Remembering Forgotten Pleasures

Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.

Where we are: We’re in North Carolina until Wednesday, when we’re leaving for Mexico City. I’m not gonna lie—I can’t wait. For a multitude of reasons.

Remembering Forgotten Pleasures

So, in the interests of over-sharing, because that’s my modus operandi, I had a cardiac ablation last week, a few hours after my email went out. I didn’t mention it, because I thought it would be a quick-and-easy no biggie. It mostly was, but it took longer than expected, then I had to spend the night in the hospital, and I’m still really tired. BUT—I’m hopeful that it worked, and I’ll be able to avoid unexpected ER visits around the world. Or at least reduce the frequency; the doctor said he’d fix my heart rhythm, but I don’t think he fixed my klutziness.

Now that the procedure is done, I’m running around like a chicken with its head cut off, trying to do All The Things. I’ve been to a whole slew of doctors; I’m writing this with one eye on the time, because I don’t want to be late for the rheumatologist. I need to pick up a pile of prescriptions this afternoon (and make a spreadsheet to ensure I have a year’s worth of everything), and hopefully a year’s worth of contact lenses will arrive today. Our time in the US is always dominated by counting and calculating and rushing around.

I keep trying to ground myself (mostly at 3 am, when the jet lag kicks in) in memories that make me feel less frantic, but sometimes it takes serious effort to calm my mind and really sit in that inner place of quiet. Then yesterday, looking for some essential document on my computer, I stumbled across an impression I jotted down back in May, when we were on the Greek island of Corfu. Reading it slowed me down just enough.

You may or may not need a moment of zen, but if you do, I’m happy to share mine. I hope it helps.

May, 2022

I realized yesterday that upheaval and fast travel and Covid and the relentless stream of bad news have mired me deep in my own head. I’ve been missing the contentment that comes from grounding in my senses.

Listening—really listening—to the morning chatter of the songbirds.

Sitting in the speckled shade of an olive tree, feeling the cool breath of the sea on my arms.

Breathing in the mingled fragrances of damp earth and wild rosemary baking in the sun.

Releasing the day in the complete darkness of a village at rest.

Midday, we sat on a stone terrace, waiting for the owner of the taverna to fire up her grill. She had only reopened for the season the day before, and things were moving slowly. For the first time in recent memory, I didn’t have to summon patience or flag down a waiter—she was just there, settling me into a chair that wobbled on the uneven floor. The smooth waters of the Ionian Sea lapped in shades of blue, from turquoise to marine, blurring into a cottony haze that had settled over the horizon, softening the mainland mountains in the distance.

Lunch took a long time, and that was just fine.

Take care,

Lisa

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