when the inevitable weight of that January afternoon settles on my chest these photos* will bring me back. And if not? Well, there’s always next summer.
*Please note that if you aren’t interested in more photos of my lost month of August you may wish to avert your eyes for the next few posts since that’s mostly what I’ve got in store.
My camera broke three days before we left for vacation and I felt as if someone told me I couldn’t bring my arm with me.
I tried having the following argument with myself: maybe this means you’re (I speak to myself in the third person) supposed to step out from behind the lens and experience life instead of recording it.
It didn’t work. (Mainly because that argument is a crock.)
My camera does not cause me to separate from the events around me at all. The reality is just the opposite. My camera causes me to engage deeply in what I see. Tiny moments that may have otherwise gone unnoticed become forever etched in the colors of my memory and large overwhelming events are suddenly broken down into manageable pieces.
I walk through days of usual and ordinary and I see things that are anything but. Light becomes a commodity when you’re a photographer and it takes on shapes and forms that brighten even the darkest days.
So I tried another approach.
I dug out my old Canon and one prime lens and I shot entirely in manual the whole week. I wanted to see what would happen if I was limited by my equipment and returned to the basics.
And wouldn’t you know? I learned something.
I learned that it’s me who makes the pictures, not my camera. I am the artist and my camera is my tool. It’s my paintbrush or mound of clay.
So do I miss my Nikon? Hell yes. But does it matter?
Not at all.
Tradition among my husband’s friends includes July 4th week on a lake in the Great Northeast Kingdom of Vermont.
It started out sixteen summers ago with just two of them. The following summer there were four or five and it grew from there.
This summer there are upwards of twenty-six adults and twelve children ranging in age from just under two to almost thirteen.
We cook in groups and eat communally. We watch each others’ children and share bathrooms.
There are kayaks and canoes and lots of bikes. The porch-sitting is world class
and the tally of books read is somewhere over two dozen. There are chores and board games and no television.
Tonight there will be fireworks and grilling and probably some hyped up kids.
After they’re asleep there will be a fire and we’ll talk until one by one everyone heads up the stairs to bed.
And next summer, we’ll do it all again.
Yesterday I spent some time alone with my eldest in the morning
It’s becoming a Saturday tradition.
After (what seemed like) a very long stretch of time home with both boys, it was much needed.
While there are many things I love about the large age gap between them, it also proves logistically difficult at certain moments.
I found time for a short walk by myself with my camera.
And spent a cold afternoon visiting with my parents.
I haven’t lived there in over ten years but it still feels strange when I visit.
It’s exactly the same as when I left except that everything is different.
All this after days of cooking and visiting and company and entertaining and traveling.
Is it wrong of me to be relieved that school is back in session tomorrow morning?
We visit Martha’s Vineyard every summer because we are lucky enough to have family that puts us up and puts up with us, and because I love it there.
I start dreaming of the sea smell and the sticky air almost before I get home every August and I sometimes imagine the iridescent light in the depths of a dark New York winter to get me through until longer days return.
Everything glows on the island and even on a cloudy day the light radiates color.
This year did not disappoint.
But vacation is different with children.
Sure, we’re away and we’re together but the days of lounging on the beach with a book are a memory.
Please don’t misunderstand this to be a complaint. I’d trade running down the beach after a naked toddler or cooking yet another hot dog for a picky eater (don’t judge me, I know you’ve given your kids hot dogs too) for a good book and dinner out any day.
But it’s not the same.
After the planning and the packing and the driving and the unpacking and the settling in and the activities and the packing and the traveling and the driving (again) and the endless laundry and unpacking when we get home—I need another vacation.
Still, I can’t wait until next summer.
