The choice I made. To do what I did. And not to feel bad about it afterward.

A weekend. The Two Days of Me. Forty-eight hours to touch the personal universe, Forty-eight hours of no one’s voice in my ears but my own. A joy. A delight. A boon.

The weekends usually look like this: intense wall-staring and decompression on Friday night. Or, every couple of weeks, the happy ascending into a fine chef’s culinary imagination: dinner out. Saturday: gym, housecleaning and the exercise of amateur chefdom (in other words, I cook.) On Sunday, repeat Saturday.

Not this weekend.

This past Friday, gallery visits. A conversation with a favorite artist. A painting purchased. And an omakase dinner across the counter from my favorite sushi master.

Saturday, a conscious decision for Not. No exercise. Not a foot set outside the apartment, except to toss trash into the chute. Nothing but a calming session of cleaning, dusting and polishing, the gesso for the canvas of my head. Sheers were drawn between me and the day. Lemon candle was lit. Chai latte steamed on the table at my knee. And in the cool light, I gave myself to me.

And I made the decision to do the same thing on Sunday.

Will my health suffer, doing the Emily Dickinson thing all weekend? Probably not. What I do know…my spirit soars and swoops in the clear air of this cleansing gift. I found myself smiling at the prospect of another day at the page, the way I used to during the long drive to the house after a hard week of Commerce.

Me and words. A decision for not. Or maybe just a decision for Yes.

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