We used to think that staying at home means not resting. But is it not a prejudice that a person must go on vacation? Isn’t this a half-truth?
You may or may not leave. To stay home. Or at the old parental dacha among peonies, strawberries, tart ink honeysuckle. It used to feel like rushing with full suitcases to the Tyrrhenian seas, greedily swallowing flipper-sized steaks, or rubber octopus, or pear risotto. Or fish, powerlessly baked on a plate, which plied the seas and oceans in the morning. Travels. Worn to the callouses of the city, guidebooks worn to holes. Flaming knowledge about cathedrals, squares, a thorough insight into the differences between rhododendron and artichoke, Chianti and chateau, the first oil extraction from the virgin extraction.
The freshness of a new friendship – Michel, Carl, Hugh – greedy, full nostrils inhalation of someone else’s experience, then exile throughout the year – “but our friends from New York (Milan, Munich) told us …”. Filling, devouring the new beyond measure. How much we hysterically traveled? Ten years? Fifteen? Stop. You can’t go anywhere. And not because the crisis, the course, a little expensive, have already been. But because summer is the best time, the best time of the year here, at home, when the cold does not break the bones, and the thick November darkness and dampness are forgotten like a bad dream.
Read more:
- Why does time run faster during holidays?
The setting sun, blushing the surface of the lake, crucian carp in a bucket, a mosquito with a ruby belly. Summer at the old cottage revives childhood, it rises from the crypt, like a mummy in a movie about Indiana Jones. And famously it becomes in the soul, and pleasant, and a little, as in youth, sad.
But the main thing is not nostalgia, but the very feeling of this full-blooded right to stay, to grab summer time with a huge armful in order to do what is impossible otherwise: to think calmly. Cover yourself with paper books. Lay a tablecloth on the table, brew tea in a teapot, bake a braid with fresh berries. And let your thought out into the open, let it off the leash of the schedule, alarm clock, time management, squealing calendar on your phone and watch. It is necessary, the time has come to think about what the last turbulent time meant, was everything done right, was the fuss overhead, was the look blurry? Stay. After all, travel distracts, fills you with impressions, makes it easy, on the run, to flip through the days. But isn’t it just as important sometimes to put things in order inside, to calmly peer into your window, beyond which there is always a starting point?