White moths are performing intricate, jagged little dances in the garden sunlight. Soon their cousins, the pale green lunas, will begin making their nocturnal appearances on the house windows, of dimensions usually reserved for late night sci-fi flicks. There are chipmunks darting around me—mouths stuffed to comic proportions—while I sit outside, losing myself in a stack of good books. The rumbling of an approaching thunderstorm can be heard drifting across the tops of the evergreens.
In short, I’m on vacation. For the next two weeks I’ll be thinking about work only in the most fleeting and tangential of senses. No schedules. No itineraries. Just scratching whatever itches me.
Let the total lazy self-indulgence begin.