We drove about 450 miles to go to a friend's 60th birthday party, then headed south into the AR, MO foothills down to a creek bed, where the hubby loves to fly fish for trout. My Mom calls it stopping to smell the roses. Anytime our lives got really hectic and I'd share with her the details of our woes, she'd ask when was the last time we stopped to smell them. I'd laugh her off, like she was from another planet and wonder when we'd ever have that kind of time.
Now, I understand. Wish I had known how vivid the wildflowers can be early in the morning, but I was always rushing the same hour that the world was - pushing each other in our muffler exhaust and pulling each other with our vehicle's draft - hoping no one is distracted causing the phantom stops and false starts - passing the same 2 or 3 vehicles after they just passed me in the other lane, never looking, only smelling the morning's accumulation of pollution. 32 years of working, rushing, eking out a paycheck, oozing predictable responses and stifling creativity.
So - I took my knitting to the mountains. I took my Masters Hand-Knitting course. I knit, I tore it out, I knit it again, I walked to check on my fly-fishing hubby, I sat on the balcony, stared at wildflowers, listened to birds, watched baby grasshoppers, and was stared down by a house cat.
He caught trout. We brought them home, I stuffed them with a crab stuffing, baked them and we ate like kings. Happy Anniversary to us. (43 years)