On Saturdays, I drop my husband and son off at the Y to shoot hoops. I know I will be free for at least an hour. If there are pick-up games to join, it might be two or even three hours.
On Saturdays, I go to my favorite coffee shop. Sometimes it’s packed and I can’t find a seat. Other days, like today, I’m the only person in the place. The Australian owner will answer my “thanks” with a cheery “no worries,” which seems like a life philosophy worth emulating.
On Saturdays, I open my notebook and write a few lines. I have a few ideas circling my head. Aging. Empathy. Blog comments. I still have a few list pieces I want to write this month. I jot down words that may develop into a post later in the week.
On Saturdays, I wait patiently for my coffee. My favorite coffee shop is not the place to go if you’re in a hurry. These people take their craft very seriously. Sometimes it takes eight or nine minutes to get a latte even when they’re not busy and they’re working the whole time on just my coffee. I set my pen down when my latte arrives. I want to focus my attention on that first sip.
On Saturdays, I always think about running errands that are easier and more efficient to run by myself. This is the time to pick up dog food, drop off that package that needs to be mailed, go grocery shopping.
But on Saturdays, leisure wins out.
On Saturdays, I go to the places that make me happy. The coffee shop. The library. The bookstore. The art gallery. The toy store. I take photos everywhere I go.
Blue sky and white clouds peeking between two brick buildings. An electrical box painted with bright flowers. A mural of a fireman. A bicycle basket filled with flowers. A satirical Trump*Putin political bumper sticker (“Make Tyranny Great Again”) that I can’t quite believe I’m seeing on a car in my very red state. A keychain advertising the local ice cream shop (“70% Unicorn 30% Ice Cream”). Books I want to remember to buy. A unicorn stick horse with an intriguing tag attached: “Press Ear for Prancing Sounds: Battery Not Included.”
On Saturdays, my head clears. I breathe deeply. For one hour or two or three, I wander without a plan. I look around, notice, listen, wonder.
On Saturdays, when I pick up my son and husband, they are full of basketball stories from the Y. The short kid who could dunk. The middle-aged guy who outhustled everyone on the court except my son. The crazy Eurostep my son almost converted into points. The half-court three he swished. “What did you do?” they ask. “Oh, not much,” I answer.
On Saturdays, I protect my wanderings and wonderings like treasure.
the dirigible plum 
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