I’m writing this from my backyard. I’m laying on a well-cushioned wicker bench under the giant canopy of our gazebo. On the table beside me are 4 of the 12 magazines from the pile that I’ve promised to read “one day” and the dog-eared last chapter of Tina Fey’s “Bossypants.”
It’s an ambitious plan and, truth be told, later when I find myself returning them unread to the basket I really won’t be too fussed.
Just getting out into the backyard broke my world record.
It's simple but it's pretty and it's mine.
This backyard was designed as part of a story I wrote years ago and I love it. It took what was once just another suburban plot and gave it personality. We have had birthday parties, neighbourhood gatherings and backyard barbecues here and it never fails to impress and deliver. On rare occasions I’ve come back here on my own, but never for long. I’ve taken for granted that I would always have the luxury of doing so. But today, as I puttered around inside – packing this, cleaning that – I caught a glimpse of the space from an upstairs window and it hit me:I won’t have the chance to enjoy it when we leave. This nirvana in my own backyard -where I can hear the kids giggling nearby and Ish on the phone with a pal; where I can yell at my neighbours through the fence and take them up on a sample from their grills; where we are so insanely comfortable because it’s home and it’s ours – will be only a memory.
I’m not complaining. This trip is our choice and I wouldn’t trade it but in all of our excitement for the time that lies ahead I was pleasantly surprised to find how much pleasure I’m finding in the threat of losing the now.
So I’ve been hanging out here today making sure the memory is from the viewpoint of living in it not admiring it from afar.
And it’s a memory I intend to reinforce every chance I get until we go.
Can you relate?
