The Ides of March is one of the only days I remember to write. For four years it's been a melancholy anniversary for me, but finally this year I think I've come to terms with it. What has happened in the year since my last post? Well, lots of ups and downs—as usual, and as typical of everyone I expect.
In the fall, I participated in a (not quite complete) month of intensive yoga challenge. Maintaining that kind of momentum is hard, but it's also not particularly appealing to me. I like my downtime, and spending up to 3 hours at the studio every day doesn't allow for much.
I didn't take much time off work during 2014. The weekend before Canada Day, my parents drove out to visit me, bringing the granite endtable that my dad built. Dad's tables are gorgeous works of art. I tagged along on their drive back east, which took two full days. It was a wonderful road trip through the Okanagan during cherry season, and I spent Canada Day weekend on the farm before flying back home.
In the fall, I took another brief trip for my cousin's wedding in Banff. It was a whirlwind trip, as I didn't take time off other than my regular flex day. My own family wasn't able to attend, so I wasn't overly eager to spend much time in Banff by myself, especially since the altitude difference added a migraine through the whole weekend.
Christmas in Saskatchewan was cold, malingering somewhere between -20°C and -30°C during my whole trip. Indoors was cozy, but I've never been much interested in being outdoors in the winter. This suits me just fine, and I'm content to while away the days indoors; but I always get the impression that this is unacceptable in my family, so it's tinged with guilt as well.
Christmas always leaves me with an unidentifiable feeling—kind of like wistfulness, and kind of like melancholy. My flight back west chased the sunset on New Year's eve, and I remember wishing we could just keep chasing it. I didn't want to land, to return to Victoria. New Year's is more on the melancholy side of wistfulness.
The big derailment at the moment is another burst pipe (same one?) in my apartment, much like the issue almost exactly one year ago but more alarming from the outset. I'm currently in the stage between the chaos of stopping the leak/drying out the carpet, and the wall repairs/painting.
I'm starting to keenly feel the lack of a vacation, and I'm close to the point where I simply need to get away. Somewhere with a white sandy beach and warm, clear water. Or somewhere with a wild, pebbly beach, crashing waves, and a warm cozy view. Somewhere with balmy evenings, neon lights, and 5am cheesecake. Somewhere with rolling
thunderstorms and warm evening rain. Somewhere to recharge and let my emotions settle back to a milder level. Somewhere away from this town. Vacate rather than staycate. I spent a recent weekend in Houston (ah, warm evenings), but a weekend is pretty short—though it was a wonderful trip as always.