Sorry, I’ve been away. No reason, except too, too much to do. But, you know, I missed blogging, so, you know, I’m just going to find the time.

I spent Friday fretting our world economic crisis and the disturbing appearance of blatant racism in the American presidential campaign.

Saturday and Sunday, I spent a good part of the day scooting.

On a scooter.

A 151 blue teal blue scooter that allows me to travel curvy country roads at speeds that don’t annoy whoever’s behind me and reacquaint me with what it feels like to just be having fun.

Both days were beautiful. Warm and sunny, awash in the slanted, clear light of early fall. Charlie rode with me on one of his sizeable collection of semi-derelict motorcycles. Our house is already in the country, so we just headed out. At crossroads, we turned wherever it looked most interesting, riding through small settlements and farms, responding to waves from children outside playing—because we, too, were playing.

One of the great gifts of sobriety is the permission it’s given me to take a break from dealing with whatever’s making life difficult at the time and do just what Charlie and I did this weekend—play. In sobriety, I’ve learned that when life presses in too hard, it’s okay to go scooting—literally or metaphorically. Whenever life begins to seem dreary and hard, it’s part of my program to encourage myself to do whatever recaptures my sense of joy and gratitude that I’m alive.