Being, Living
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Weekender

I dream often of having a weekend life, where at least once a week I can look out of my window and see birds not bums, and pools of water instead of pools of – well… it IS downtown San Francisco if you know where I am going with that.

Last weekend we had a rejuvenating little trip to Big Sur.  Living in the city begs for weekend road trips to the coast, the woods, wine country, what have you.  How happy these excursions into nature make me.  Though I spent a lot of time playing in the woods and outdoors as a kid back east, I wouldn’t call myself a nature girl.   I imagine that would involve a willingness to sleep in a bag instead of an air mattress or foraging in the wilderness in place of keeping the campsite lock box full of groceries from Whole Foods.  A nature girl only cares where the sun is so she can tell time or navigate during a day long hike, versus a girl like me who avoids extended sun exposure because of hyper pigmentation.

I do aspire to be a “Weekender,” a person for whom The Weekender, Kinfolk and Darling magazine pages hold the map to a future of Saturday morning porch sitting, early evening twig throwing, and ceramic glazing on Sunday mornings.  Demolishing breakfasts of freshly laid eggs and newly jarred jams spread over warm pieces of (gluten free) bread pulled out of a cast iron skillet (where it baked in a stone hearth of course) are what dreams are made of.

My bucolic weekend life seems just beyond my finger tips.  I can see it.  Can you see yours?

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