Overcast skies lost their battle to fight back their tears. They lacked the roiling determination of blacker clouds, so they did not succumb to hiccoughing sobs over what should have been a sunny, almost-summer day. Rather they simply allowed droplets to ooze steadily from their dreary gray, then roll through the leaves of gently swaying trees, skid over roofing shingles, and drop softly to the ground.
The soaked vegetation was a fitting tribute to my dampened plans. I stared into unending dreariness from my front porch chair, armed against the unseasonal chill with steaming coffee and cozy blanket. I needed time to absorb the pain of turning in a ‘no’ RSVP for an event I desperately wanted to attend and cancelling a hotel reservation made six months ago.
This was just the latest in voided travel plans. 2020 has been a year upended for me, a woman who would rather travel than eat—although if you travel, you know the absence of food is rarely an issue. From March through August, I had planned to visit four states and seven European countries. Holidays, birthdays, funerals, a retirement ceremony, excursions, and vacations all washed away by a global pandemic.
From my perch on the porch, I looked down on robins frolicking in tiny puddles and snacking on worms pulled effortlessly from sodden ground. I scowled only slightly at the woodpecker tapping a steady rhythm on a pine. “Nice to finally meet you,” I thought, putting sight to the sound heard so frequently from inside my doors. I enjoyed the irony of our reversed positions—these birds beneath my gaze usually perched on branches and looked down at me.
Breathing deeply of the rain-washed air, I was suddenly overwhelmed by the distantly remembered fragrance of wet pine trees and musty soil, a smell that took me back to years of camping in the Smoky Mountains. Instantly I was transported to another place and time, and the deep relaxation that comes from hours and days in a pine-filled woods.
Memories of crawling from a tent in the dew of early morning washed over me with the soft insistence of a soggy day. I thought of the tender bodies still curled into sleeping bags, not yet ready to face another day of dad-planned hikes. My fingers felt the warmth of the pink Melamine mug full of coffee brewed on a Coleman stove and handed to me by my ‘rise-to-meet-the-dawn’ husband and his tow-headed side-kick who awoke early on camping trips to have daddy all to himself. Often we pitched our tent by a stream, nestled under trees and so sheltered from the sun that even during the hottest days, the smell of pine and moldy dampness lingered—not unpleasantly.
Now, from the comfort of my urban porch, I once again savored the rich smells of a rain-soaked woods. I looked more closely at the intricacies of a thousand shades of green. I watched a rabbit hop slowly into the bushes while squirrels played tag in the trees. I heard the subtle rustlings of small creatures through tall grass. My heart picked up the beat to nature’s rhythm.
I discovered I wouldn’t really need travel itineraries, airline tickets, hotel reservations, or road maps this year. Vacation came to me.
