I'm home from my trip and doing my best to get ahead on work and household issues before everything goes to heck in a biohazardous waste container starting . . . oh well, better blog it like it is . . . starting last year right about this time.
The trip had its moments, both lovely and atrocious. And although I would balk at calling it a "vacation," it was clearly good for DH and me to just exist elsewhere for a bit. Bonding and a reversion to a more effortless connection ensued.
One morning last week I woke up extra early. We'd just spent our first night in my parents' home, and I wanted to see the sunrise on the lake. I crept out to the family room and was blown away by the beauty of the mist on the water. I (quietly) gathered up my eyeglasses, slippers, and camera, and I curled up on a patio chair — outside in 40-degree weather, wearing thin pajamas — to capture the scene.
I was ready to go inside about 30 minutes before snapping this dock photo, but I'd locked myself out. I didn't much mind. I was happy to stay outside for a while and enjoy some quiet moments alone with the lake. It never fails to restore me.
At first glance of this image, my immediate thought was "bridge to nowhere." (Hmm, wonder why that term was in my head.) The next startled thought I had was "Oh, is that what I think about IVF for us? Maybe. Kinda. Yes. But look at the pretty bridge."
Then I recalled writing about the lake and the feeling of "twilight" a few months back. My reaction to this image of dawn struck me as apropos to everything: The bridge shows a bit of age . . . but it still looks beautiful, even hopeful, bathed in first light.
All at once it appears to be sturdy and delicate. Weary and open. Wise and clueless. Resolute and peaceful.