My husband kicked me out last night, and rightfully so. I was suffocating in the stress of a month of surgery recovery followed by a virus which blew through the house, and I'd spent a string of days with no time to blow off steam. I was mopey and snappy, and my husband lovingly and persistently suggested I go for a walk.
Thank God my husband loves me that much. A walk is just what I needed. Away from the phone, away from my beloved little darlings, away from dinner dishes which were giving me the evil eye, I was finally free of I shoulds and Would yous.
This was the first decent walk I've had in a month. First some tendons in my legs awoke. Then I began swinging my arms as my shoulders unclenched. Yet I still had to fight the urge to stare at the ground, in a cocoon of solitude.
Eventually I remembered that we're on the brink of my peeping tom season. Passing one house, I thought that if I sat down on the sidewalk in front I could watch the entire baseball game on the living room TV. I love to walk by houses and see the glow of lamplight shining through the windows. This is the beginning of the season of Home.
I had to get away from my home for a little while to be able to appreciate my love for home.
I walked for a decent half hour along a busy street and still felt restless, so I walked through a little wooded place to the beach. Heaven above, it was beautiful. The water was deeply blue, the waves alive and moving, but not quite crashing. The setting sun held off the darkness with fiery orange and yellow, and the breeze was gentle and cool. I sat on a swing and immersed myself in the soothing, life-giving presence of the lake.
And when I finally walked home, I helped put our youngest to bed, hugged our older two, and thanked my husband for kicking me out so that I could be restored and come back home.