The cat wasn't the reason why I was awake at three this morning, but I would like to think that he thought so. There is something wonderfully crazy about an insistent furry head under your hand wishing to be petted in the wee hours, something that connects you to the larger world outside your head and your bed.
I have a drive ahead of me today and my intention was to get a full night's sleep. I didn't skim the fat off of a pot of chicken stew the other night and I think that it, somehow, more than the cat, was the reason why I was awake ahead of the alarm. I woke up thinking "lettuce", a glass of water and a trip downstairs. The cat thought that all the rustling around was for his benefit, hence the crouching on my chest, his head butting up against my hand, not so much for a good head rub but to let me know that he had other things to do, to prowl, be out and about, to be one with the world.
Being one with the world is what I am all about these days. I sometimes find myself adrift in it, not really knowing how to best to spend my time or where I am heading, but I know those kinds of days are counter productive and slightly dangerous. Dangerous only in the way that they can make your time disappear. I know to some it would appear to some that I am idling my time away these days. I sit with the Hot Dog King around the lunch hour to watch the courthouse crowd come and go. I flit here and there around town, picking up dayold bread at Helpline, trolling the aisles of the second hands and video stores looking for interesting things to read, listen to and watch. I walk the trails around the perimeter of the Woods if only because they are quiet, slightly more challenging than the track and filled with fall color. Time is slipping away and yet it manages to fold back on itself when I sit down and work it with constructively.
Exercise is constructive, no doubt about that. The other day I went over to Tacoma and instead of finding a track to walk I parked the car and walked the Narrows Bridge, instead. It was a wonderful day to walk that path, sunny, cool, high clouds, no breeze. It was a fairly short walk, too, considering all, and it was uphill all the way to the car in the end. What was grand about that walk this time, in comparison to the time before, was that it was fairly quiet on the bridge, outside the roar of traffic. We had just had a spate of rain and I suppose that most casual weekend walkers were passing on the experience of the Narrows, fearful of being caught out in a rain shower out on that bridge. I think to be on that span in a good blow would mean getting back to your car seriously soaked.
That second bridge span was far from being complete back in our day. As a matter of fact it was a full year later when it officially opened to traffic. Speaking of road trips, it was being dedicated as I drove over it on my way to Boise that day, back in July of '07. My arm was still swollen from holding onto that laurel in the front yard as I grabbed it going down, holding on for dear life. I ripped muscles in my arm I never knew I had. It was a long, hot drive that year, too, even with the stop in Richland to see Rosie. It was a long road in my mind and my heart, both coming and going. Still is, as I am hesitant about doing it even in the best of circumstances.
But we took to crossing that bridge like old China hands. From what I can recall we crossed it together about four or five times. Twice to Ikea, once to see if we could find your Scottie dog lamp in Sumner and then that very last time on that very grand and wonderful CalCoPo meeting over to Vuelve La Vida. And while we didn't do a lot of driving that way, each and every time it seemed to yield some sort of memorable event. We were able to wander about in the rugs at Ikea, ate pie and ice cream late on a weeknight at Marie Calendars, we swooned in the rows of dahlias at Connell's, chomped mints on the boat docks late one night in Gig Harbor. We managed to find new things in the midst of old things everywhere we went, if only because we always managed to keep in practice the fine of art of exquisite mundaneness. Nothing gets old that way. There is always a bit of shine to be found in the most beat and tired of things.
I suppose that's why I find myself here with you. It's not as if life is slipping by and I have nothing better to do. I am not pining but musing. I am not lost in some sort of old dream, but allowing that old dream to influence my waking life. I am not obsessing but caught in some sort of slip stream of wonderment. Some might think I am wasting my time, but time I have plenty of and time, all this "idle" time, is the result of that whirlpool I was caught in with you years ago.
I woke to cat on my chest and thought "pets". I had to wonder what kind of animal would we have had if we had lived together. I thought about, then, the quiet of the night and wondered if you would have woke up and helped me make sense of these thoughts. I know that Mi Novia, when she was here last week, slept hard then woke to her own thoughts at three, but like me, kept quiet and listened to the night, instead. I think of all the women who have wandered through my life and my heart and my bed and know that it seems strange after all that noise and action and dedication to be waking to a cat on my chest, but then, maybe that's the point. I was supposed to get to this place, to this place of wondering and empty beds and idleness and strange nights sounds at three in the morning because I chose this path. You might not think so but I did.
I remembered a comment you made in one of your early letters, about coming back through Wyoming in the dark, about your youngest getting bored and restless and fighting with her sibs, and how it would grate on you. It had alot to do with that van speeding through the night with no stops, about those endless miles, the truckers, the wanting to keep the peace, about wanting everything to be okay. I thought about that while the cat purred on my chest. I thought about how you are where you are at like I am where I am at because of choices. I know in your second coda to me you said that you chose The Detective but I truly feel that he chose you. You might have, in the end, chose to stay because of comfort and God and all that, but I know that you would have upset an awful lot of folk if you had done anything different than staying where you were at and that was reason enough to stay, to choose that life over one that would have had you wandering through rows of dahlias with me year after year.
Keeping the peace is important. But somehow that didn't figure that into my thinking, even though I should have. I think, more than peace I wanted security, but then again, so did you. I think of all the living that I've done to end up with a cat on my chest at three in the morning and I know that it was meant to be, even if, in the end, my children question that statement. I know for certain that all this flailing I am doing to find work in Idaho will yield something, but then, see, I keep to the paths and aisles and rows of all my familiar places in hopes that someday I will see you wandering there once again, too. I know that when I crossed the bridge the other day I was taken back to one of our old conversations, one that has no place or bearing in my life right now but still takes me to a place that is comfortable and is very revealing about our times.
We had just finished a long night out. It was a cold night, good for bookstores and pho soup and furniture shopping. Great for coffee and pie and ice cream and long talks. I was anticipating a drive to Idaho later that month and you were anticipating a major change in your schedule. You were doing your best to be the Devil's advocate, trying your darndest to get me to find a way back to the family. No denying it, it was always about family and that part I couldn't fault you on. But then, see, there was that funny bit, that frontier that we crossed each and every time we met, that no man's land of emotion that we knew we weren't suppose to be traipsing around in but where we found ourselves in anyways, where we danced about, arm in arm amidst the landmines. What could anyone do to stop a love like that? What kind of choices do you end up making to keep love like that in check, or worse, to deny it?
We couldn't deny it, so we fought it, instead. But there were times, pure moments of happiness, of craziness, of pure devotion that couldn't be denied. If things were different we would have lived up to those words you uttered when we crossed that old span that night. If choices were ours and not everyone elses to make maybe I would have had you by my side instead of that cat tonight. Months later you told me "if it wasn't for the hard choices I would be waking up next to your face right now". But that night, that cold, wet March night before the schedules shifted irrevocably you told me, when I asked you, if you had a choice, what you would call me when you introduced me to your family and friends, you said to me "I would call you my husband".
We wake in the middle of the night to sound of strange noises, to indigestion, to cats and startling dreams. Tonight I woke with the knowledge that I've been on the road a long time and that I still have a long road to ride in front of me. I woke up knowing that those old dreams and words and bits of wisdom I shared with you, ones that I believed in, somehow led down a different path than I expected them to, but then again, it's all okay, because when you wake those old dreams and bits of wisdom are still there, coloring your world. As I get older I realize that those old dreams, like old lovers and old warrior songs, will always be there in my heart. But then, see, there is joy to be found in that forward going action, in the carrying of those old dreams foward over new bridges into the light of a new dawn, into a new life.
Time to live the day, Jane, and move on down the road.
But know, too, that I'll be waiting there for you, at the end of the road, on the other side of the bridge, at sunset.
Your WHMB
I have a drive ahead of me today and my intention was to get a full night's sleep. I didn't skim the fat off of a pot of chicken stew the other night and I think that it, somehow, more than the cat, was the reason why I was awake ahead of the alarm. I woke up thinking "lettuce", a glass of water and a trip downstairs. The cat thought that all the rustling around was for his benefit, hence the crouching on my chest, his head butting up against my hand, not so much for a good head rub but to let me know that he had other things to do, to prowl, be out and about, to be one with the world.
Being one with the world is what I am all about these days. I sometimes find myself adrift in it, not really knowing how to best to spend my time or where I am heading, but I know those kinds of days are counter productive and slightly dangerous. Dangerous only in the way that they can make your time disappear. I know to some it would appear to some that I am idling my time away these days. I sit with the Hot Dog King around the lunch hour to watch the courthouse crowd come and go. I flit here and there around town, picking up dayold bread at Helpline, trolling the aisles of the second hands and video stores looking for interesting things to read, listen to and watch. I walk the trails around the perimeter of the Woods if only because they are quiet, slightly more challenging than the track and filled with fall color. Time is slipping away and yet it manages to fold back on itself when I sit down and work it with constructively.
Exercise is constructive, no doubt about that. The other day I went over to Tacoma and instead of finding a track to walk I parked the car and walked the Narrows Bridge, instead. It was a wonderful day to walk that path, sunny, cool, high clouds, no breeze. It was a fairly short walk, too, considering all, and it was uphill all the way to the car in the end. What was grand about that walk this time, in comparison to the time before, was that it was fairly quiet on the bridge, outside the roar of traffic. We had just had a spate of rain and I suppose that most casual weekend walkers were passing on the experience of the Narrows, fearful of being caught out in a rain shower out on that bridge. I think to be on that span in a good blow would mean getting back to your car seriously soaked.
That second bridge span was far from being complete back in our day. As a matter of fact it was a full year later when it officially opened to traffic. Speaking of road trips, it was being dedicated as I drove over it on my way to Boise that day, back in July of '07. My arm was still swollen from holding onto that laurel in the front yard as I grabbed it going down, holding on for dear life. I ripped muscles in my arm I never knew I had. It was a long, hot drive that year, too, even with the stop in Richland to see Rosie. It was a long road in my mind and my heart, both coming and going. Still is, as I am hesitant about doing it even in the best of circumstances.
But we took to crossing that bridge like old China hands. From what I can recall we crossed it together about four or five times. Twice to Ikea, once to see if we could find your Scottie dog lamp in Sumner and then that very last time on that very grand and wonderful CalCoPo meeting over to Vuelve La Vida. And while we didn't do a lot of driving that way, each and every time it seemed to yield some sort of memorable event. We were able to wander about in the rugs at Ikea, ate pie and ice cream late on a weeknight at Marie Calendars, we swooned in the rows of dahlias at Connell's, chomped mints on the boat docks late one night in Gig Harbor. We managed to find new things in the midst of old things everywhere we went, if only because we always managed to keep in practice the fine of art of exquisite mundaneness. Nothing gets old that way. There is always a bit of shine to be found in the most beat and tired of things.
I suppose that's why I find myself here with you. It's not as if life is slipping by and I have nothing better to do. I am not pining but musing. I am not lost in some sort of old dream, but allowing that old dream to influence my waking life. I am not obsessing but caught in some sort of slip stream of wonderment. Some might think I am wasting my time, but time I have plenty of and time, all this "idle" time, is the result of that whirlpool I was caught in with you years ago.
I woke to cat on my chest and thought "pets". I had to wonder what kind of animal would we have had if we had lived together. I thought about, then, the quiet of the night and wondered if you would have woke up and helped me make sense of these thoughts. I know that Mi Novia, when she was here last week, slept hard then woke to her own thoughts at three, but like me, kept quiet and listened to the night, instead. I think of all the women who have wandered through my life and my heart and my bed and know that it seems strange after all that noise and action and dedication to be waking to a cat on my chest, but then, maybe that's the point. I was supposed to get to this place, to this place of wondering and empty beds and idleness and strange nights sounds at three in the morning because I chose this path. You might not think so but I did.
I remembered a comment you made in one of your early letters, about coming back through Wyoming in the dark, about your youngest getting bored and restless and fighting with her sibs, and how it would grate on you. It had alot to do with that van speeding through the night with no stops, about those endless miles, the truckers, the wanting to keep the peace, about wanting everything to be okay. I thought about that while the cat purred on my chest. I thought about how you are where you are at like I am where I am at because of choices. I know in your second coda to me you said that you chose The Detective but I truly feel that he chose you. You might have, in the end, chose to stay because of comfort and God and all that, but I know that you would have upset an awful lot of folk if you had done anything different than staying where you were at and that was reason enough to stay, to choose that life over one that would have had you wandering through rows of dahlias with me year after year.
Keeping the peace is important. But somehow that didn't figure that into my thinking, even though I should have. I think, more than peace I wanted security, but then again, so did you. I think of all the living that I've done to end up with a cat on my chest at three in the morning and I know that it was meant to be, even if, in the end, my children question that statement. I know for certain that all this flailing I am doing to find work in Idaho will yield something, but then, see, I keep to the paths and aisles and rows of all my familiar places in hopes that someday I will see you wandering there once again, too. I know that when I crossed the bridge the other day I was taken back to one of our old conversations, one that has no place or bearing in my life right now but still takes me to a place that is comfortable and is very revealing about our times.
We had just finished a long night out. It was a cold night, good for bookstores and pho soup and furniture shopping. Great for coffee and pie and ice cream and long talks. I was anticipating a drive to Idaho later that month and you were anticipating a major change in your schedule. You were doing your best to be the Devil's advocate, trying your darndest to get me to find a way back to the family. No denying it, it was always about family and that part I couldn't fault you on. But then, see, there was that funny bit, that frontier that we crossed each and every time we met, that no man's land of emotion that we knew we weren't suppose to be traipsing around in but where we found ourselves in anyways, where we danced about, arm in arm amidst the landmines. What could anyone do to stop a love like that? What kind of choices do you end up making to keep love like that in check, or worse, to deny it?
We couldn't deny it, so we fought it, instead. But there were times, pure moments of happiness, of craziness, of pure devotion that couldn't be denied. If things were different we would have lived up to those words you uttered when we crossed that old span that night. If choices were ours and not everyone elses to make maybe I would have had you by my side instead of that cat tonight. Months later you told me "if it wasn't for the hard choices I would be waking up next to your face right now". But that night, that cold, wet March night before the schedules shifted irrevocably you told me, when I asked you, if you had a choice, what you would call me when you introduced me to your family and friends, you said to me "I would call you my husband".
We wake in the middle of the night to sound of strange noises, to indigestion, to cats and startling dreams. Tonight I woke with the knowledge that I've been on the road a long time and that I still have a long road to ride in front of me. I woke up knowing that those old dreams and words and bits of wisdom I shared with you, ones that I believed in, somehow led down a different path than I expected them to, but then again, it's all okay, because when you wake those old dreams and bits of wisdom are still there, coloring your world. As I get older I realize that those old dreams, like old lovers and old warrior songs, will always be there in my heart. But then, see, there is joy to be found in that forward going action, in the carrying of those old dreams foward over new bridges into the light of a new dawn, into a new life.
Time to live the day, Jane, and move on down the road.
But know, too, that I'll be waiting there for you, at the end of the road, on the other side of the bridge, at sunset.
Your WHMB
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