This Night

On this night, an old friend is dying and a new friend labors.  I toss and turn.  My husband sleeps soundly next to me, strong and resilient from the day.  The dogs, warm and tucked under the covers between us, have years promised by our side.  Counting flocks will not be sufficient tonight.  Maybe I'll keep vigil instead.

Tonight, I think about Mike exclusively.  The friend who labors is just fine, especially with the hope of a baby in her arms.  Still, to compare the birth of a baby with a life ending too soon, it is all too much.  We rushed to the hospital tonight, our plan to see him Friday eliminated.  I stroked his forehead, whispered "we are going now Mike, we will miss you, but we will see you again" in his ear, and gently kissed his hand before leaving.  His wife, Pat, so positive and sturdy, hugged us tightly.

I swallowed the tears until Pat laid in the bed with Mike and told him who had come to visit.  "You brought so many people into my life, you did so well my love," she shared. Poetic.  K later thanked me for the same, though indirectly, by moving here.  "Look at this circle of friends we have, almost like family," he said.  Though some have moved in and out, he was right.  I replied I wished we had met them all a bit sooner and danced with them at our wedding.  It seemed only right these people should be part of our biggest day.  But, our big days don't begin and end there.  The days like this night, with the friends who will stay even when gone, are just as important.  I think too often of the friendships which are lost, what had happened, what could have been done differently.  I dwell on them too much, because I miss the connection and regret the outcome.  But, that's life.  Loved ones will come and go, through choice or circumstances.  Tonight, we said good bye to one friend who will leave with our love in his ear, and I couldn't ask for anything more than that.

Tomorrow, we will be greeted with good and bad news.  Like most days.  We will continue to do the best we can with what we have and try to expect the same in those around us.  Life will march on and most of the time we will take things for granted.  This is the nature of us all.  But whenever I look down at a cup of coffee, or see a Navy hat, or hear about New Orleans cuisine, I'll think about Mike-- his booming voice, unrelenting determination, and strong embrace.  And I'll think about making the day count before I run out of opportunity. I'll look up at the sky and promise to keep fighting the fight.  Keep bringing new members into my world.  Keep trying to make my community better.  Keep counting the blessings before me.

My heart is engraved with the sights and sounds of this night.  Sleep peacefully and go forth, Councilman.  We will take it from here.

In Between

I sat up in bed frustrated last night, as if I had forgotten to cross something off my list recently.  Except it was more than that.  Except, really, it wasn't like that at all.  I couldn't pinpoint what was the core of my frustration, only able to skim the surface of what may be causing my furrowed forehead.  It didn't cause a lack of sleep but it didn't sit well with me either.

"Is there something else we should be doing right now?" I questioned K.  "Not, right now this instant, but around this time?"

He, in the middle of completing a master's degree and days removed of staying at his job until dawn, couldn't come up with any missing agenda item on our life to do list.

But, I couldn't shake the feeling there was an oversight.

So we dug deeper.

Others are buying houses, having kids, and settling in. In between the usual dreams of property and descendants, we exchange plans for promotions, projects, and academia.  We are waiting for the right piece of land, enjoying the duo we've created, and searching for a balance of permanent and improvised.  Still, it's common to want what you don't have. But, K reminds me, it's also sometimes better to dream about what is not yet achieved.

A little bit deeper now.

"This is a funny time in our lives." I say.

We grow up with milestones: crawling, walking, preschool, 5th grade, graduation, marriage. First this and that.  Each year of our time on earth marked by a new event or turning point.  "And then," I explain, "you have kids and you watch them grow and it all repeats itself."

So what about this time right now, when there are no life events in the horizon, just him and me?  We work hard, satisfied and fulfilled with our careers, spend the rest of the time together, thrive with healthy social circles, and try not to alter anything in a big way just yet.

Finally, the core.

"Do not put yourself, or us, on anyone else's time line," he says.

I am finally able to relax, now understanding we are where we should be.  It may be like this for a bit or life might be transitioning without our awareness.  Whatever this time is suppose to be, I will cherish it.  Sometimes I look at K and think we would be enough for this lifetime.  Our bond and friendship is the most important relationship I will have.  But we know other things are in our future, no matter how we get there.  This time, this moment in our life together, though strange and lacking major celebration, will be remembered as the plaster which reinforced our foundation.

In the meantime, we will be happy.  And maybe always a bit uneasy, for there remains a drive in both of us to cross more things off lists.

I Stopped Writing.

The mornings were dense with thick fog which lingered over the water, between the trees, hiding the horizon. I woke up the minute I would have at home. The fog, myself, and a dewy bench started the mornings on the island. Others would wake well after the fog had passed, when the sky's pink faded had gone with and I already completed morning. By then, an exchange was made with me and the salt water, a meditation sent forth, and a story already written.  

In the evenings, and every other break, I slipped away and wrote: about the island, the state, the love song I was proud of writing that day, the women who  shared divorce stories like Girl Scout badges, and how surprised I was to already have some things figured out. I wrote because I had to. Deep inside I craved it. The workshop provided very little opportunity and so an even larger void was needed to be filled. The writing flowed until I boarded the ferry boat and from there I haven't written since. 

My goal for the weekend included understanding where to go from here with my writings. To blog or stop. I felt liberated on the boat, disappointed in the opportunity and attitude of some presenters, but with a few choice pieces under my belt by chance and the ability to come ashore again. The weeks after came with some desire to pick up where I left off. But, it didn't happen. The flame had already been extinguished. 

Now, I lay here seven months later, the experience still fresh and still with the same opinion. Except, tonight I write. I write about it and I write about how I feel.  I will credit Doe Bay for allowing me to see what has existed in myself through writing and that should be enough. 

Tonight I write and I think I'll write some more. 

Write.

It is day 2 at Doe Bay. I appreciate the workshop but understand more the need to be in silence. In the circle, I share a story I have never hidden. At break, I duck away--eager for the chance to just be with myself. So many come here to find their whole self. I think I will go away realizing I have discovered that already. 

Now I sit on the beach, under a tree, on top of the driftwood that is dry. I know this place because it is a screenshot of so many parts of Washington. The trees and water are the same. The horizon is the only difference--Olympics replaced by islands. 

I'm glad I came here but the real joy is retuning home to see what you've already built. 

Up and Over

We visited Neah Bay a few weeks ago, as a last-ditch effort to see something good this Summer.  The thick marine layer obstructed most of the view and I felt a little silly driving all that way.  But, the car conversation was worth it and I am happy to know another corner of Washington.

Up there, the highway hugs the coast and curves along the rocks.  The radio and cell phone flips back and forth between US and Canadian signals.  It is, for the most part, just you and your passenger existing in that space.  The remoteness is daunting.  Made worse by the fog.

I don't know if we will go back.  We can't exactly call ahead and ask how the view will be that day.  Still, it is all part of the great state I love, and therefore worthy of a few quick paragraphs.

Fall Resolutions

This is going to be one hell of an October.

I should just stop there because there is nothing more to say.  It has been shared before about my beliefs about the Fall season being more rejuvenating than January 1st.  This is the time of the year to promote change.  Kids go back to school and routines are maintained again.  Fashion magazines are three inches thick because this season is the most exciting of the year.  Screw January.  Cold, boring, with a post-holiday tinsel hangover.  You'll set yourself up for failure every time in January.

But Fall.  Fall is where it's at.

October is going to be one hell of an October for many reasons.

First, its full-blown Fall-- (insert adjective to make Fall an adjective).

Our anniversary is in October.

I literally grew pumpkins this year.  They're on the front porch, including the one the yellow dog picked prematurely.

After ten months, my mother-in-law is moving out and into her own place, across town.

Which means I'll be able to do whatever I want in my own house.

In four days, I'm travelling to Orcas for Write: Doe Bay.  And shit, I'm nervous.


I'm going to over-hype October because I have a feeling it will be well deserved.  Stay tuned.

A Week of Blogging: Summer too

Neighbors pick blackberries at night.

The island empties. 

Calm water. 

Puppies wrestle in bed--the sun already set. 

Shorts and long-sleeves. 

Green tomatoes. 

Almost orange pumpkins. 

Clean, store, nest. 

Last minute barefoot treks on the grass. 

Frisbee and bubbles put away. 

Settling into new routines. 

Nothing really happened this year, except everything. 

Ready for change. 

So long, Sweet Summer.