Miles and I pulled out of Meadowlark Resort last night, just before seven. I had my old and well-loved "Surfacing" album from Sarah McLachlan providing a soundtrack to a sudden and unforeseen upsurge of melancholy. I wept my way through the first hour, tossed my cookies in a gas station bathroom near Wausau, and then practiced a little emotional stability. I know, I know...me and my glamorous life. I don't mean to make you all feel so uninteresting in your own lives, but ah! Such is the price of greatness!



I thoroughly enjoyed my morning routine there. The bed was slightly less than comfortable, so I wasn't good for sleep much beyond four. I'd pad out to the living room in my unitard and complete an hour of yoga before jumping in the shower. With the coffee brewing and my banana bread oatmeal bubbling in the microwave, I would open my laptop and just write. It was a quiet, reflective time that I cherished. I watched every sunrise over the lake and felt a keen connection to the life and breath of Mother Earth. Words seemed to flow from me ungoverned by daily complication, and I caught a glimpse of Heaven.

There is a genius to be found in the simple. There is a wisdom to be found when the thinking stops. After nine months of feeling unsure of where to call "home", I found it in myself   this week. I only wish my "hello" wasn't so blurry in the backdrop of "goodbye".

Miles has always taken issue with my storing of the baking stone in the cold oven...or the leftover cake in the microwave. I think it creative, and not a little efficient, myself. Where else would a baking stone fit in a sea of right angled bake-ware, after all? And cake...where else are you going to put it? On the cupboard where it will attract an insect audience? In the refrigerator where it will dry out? Or, in the out-of-the-way airtight microwave where it will stay moist and insect free? Besides, we rarely used the microwave.

He berated me from the get-go for these practices. In our very first home together, aside from the bizarre need of mine to scrub the kitchen clean every night, I had to go and store things in the microwave and the oven...what other atrocities would I inflict upon his home life!? In short?—many, but we'll save those nuances for another post.

I was firm on this subject, though. While his mind saw no logic in using the oven, the oven when not in use mind you, as a storage facility, mine saw nothing but. Being that I was in charge of the domesticity of our life, he's managed to live with his discontent for years.

In these years, I've learned that Miles can pick up a programming language just from reading a book. He can supply a fully functional finished product without the slightest inclination of how to start. His intelligence is well noted, even mind boggling. However, his common sense could use a primer...for it is in these years that Miles has never thought to remove the baking stone from the oven before preheating. Never. Not once. His argument begins anew.

And he is frustrated here in Wisconsin, here near my family, because he now sees how it is that I picked up this habit. In my aunts' kitchen, he desires the reheating of his forgotten coffee in the morning, but must set his mug down to pull the cookies or pie from the microwave first. In my mother's kitchen, he sees me lift the stack of cast iron skillets from the top rack before I insert my casserole to heat. He believes it to be madness...he is outnumbered. He is ignored.

I'll never change, being common sensical enough to realize that the day I take organizational advice from the messiest man alive is the day I need to find myself a comfy insane asylum to live out the rest of my days. What he probably doesn't realize, is that his children will grow up thinking that microwaves and ovens are everywhere-accepted as storage facilities in their spare time. He will always be outnumbered and he will never bend. It will be a very long marriage for my very stubborn husband.

I think Miles and I are the last of our party to hit the road, so we should manage to be fashionably late, as always. This vacation means to much to us...this time we have with my mother. This is time we weren't supposed to have. I appreciate the opportunity.

Also though, I appreciate the sacrifice that my husband is making, being separated from the digital world that needs so much of his attention...and yet he is doing this for me and for my family. He is a very selfless man.

So the toothbrushes are packed, always a significant sign of departure in the Phillips residence, and the gas tank is full. I think it's time for a journey Northward, don't you?

The Grasshopper is my in-town coffeeshop...so it's basically one of the seven wonders of my world. As luck would have it, it is situated next door to my gym, a fellow "wonder", and nothing rounds out a workout better than one of those huge, big-as-your-head muffins and a large cappuccino. Deliciously naughty.

I've been a good girl as of late, and have stopped only to buy a bottle of water for my walk home. They have an in-house brand of water, and though I like everything about the place—the coffee-licious aromas, the butternut squash-colored walls, the free Wi-Fi, and that huge flat panel TV in the corner—I just can't bring myself to drink something called, "Grasshopper Water".

I've never known a grasshopper to produce any sort of liquid that I see fit to drink, in my defense.