Weekends

I decided to take a break this weekend. I'm not self-absorbed enough to believe my break caused any sort of turmoil; nevertheless, the rule-follower in me felt an urging to explain.

I wrote for 34 days straight and it felt marvelous. Even in my mucus-ridden state, I enjoyed tantalizing walks through my thoughts, tapping away on keys, looking forward to whatever managed to materialize. Now that I'm on a roll, now that I know I can do it, I've decided to cut myself some slack--some weekend slack.

One of my best friends got engaged this weekend, and I wanted to drive up to Cleveland and celebrate with her. I wanted to hug her and laugh with her; I wanted to look at her pictures and watch stories tumble from her lips--I didn't want to relegate such a vital moment to computer slideshows and cell phone chitchat.

I stared at my computer before I left, knowing full well my day of errands led me right up to the final moment before I had to grab my purse and my keys and position myself behind the wheel of a car which would not return in time to pen an entry prior to midnight. When I crossed the threshold yesterday at 4:30 p.m., I knew I would miss day thirty-five, and by missing day thirty-five, my longest writing streak would come to an end. I paid my respects to the process, then I spun on my heels and headed straight out the door.

People are more important than patterns. As much as writing satisfies me--and as much as neglecting that writing hurts me--I don't need to do it every day for me to feel fulfilled. I knew I would return to the keyboard the following day. I knew there were many more posts left to write. I knew the people who enjoy reading my words would come back again once new words appeared, and I knew the ones who value the way I think will appreciate why I made the right decision.

And even if they don't, when I wrapped my arms around my friend, I was so glad I took the weekend off.