Happy Labor Day

It's Labor Day. And in honor of this workers' holiday, I am not working.

I will spend the day at home, with my family. I will tidy up, putting away all the things we bought at IKEA yesterday. If the weather holds out, we will swim. We may attend the neighborhood Labor Day picnic, complete with live music, food, and bouncy houses.

I will do some laundry. I will make the beds, unload and load the dishwasher, and straighten up the bathrooms. These I do not consider work; this is what I must do to maintain order in my home. And I am adamant about order around here ... or at least some semblance thereof. Not that I achieve it every day, but I desire it with every fiber of my being.

But today is not about achieving this goal. Today is about relaxing, about not working. I will not clean out the pantry, organize my closet, or even run the vacuum.

Even though I have already spent part of today writing and will write more — writing is, for me, not work. It is part of my employment, naturally, because it is all I know to do. But is so much more than my vocation; it is how I express myself, how I identify who I am. It is who I am. This is what a writer will tell you, that writing is in their veins.

But the writing today, this and the other I may do, is not the writing for which I am paid. Because today is not a day for paid labor. It is a day off, one I will enjoy. Tomorrow it is back to the routine, back to the grind. The girls go back to school and I will get busy with deadlines fast approaching.

That is tomorrow. Today is a holiday from work. I plan to enjoy my time with my family as we celebrate this last official day of summer. Good-bye to the sights and smells of summer, welcome to fall and all it beholds.

Happy Labor Day!