Dear Crew,
Today I was lying in the sun by the Isar, looking up at the sky. Two clouds were drifting toward each other. The wind slowly pushed them together until they merged for a moment.
I just lay there and enjoyed the moment. And maybe that was exactly what made it so special. I had time to watch the clouds.
Usually, when I think of vacation, I think of going somewhere else. I think of a plane ticket, a suitcase, a hotel, an itinerary. I think of days when everyday life is far enough away that I can finally experience that feeling: freedom.
We’ve been in Finland and Estonia over the past few days. I’d imagined I’d be able to relax there. Instead, it was chilly and intense. It felt less like a vacation and more like a fresh start.
And then we got home.
Suddenly, it was 25 degrees in Munich. The Isar glistened. My spices were in my kitchen. My clothes were in the closet. My art supplies, my craft supplies, my yoga mat, my musical instruments.
And suddenly I thought: Maybe my vacation is starting now.
Because suddenly there's space again.
Space to sit on any bench and listen to Brazilian music. Space to suddenly get up and hop on my bike, dancing as I go, because my body just feels like it. Space to philosophize with the butcher about how to prepare chicken drumsticks. Space to strike up a conversation with a woman at the checkout about my homemade leaf instrument and learn that it reminds her of the rice rattles she used to make as a child.
Even time to flip through catalogs from clothing companies that I usually throw away without even looking at them. Just like that.
Maybe a vacation isn't primarily about a place. Maybe a vacation is simply the presence of unplanned time.
A time when we don't yet know exactly what will happen next. And suddenly, the world becomes interesting again, because we're once more aware of what's happening around us.
A conversation begins. Music changes the movements. One cloud meets another. An impulse arises, and there is enough space to follow it.
Interestingly enough, my internet starts working again right at that moment. Work, meetings, and events. I can take my time deciding. This works. That doesn't. Totally relaxed. No pressure.
Perhaps that, too, is abundance. Having enough to be able to choose.
I've decided to keep working on my projects. But not five at the same time anymore. One a day. That's enough.
The rest of the day isn't automatically devoted to the next project. Maybe it belongs to the Isar. Maybe to my bike. Maybe to my paints. Maybe to my loved one. Maybe to no one.
I don't know yet. And that's exactly what a vacation feels like.
Summer isn't as blinding as it was a few weeks ago. It's no longer as hot, loud, or demanding. It has matured. Warm. Full. Heartfelt. Patient.
Maybe that's exactly why I like him so much—because I've become a bit like that myself.
Maybe this is the kind of abundance I've been searching for all along: not cramming more and more into it, but leaving enough space inside so I can see what's already there.
With love and room for la dolce for niente,
Jeannette