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Sunday, March 10, 2013

It Was One of Those Weekends

That felt like an ice jam of goodness and joy.  Where connections and moments, laughter and meaning, good food and profundity piled and crashed upon each other, breaking and swelling, glimmery and hopeful.  It was one of those weekends that was so full of moments (sometimes hours, sometimes nearly entire days) of near perfection that all the empty reserves within me filled and overfilled, allowing me to tentatively give audience to bigger dreams, to hear broader melodies, and to goad my feet to step with renewed energy into the Mondays that would surely follow.

Much too rich to be considered an appetizer, I spent Friday evening at a dinner party for four.  Hours spent over food and wine, baptized in the wisdom and careful, deep, meditative thought of these women, I studied their grace. While embracing their beliefs with passion, they found no need to hate those who disagreed with them.  They moved in love and not fear.  Redemption, not reaction, and yet in all of that, I heard a resolute willingness to take a stand against popular opinion, even counting personal cost.

This was not a dinner party of gossip and frivolity, wearing one another down in comparisons and insecurities.  This was a meeting of intellect and heart, of story telling, memory sharing, and inspiration.  There was a deep thread of redemption running through it- a surprise vein of secret glee that I felt in finding women that I'd never dreamed of knowing, admiring, loving and being loved by.

Saturday morning was too precious to waste by sleeping in. The spring sun was warming the deck, licking at the snow up on the roof, dripping into long prairie stalactites.  The house would fill with children again, but not for me this time.  They would be looked after by my son and daughter, and I seized the opportunity to exit into that wet, transformative spring.

My Saturday treasure hunting friend and I hit the road for a conversation filled thrifting extravaganza.  (note for all you party poopers who have been leaving tracts all around my house about the dangers of buying too much old crap:  go away.  Don't bother me no more.  Go start your own club)

We went.  We visited.  We explored, poked around, discovered, hunted.  A marvelous time was had by all.  I'm not even going to show you my unbelievably marvelous treasure because some of you whowillremainanonymous have overlooked the fact that I live in a "Pinterest house"  (thank you my most favourite niece Elisabeth, to whom all my teal and turquoise is forever more bequeathed in the unfortunate event of my death) and have declared me a hoarder.  Horrible people, you.

I barely took the time to deposit my new old quilt, cowboy boots, and chrome table before heading back out that door.  In the hours of my absence the house had taken on the sickly palour of a mother-gone-away and I wasn't about to squander my one wild and precious weekend sopping up after the slobs.  Let them stew in it, I had more friends to capture and tame!  Off to the city to meet with some of my most favourite older days people- the very ones who helped me to survive those exhausting, demanding years of little people who never left before suppertime, and continued to hammer away at me well past dark for years on end.  These friends had survived with me on black coffee and day old bread when there was always way more month than money.  Back in the day when the big wild expenditure was to run down the flights of stairs to the bowling alley we lived above to blow a dollar on the Coke machine.

We feasted on burritos and laughed the hours away.  I stayed much later than I'd intended, and regretted not a moment.  Two of the three babies were with us, now young, beautiful, charming adults themselves.  They listened to our stories of survival and reminisced about all the hours spent playing dress-up in each others houses.

Driving home in the night, I dwelled on the good fortune of dear friends.

The night was shorter, with the loss of an hour of sleep and my alarm set for earlier than my body wanted.  But there was much to do.  The house needed a major intervention, the chicken needed to roast, some coleslaw mixed, potatoes to mash.  Seating for 14 to invent, dishes to choose, floors to clean, coffee to brew.  I had invited my family over for an old fashioned Sunday family lunch.  And they came-  my mama and my dad, my big brother and his people, two sisters, and another brother.  We filled the room with food and communing.  The coffee was strong, and my dad's stories familiar.

It's Sunday evening now, and my weekend has drawn to a close.  It was full and rich.  Monday is okay, with it sippy cups and probable tedium.  There will be so many leftovers for me to savour in my mind- to turn over and study again, to take out and admire, to hold in my hand and dare to dream of possibility.

Because it really was one of those marvelous weekends.


Karla said...

I can smell that chicken roasting and hear the laughter around your table. You were served a feast this weekend in more ways than one, weren't you? You also served up a feast, and that is rich too, my Joycie. There is hope where conversation and listening are part of the equation. xo

janice said...

I LOVE your description of your weekend. So happy for you, and for me to be able to enjoy it vicariously through your eloquent words.

wendz said...

I wish I'd been there for even a little bit of that magical weekend. It sounds heavenly...magical.

Judy said...

Some people say the word "hoarder" like it's a bad thing.