I am on vacation. Poor me. I just got a manicure and pedicure. Poor me. I think there should be more, and funner. I think I shouldn't have to do housework or cook or breathe in and out when on vacation. I should camp. In a perfect spot for many days in a row and write perfect prose. It would be dirty and hard. Not the prose, the camping. Or maybe the prose. And I'd complain about that. And I wouldn't write anyway. We know that.
I am going to try to stop complaining. I am truly a chronic malcontent. So, I'm going to shut down the voices in my head who are not satisfied with my life. I've done the best I can. I do the work I want for money, I married the man I wanted, moved to the town I wanted in the house I wanted and have everything I want and am still not happy. Contentment eludes me. I'd never make a Buddhist. I could never meditate, my knees would hurt and I'd complain, and the bitter monkeys who live in my head and give me constant shit would chatter all at once and I'd never get the job done. Relaxation.
You should see the view out my back window. It is different every day, every moment. But what do I see? Tomatoes I need to pick. Until the sun sets and it is nearly impossible to see anything else. Ahh.
I'm glad I took enough time off to see myself. It takes time and distance. I feel like I have that view of Half Dome from Glacier Point. A certain perspective that comes when I take the time to make the walk uphill. That's the vacation view. Spend enough time alone to get sick of yourself. That.