True to form, I didn’t even know it was Mabon that morning until G. wished me a Blessed Mabon via text. It was 11 in the morning, I was into a glass of wine called The Big O and I was eating a cathedral shaped chocolate with plans on starting on a Nutella macaron next. My bestie was on the prowl for tater tots. It was a beautiful morning, I was wearing a pair of my new favorite seamless striped yoga pants that I got on clearance from Target. On the way into New Hope (she and I hadn’t been there together in over a year), I’m making cautious noises about my plan B, a farmer’s market near by that would be almost as good. The day was too beautiful, other people would have the same idea. I had already spent the morning at the grocery store and I was cleaning out my refrigerator and pantry like a proper unconscious squirrel. But we managed to find a good space and I know we are meant to be there. I show her the new market and we immediately decided on chocolates and wine first. I’m feeling good. I’m feeling present. A new vendor had come to the market, funny because I had just told D. about the time I was in the city with B.’s bachelorette party. There was this beautiful restaurant and I can’t even remember why we were in there, there had been much sangria. It was fleet week. And they had a whole leg of prosciutto they were working through and fresh oysters. I remember the black and white tile floor. I remember thinking how happy I was. I told him about a tiny shop in Brooklyn run by beautiful hipsters and how they hand fed me beer, beef prosciutto and smoked duck breast. I was happy then too. Maybe delis make me happy? It seems more complex in memory.
There’s a new seller at the market and she is hand cutting a leg of prosciutto in a large red machine and putting it into parmesan cones and I knew I had to have one so I did. I show her where the Chateau had moved to, how Gypsy Haven had expanded, that the fancy soap place where I bought J. tiny French milled soaps is still in business, I show her new shops and we go to the indie comic book shop and I immediately spy a Black Philip and snatch it up. She is sad because she collects these figurines so I turn the shop upside down, charming the shop boy until we find one for her too. We take pictures of our chibi devil goats by the pretty bridge.
You seem very friendly today, she said cautiously. And it was true, I was present and I was pleased with the day I was having, pleased that it was happening on Mabon and so I talk to everyone and smile and compliment. I am feeling present in myself.
I’m happy, I said finally. And she smiled and nodded. I said, Do you want to go to Nordstrom’s to see about a unicorn? She did and she was able to find the last one for me, for V. really. I had spun an elaborate story earlier in the week about how our found unicorn (Andre) was friends with *my* unicorn (Maurice) and Andre was a killer unicorn realtor which would super help V. and he can also work from home though he is currently working from my bar cart.
After that, I go to the tiny wood by our house and cut wild flowers and give Mabon offerings to my kitchen altar spirits. I drink pumpkin beer. I make stock. I start pulling stuff for my workshop. I breathe.
But since Sunday I have been hunched over at work, at home, writing endless post it notes for myself, spinning endless charms, packing tiny packets, making endless oils. I wake up, I work, I go to work, I work, I go to the gym, I go home, I work and then I go to bed. I’m not sleeping well. My brain is an office full of fitful hamsters. I tried to figure out a way to make All the Things happen, but I feel the tiny cracks in my composure. The ones that J. notes, though he was pleased that I was in New Hope (guessing correctly where I was) and eating chocolate and drinking wine before noon last Saturday. It’s not that I’m keeping my house to a Miss Martha level of precision – I’m jumping in, filling in where nursing school overflows for Jow- dishes, laundry, food that has gone off, the grocery store. I work and work and work some more.
Today, I make labels, pack oils and ship glamour parcels. Tomorrow, I write a lesson. Friday, I take a breath. Saturday, I do a set of videos. Sunday, I take another breath.
I complain, endlessly. Which is so charming when you are succeeding at the things you’ve been working on for the last eight years. Your shop’s sales kicking ass, your workshop nearly full, your next book started. It’s not what I thought the other side of the forest would look like. I thought my hair would be clean at least.
I sulkily tell F. that I want to use this workshop cycle to live deliciously but lordess knows what that would get me. I hate transition. I didn’t like transitioning into thirty and I’m equally cranky about transitioning into forty. New tricks new tricks! Move down move down! I have had to miss so many events that I love this year and I lie on my side and whine. A lot.
Magic has a price, F. tells me crisply. And I sigh and nod. I don’t say the spoiled child thoughts I was having. And I think for a bit this morning as she and I talk. She asks, would you even recognize it if it was given to you? I scrunch my nose in displeasure reflexively. My lizard brain assume certain things will be delicious but they may not be or they may not be anymore or they may not be in that moment. Saturday was really delicious, but I wasn’t really expecting anything besides brunch. I have to be open to having different delicious experiences than I had previously which is difficult for a creature of routine like myself. So I will start this new expedition by asking myself periodically if something is delicious (a question that used to thrill my tiny charges, I’m starting to see why).
Tonight, wine would be delicious. So I shall.