Pool time? Workout? Dinner – a quick frozen something-or-other for one? Or a veggie burrito from the Mexican cafe a block away?

After four weeks of non-stop work, I’m on a break. Well, actually not technically on a break. I’m sitting here with my two fur grandbabies, Gemi and June, kitties that I’ve been watching for that last five days at my daughter and her boyfriend’s apartment, about a 40-minute drive from my house, while they are on vacation.

Before I arrived, the past few weeks had been filled with a whirlwind of chores. Head down, nose to the grindstone, I’d also been burning the midnight oil to edit Michelle’s memoir for the umpteenth time. In the midst of the crazy revisions, I kept rereading Michelle’s concept of “doing nothing.” Shifting gears into relaxation mode struck a chord.

Mind you, this notion of inactivity only occurred to Michelle after she experienced the profound grief that followed the tragic loss of her husband. Before that fateful day, her life had been a whirlwind of meticulously crafted to-do lists. Every morning started the same way – a flurry of activity with no time for a second glance at the world outside her carefully constructed schedule. Now, after the tragedy, the empty spaces in her day felt overwhelming.

Ultimately, when you are whittled down to your core, the only option is to take the tiny fragment that remains and shape it in ways that expand your imagination. In Michelle’s case, lost in a haze of memories, she stumbled upon Schitt’s Creek. Initially hesitant, she allowed herself to be swept away by the quirky characters and heartwarming humor. Goofing off and watching endless episodes became a surprising source of comfort, a reminder that laughter and joy could still exist in her grief-stricken world.

This unexpected “time out” also compelled Michelle to face the harsh reality of her new normal. She recognized how much she had taken for granted. The simple act of sitting quietly beside her husband, something she often did without a second thought, now carried profound significance. She remembered the warmth of his smile and the distinct wink of his eye, all precious details she hadn’t fully appreciated previously.

As Michelle’s life progresses through the fog of grief, the message becomes clear: being human isn’t like artificial intelligence, precise, and pretty. It’s messy, often very messy. Let me say, there’s a lot of messiness in her memoir as well, but amidst the messiness, there are many beautifully intimate moments she discovers with herself – painful, playful, and flexible like silly putty. There are also times when she’s left in the comfort of solitude to dry her tears, like a towel warming on a railing in the sun (a subtle reminder of the healing power that exists even in the midst of the mess).

Lost in these thoughts, my own tears of grief streamed down my face. Grief, too, had irrevocably altered me. However, similar to Michelle in her memoir, I found a moment of solace. Letting the tears dry, I granted myself permission to ease up on the throttle, just as she does in the book. Relax. Chill out. Permission granted! Summer’s here, the heat is cranking, and these days are practically begging for lemonade-fueled lollygagging. Shades drawn, AC cranked, and maybe a “Closed for Summer” sign wouldn’t be the worst idea.

Faith, you ask? Well, taking a break isn’t about abandoning my values and goals. It’s about refueling. Sometimes, just like a car idling to conserve its energy, we need to do the same. Because when I finally rev the engine back up, it will be with a renewed sense of joy. Refueled, retooled, and ready to tackle the road ahead.

In the interim, where’s that hammock?