Life

Life is crazy these days, with busy season heating up along with the normal chaos of kids and creativity, this need I have to express myself here on the page. I come here most days, usually only for a few minutes, but even just these stolen moments seems to center me for the rest of the day. I don’t post everything I write anymore. Sometimes I need to be brutally honest with myself and when I am, it’s harder to bare those writings on my blog. I have pondered my responsibilities to those who read these words. My ambition is to entertain, to provoke thought, not to garner sorrow or sympathy or pain. I’ve internally taken the writer’s Hippocratic oath, to above all else, cause no harm.

One of my beloved working sisters chose in December to move her calculator to another firm, and because of her timing, it was neither cost nor time efficient for me to try to replace her before my heavy audit season began, so I took on her work. Needless to say, the work is good to keep me focused on things other than my heart and my boundless libido.

I miss her. She was the responsible one in our group. Whenever a group forms, everyone assumes a role. It’s a natural anthropological process. Now that she is gone, I wonder who will assume her role. She was ever practical, questioned my optimistic approach, begged for reason and reliability, grounded us in her relentless pursuit of reality. Just as every group needs the optimistic cheerleader (me) everyone also needs the practical perspective.

In a firm of all female accountants, needless to say, there is going to be more than one voice of reason. I will be curious, though, to see which of my staff steps up to the plate to offer theirs. It might very well be my own voice, but I doubt it. I have, I’m almost positive, yet again bitten off more than I can chew with the three new clients I just engaged, at the last minute, when we were already over booked. No, the voice of reason will not be me.

Tune in next week to hear about my adventure to Washington D. C. to march in my first ever Anti War demonstration….with Robert and my three favorite men, my sons.

Perfect

Turbulent times, in matters of the heart, gives one cause for pause. Sometimes, those pauses pass into days, and still you scratch your head. What makes a romance work during the drudgery and beauty of daily life, amid the raucous rants and silent songs of children and work and supper on the table? Can love carve a path through the pathos when the mind and the heart and the gut disagree?

I had a wonderful discussion with the lone member of my Sun Magazine discussion group yesterday. The other two were ensconced in the comfort of their homes, one recovering from vacation, the other making vacation out of the snow storm that dumped the expected three inches. My friend and I did not discuss the magazine much, but we looked deeply into each other’s eyes and drank from each other’s souls. We spoke frankly about our lives and our loves and our fears and our triumphs. I left, three hours later, feeling as full as if I had eaten a seven course meal, but also curious, with a nagging hunger to learn more, to taste more.

Ordinarily, when I am in a solitary conversation with a handsome and single man my age, my mind turns to sex, and yes, I wonder what it would be like to kiss this man, but sex was the farthest thing from my mind as I sat and talked with him. Healing and wound care and laughter and wonder and appreciation cycled through my head and my heart and I was grateful. Grateful for this opportunity to connect, one on one, with this friend, to broaden the friendship, expand my knowledge base of his beautiful soul.

I drank from his cup and allow him to sip from mine, touching only each other’s arms in gestures of conversation. It was, perhaps, the most romantic cup of coffee I’ve ever had.

We talked about those perfect relationship that begin and end in the course of a few moments. Those wonderful connections of perfection where the beauty of love is displayed without the flaws, without time to even acknowledge them, much less count them. I told him of the handsome man who smiled at me at the doctor’s office when I sat in the only seat available, right next to him. He handed me a magazine, and laughed when I read him the joke from Reader’s Digest. And then the doctor came to give him the results of the test and he stood, spoke with the doctor, gave me a backward glance and tiny wave goodbye and he was gone. Perfect. Perfectly beautiful and complete.

Perhaps that is what I should look for more often.

The perfectly beautiful moment instead of the lasting lifetime relationship.

Winter's Wait

Winter slumbers like the proverbial bear in the cave, breath snorting out in billows of exhaled steam. We all know winter is out there, icy fingers fondling the frost on the windshield, forewarning of unleashed power. I persist in resisting the wearing of my coat, insisting that the mild cold strengthens my immune system. I’m not kidding anyone but myself.

We wait for it, stocking up on hot chocolate and woolen socks, hoarding books and newly released DVDs for when the storm hits, hoping that the snow blower inherited from my ex in-laws still works. It is late January, and we still haven’t had even a dusting of the white stuff.

I belong to a discussion group for Sun Magazine, and we have a meeting scheduled for Sunday. I got an email last night from one of our members, concerned about the snow predicted for Sunday and giving us early warning that she may bail if the forecasts are accurate. She doesn’t like driving in the snow.

I smiled indulgently when I read her email. The only thing an icy storm will keep me from is going to the office. I mean, I have my priorities. A party (ie, discussion group) with people I respect and admire, a chance to exchange ideas and passions and thoughts on articles we have all avariciously devoured with our minds, I wouldn’t miss it for anything. I might be late, but I wouldn’t miss it. My friend is in a different place in life, and that thought made me smile. She’s a newlywed. Were I a newlywed, I would be tempted to miss the meeting, too.

I went to the weather center on the internet and read about the impending storm. “Sunday: Snow during the morning will become a light mix of wintry precipitation during the afternoon. High 34F. Winds SE at 5 to 10 mph. Chance of precip 80%. 1 to 3 inches of snow expected.”

How wonderful! I might get a day with an excuse to do nothing! By late afternoon, the snow would have stopped and Kevin and I might be able to build a snowman and maybe even go sledding. I mentally made a list of groceries we would need: Marshmallows and graham crackers for the hot chocolate, popcorn for the DVDs and the reading of novels, frozen pizza so that we wouldn’t have to waste precious stolen time for cooking, ramen noodles and Campbell’s tomatoe soup with crushed up saltine crackers, some really good cheddar to make grilled cheese sandwiches (they don’t take much time). Chocolate. We’d need some chocolate bars, preferable with almonds.

Because the temperature was not expected to dip deeply below freezing, I doubted that the snow would last long enough to disrupt school and work, an unfortunate timing snafu. A Sunday snow day is lovely, but a Monday snow day is a gift from God.

My Forty Fifth Birthday

In honor of Martin Luther King’s birthday, I am posting this story I wrote two and half years ago.

My Forty Fifth Birthday

The morning of my birthday dawned warm and moist, as May 22 often does. The rain from the day before softened the ground and the flowers cast out their fragrance nets, seeking attention from the proliferation of insect traffic speeding by. It was the year of the cicadas, their cacophony rising and falling in a steady crescendo. The flowers, fetching as they were, caught no interest from these orchastrants, intent as they were on their single mission above the ground….sex. No need for nectar, no need for nourishment, they were focused in their quest. I sat in my usual spot, gliding silently on my makeshift porch swing wannabe, listening to the music of the world around me. A couple cicadas flitted onto my arm or my chest, checking me out, sensing that I was female, disappointed when all I could do was gently stroke their fairy wings and send them on to greener pastures. Those cicadas. They will try to have sex with anything.

I mused, as I sat there, about my forty fifth birthday, feeling a bit sorry for myself, as I am wont to do these days, because although I am inundated with people who love me, I do not have a special someone in my life that I can share this day with. I have wonderful children, who, by my design, were spending the weekend with their father, I have a plethora of loving friends, many, many of which went out of their way to bless me with gifts, of time, of flowers, of food, of pleasurable objects and activities and with song. I was probably sung Happy Birthday by over 100 people, on 10 different occasions throughout the day. I know that I am well loved, and my heart and my eyes well at the thought because as deserving as I feel, I was humbled by the devotion expressed to me by my warm blanket of friends and family.

My day was filled to the brim. First, my nine year old son’s baseball game, then brunch with my boys and their dad, then choir rehearsal for four hours in preparation for our church’s spring concert scheduled for the next day, then a poker party with 9 of my favorite married men from my church. I am a featured attraction at the annual poker party for several reasons, not the least of which is that I am a horrible poker player and that I have a vast and ready supply of really good off color jokes, that I have a talent for telling with flair and pizzazz. I was looking forward to my day, dampened as it was by my lack of romantic male companionship, and of attention from one man in particular, a man with sweet laughing eyes, a wicked sense of humor, a ready smile, a body that takes my breath away...and a girlfriend that’s not me. I wiped my tears away, promising myself a happy day anyway, and pulled on my gym clothes on the off chance that I would have time for half an hour of exercise between events.

First stop, my son’s ball game. We were playing a team from Hartwell, one of the less desirable areas of town, lots of working class folks, struggling to get by and raise their families. I saw the parents from my son’s team on the far side of the field and I considered where to set up shop. A little girl with big brown eyes, colorful plaits, spotless clothes and a sweet smile caught my attention and I settled myself on my lounging lawn chair next to her Mom. I pulled out my music for our concert tomorrow. I had two recicitives to sing and I felt decidedly unprepared. I sang softly to myself, keeping an eye on the batting order for my son’s team directly in front of me. The little girl was called back by her mother, who told her gently that she must stay within eye sight because she is so sweet and pretty, someone else might want to take her home with them. I chuckled to myself because a part of me longed to do exactly that. She pouted on the ground at her mother’s feet, sitting Indian style, arms crossed, lower lip protruding petulantly.

“There’s nothing to do, Mommy.”

I looked over at Mom, who smiled indulgently. I called to her.

“Come over here, let’s see if there are any four leaf clovers in this patch by our chairs.” She grinned and shyly moved towards me.

I smiled at her and said “My name’s Betty, what’s yours?”

“TaiLynn”, she replied.

“What a pretty name, and it suits you so well!” I exclaimed as we set to business looking for four leaf clovers. She held up a few for my inspection and together we admired the color, texture and shape of each of the leaves, but alas, no four leaf clovers were to be found, at least, not by us. I was still determined to entertain this lovely lass, and plucked a slender blade of grass growing amidst the clover.

“Listen, TaiLynn, listen to the sound I can make with this blade of grass.” I grasped the green reed between my left thumb and forefinger, carefully sliding my right thumb down the side of the grass, pulling it taut, and holding my two thumbs to my mouth. A gust of breath from me and a loud screech reverberated through the ball field. TaiLynn’s mouth fell open in amazement. I blew again, vibrating my fingers, creating a disjointed melody, no longer screeching, but not quite making a song.

“Let me do that!” she said excitedly. I looked up. I was surrounded by four eager children, wanting to learn my musical magic.

“Hi,” I exclaimed. “My name’s Betty, what are your names?”

“Robke”, said a shy older boy I’m guessing to be around 11. “Jasmine”, said a girl with a sweet smile and a protruding belly button. “I’m Malika”, said the third, bouncing her beaded hair back and forth.

“How did you do that?” Said Robke. I tilted my head at him and demonstrated the grass technique, explaining as I did, that the sound happens because the blade of grass vibrates from the rush of air we blow through our thumbs. He tried, no luck. The little girls tried, bringing me blade after blade of ballfield grass. I demonstrated over and over. Everytime I blew the grass reed, ear splitting sounds erupted from my mouth, but no such luck from the mouths of my eager students. Malika tried to help hers along by vocalizing a screech as she blew the grass. Finally, Robke got a squeak from his blade of grass.

“You DID IT!!” I shouted. He looked up incredulously and tried again. A loud sound reverberated from his hands. He grinned at me.

“HIGH FIVE!!” I sang and held up my left hand. He slapped it with vigor and continued with his musical mission, scouring the field for bigger and better blades of music. The little girls renewed their determination and tried and tried and tried again. Patiently, I held the grass taut against their thumbs, but alas, we determined that the grass only likes the thumbs of those over ten years of age.

We moved onto lighter subjects. We discussed the different colors of Mountain Dew available to young girls and how when I was a girl, I had only green Mountain Dew, but it was still my favorite soft drink. We talked about being the youngest child in a family and how bossy older brothers can be. Malika found a stalk of grass seeds and tickled me with the soft green brushes. I showed them the music I had in my hand and read the words to the recicitive from Haydn’s Creation to them…”And God said, let the earth bring for grass, the herb yielding seed, and the fruit trees, yielding fruit, after his kind, whose seed is in itself upon the earth. And it was so.” Jasmine sang Jesus Loves Me, and I sang Spirit of Life to her. Jasmine found a different kind of grass seed, and we discussed the differences between the kind she found and the kind Malika found and how the different sizes of grass make different seeds and make different sounds when I whistled through them. I told them that green is my favorite color because it matches my eyes and lowered my sunglasses to demonstrate.

I told the girls that today was my forty fifth birthday, and they solemnly nodded their heads in sympathy, acknowledging that forty five is really old. Jasmine asked me if I wanted to live to be a hundred. I looked into her sweet brown eyes, trusting, expectant of wisdom from the strangely friendly white woman and said, “Yes, I do, just so I can play with other little girls just like you.”

“You don’t look old, though,” Jasmine noted. “You don’t have any gray hair.”

I smiled and thanked her, commenting that it’s so nice to have three girls to play with on my birthday because God only gave me sons.

“You look like you have a baby in your tummy, though,” she said knowingly. “Maybe it will be a girl.”

I laughed and noted that sadly, I am just fat, no babies coming from this body anymore. She looked horrified. “You’re not fat, you’re pretty!” She insisted.

“Excuse me,” I heard one of the parents addressing me and I looked up. She was holding a Polaroid camera and I noticed that some of the parents held instant snapshots in their hands.

“Do you mind if I take your picture?” she asked. “Robke says he wants a picture with you because he doesn’t want to forget you.” She sounded a bit exasperated and I looked into Robke’s eager face, alight as it was with accomplishment and pride. Tears welled in my eyes.

“Oh, my God!” I thought to myself. “This is one of those moments! One of those times that I need to remember! I’ve done something big here! Something important! This boy wants to remember me.”

In that millisecond I remembered my cousin Jim, 16 years older than me, patiently teaching me to sing with a blade of grass in the yard of my grandfather’s farm. I realized that this little boy is going to remember this day for the rest of his life, and he realized it too. I stretched out my arms. The four children piled onto my lap and I smiled for the camera. The flash went off and the picture slid out. Robke grabbed it, staring into it, willing the image to emerge. The girls and I continued chattering away and in a few minutes, Jasmine disappeared and sauntered back.

“Yep, picture turned out perfect” she informed me. I grinned at her and she grinned at me and I realized that indeed, the picture turned out just fine.

And so did my birthday. In fact, it turned out better than fine.

On Death

I stood before Garvin’s bed, willing the 86 year old man to wake up, to talk to his son. Steve had kept vigil every day that week that Garvin’s sluggish blood had stopped pumping to his brain, hoping his dad would wake up, forgive him for his neglect. That’s not the way death works for the elderly, though, as I came to know over the next five years. It’s a slow process. Creeps up on cat burglar feet. I’ve never recovered from that first time, standing in Garvin’s room, watching his chest rise and fall in rhythm with the slow trickle of tears from Steve’s unwavering eyes. When Garvin’s breathing stopped and my supervising nurse pressed the stethoscope to his chest, confirming his final diagnosis, I ran from the room, sobbing, racing up the stairs to my mother, who worked on another floor. I collapsed in her arms, my eighteen year old heart broken by the glimpse of Garvin’s final moments. I cried and cried and cried. I don’t think I’ve ever cried so hard for anyone else in my life.

I didn’t even know Garvin. He was just a cranky old man that I occasionally fed, snapping my chewing gum in rhythm with the song playing in my head as I absent mindedly attended to his basic needs. I never had a conversation with him, his mind was long gone and he only mumbled angrily when we had to turn him over to clean him up or when we had to coax him to eat. I had spoken briefly with his son once, when Garvin lapsed into a coma, his spattering of consciousness finally succumbing to the vacuum that pulled him into the next level. I had assured him that his father was not in pain, but what the hell did I know, a silly teenaged girl, on the job for less than three months. I knew nothing about death, about growing old, about wearing out and letting the life leak out of you, one minute at a time. Maybe it is painful. But I assured him that it wasn’t. It seemed to be what he wanted to hear.

While much of my life has not been fortuitous, when it comes to permanently losing a loved one, I consider myself lucky. My children all nestle next to me and I can yell at them all I want. My siblings are all just a phone call away. The eight cousins I grew up with live comfortably in my memory, rising to the fore at our annual get-togethers. I have lost grandparents and aunts and uncles and even my father (though I don’t necessarily count that as a loss) to old age and abused bodies, but tragedy has kept her distance from me, and for that, I am grateful.

I have friends who have not been so lucky.

In the past few months, I have consoled two friends who have lost loved ones, a sister and a son. I have hugged them as they cried and tried to help them make sense of life, and the senselessness thereof. I have watched their outpouring of grief, observed the chin trembling control they seek when in the company of others, and have celebrated with them the joy of having known the one who left them.

It is a double edged sword, no doubt.

Just like in love, one doesn’t truly appreciate someone until they are gone. One doesn’t realize that lightbulbs don’t miraculously change themselves, and that no matter how long one lays in bed waiting, hot coffee does not magically appear on the bedside table. Perhaps that is the final gift of those that leave us. We can see them clearly through the lens of their life, not though the rose colored glasses of relationship. We know, unequivocally, what they meant to us, the direct impact they had on our lives, once they are gone, that we cannot know, cannot dare to conceive, while they are still with us.

I have another friend who lost his wife last spring, but he has not let me close enough to see his pain. I am curious about it, though; curious to compare and contrast it to the pain of losing a son and a sister. I wonder, too, how the pain of losing a spouse to death compares with the pain of losing a spouse to life.

A discussion of death would not be complete without a discussion of what comes next. It stands to reason that one’s view of life after death corresponds directly with one’s belief, or disbelief, in traditional religion. If one accepts unequivocally the tenets of truth wrought from the pages of a book, one most likely also accepts the truths within the pages regarding life after our bodies die.

I like to think of death in the terms of a movie I saw four years ago, and a book I read two years ago. The movie was Defending Your Life with Robert Brooks and Meryl Streep. In the movie, life is about overcoming your fears, and once you pass the test, given the evidence supplied to a three person jury, you are allowed to move on to the next level, although they don’t really describe what the next level is. In the process of learning to overcome your fears, you are most likely required to come back to earth several times. The more evolved souls have overcome more of their fears by virtue of several sojourns on earth.

Being mostly fearless, I like that idea.

The book I read was The Lovely Bones by Anna Seybold. In her book, heaven is what you create. Dogs go to heaven. You can visit with other souls. You can observe earthly activities, but not participate directly. Heaven is not clouds and harps and white garbed angels with wings, but instead is comfort as you remember it. A favorite swing. A country cabin in the mountains. Your grandmother’s house.

I like that idea, too.

But truth be told, a part of me believes that when a person dies, the appliance is simply unplugged. Not a very romantic concept, but that is where my grief usually goes. The person is gone. Forever. Except what lives on in the memories of those who loved them. After watching so many elderly people pass, at the tender age of 18-23, that is what lives with me.

A client of mine died in 1999, the Thanksgiving before Rexford broke my heart. I was distraught because I never got to say goodbye to him or adequately express to him how much he meant to me, although he had waxed effusively about his affections for me. I had not felt comfortable expressing the words back to him.

His daughter carefully guarded his hospital bed. I went to his office a couple months later and I sat in the chair I usually sat in when we would have our heated discussions about his company, about food, about life, about childhood and I could swear that I felt something in that room. Something joyful, something peaceful, but something out of the ordinary, something I’d never felt before. I’m not one of those people who feel the presence of spirits. I am skeptical, at best. Were it not for that lone experience, I would pooh pooh the idea altogether.

This essay is not about knowing answers. I celebrate the not knowing, the mystery.

When Garvin stopped breathing those many years ago, my pain was not for Garvin, it was for his son, Steve, who had waited so patiently to say goodbye, only to have his father pass on without even a nod in his son’s direction. My pain was for Steve’s pain. I couldn’t understand it, was angry, almost. It seemed cruel of Garvin to not give his son redemption in the end.

That, in a nutshell, is the lesson I learned.

I try to live my life so that I don’t need redemption. I love my mother and tell her often. Same with my kids, my friends, my co-workers. Guilt is an uncomfortable companion. If I have learned anything, it is to turn the other cheek to guilt. Once you do that, worry seems to look the other way as well.

In the end, these things matter the most:
How fully did you live,
How well did you love,
How deeply did you learn to let go.

Buddhist Principle.

Glorious Women of Cincinnati

Last night I went to the 9th Annual Glorious Women of Cincinnati party at the home of my friend and client, who I shall not name in the interests of preserving anonymity on my blog. We discussed Maya Angelou’s poem, Every Woman. This is what I came up with, followed by Maya’s poem.

According to Betty:

What every woman should know:

When to break the rules and when to only bend them
How to write a Match.com profile.
How to drive a stick shift…and I’m not talking about transmission
How balance her checkbook with her time and her energy.

What every woman should have:

A guy best friend that she hasn’t slept with
A means to support herself regardless of who lives with her
A means to express her inner soul…creatively, spiritually and sexually

Every Woman
By Maya Angelou

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ....enough money within her control to move out and rent a place of her own even if she never wants to or needs to...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ....something perfect to wear if the employer or date of her dreams wants to see her in an hour...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ...a youth she's content to leave behind....
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ....a past juicy enough that she's looking forward to retelling it in her old age....
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .....a set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a black lace bra...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ....one friend who always makes her laugh... and one who lets her cry...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ....a good piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in her family...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ....eight matching plates, wine glasses with stems, and a recipe for a meal that will make her guests feel honored...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ....a feeling of control over her destiny...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...how to fall in love without losing herself..
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...HOW TO QUIT A JOB,BREAK UP WITH A LOVER,AND CONFRONT A FRIEND WITHOUT RUINING THE FRIENDSHIP...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...when to try harder... and WHEN TO WALK AWAY...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...that she can't change the length of her calves, the width of her hips, or the nature of her parents..
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...
that her childhood may not have been perfect...but it’s over...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW..
what she would and wouldn't do for love or more...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...how to live alone... even if she doesn't like it...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...
whom she can trust,whom she can't,
and why she shouldn't take it personally...and why she shouldn't take it personally...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...where to go, be it to her best friend's kitchen table, or a charming inn in the woodswhen her soul needs soothing…
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...
what she can and can't accomplish in a day...
a month...
and a year...

The answers were incredibly rich and thought provoking. I wish I could remember them all. Women friends were high on the list, as was a party once a year to celebrate them. Confidence, a sense of her sexuality, ability to demand a little time alone, a relationship with her spiritual self were all mentioned. No one said every woman needs a man because we all know better. No one said every woman needs to be a mother because we all know very complete childfree women. No one said that we need to be more compassionate, more giving, more caring or kind because, well, we don’t need to be more of those things because we already are.

Mid Week Rendezvous

I stare at the paper before me for three seconds, initial and date the bottom right corner of the page, and flip to the next one. My job is rote, at times, and I can do my work without even thinking, read the page without seeing, catch mistakes without comprehending. It is an important part of what I do, but my god, it can be boring. My IM tinkles a message. I look up at my screen.

“Hi, sexy”

Blood rushes to lower regions at the sight of his screen name. My hands move reflexively to the keyboard and my lips tip up at the ends of their own accord.

“Hey, handsome”

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Reviewing boring audits. What are you doing?”

“Being frustrated. The piece I was working on all morning, that I just finished, just got cancelled. Within five minutes of me finishing. I wasted the morning.”

“Dang. I hate it when that happens.”

“Looking forward to Saturday.”

“Me, too. ”

“Long way to Saturday…”

“Indeed. Four long days.”

“Don’t know if I can make it four days.”

“Really…”

“Really…”

“Hmmmm. Perhaps we should have a midweek rendezvous.”

“What a great idea. Where?”

My IM partner lives in Lexington, I live in Cincinnati. It presents a few logistical problems, nothing insurmountable, but it takes some forethought to see each other.

“I saw a sign for Big Bone Lick state park on the way to the UK game last Saturday. That seems apropos. LOL”

“Um, yeah, but….it’s like 80 miles the wrong direction for either of us.”

“Oh.”

“Phone.”

I wait. I glance at the workpapers in front of me and sigh. This new man in my life is so much more exciting than this audit, than any audit in my office. I flip another page and scribble my initials.

“Exit 159. It’s about half way between us.

“Really?” The blood rushes back to my nether regions. I might actually get to see him tonight.

“Really. I can’t go yet, working on these deadlines. But soon. I’ll keep you posted.”

I fly through the rest of my review and go to work on the daunting pile of mail that accumulated in my inbox over the holidays, eagerly dispensing of the junk. Nonetheless, a formidable pile of correspondence remains that will require a bit of my attention.

“How soon can you leave?” My IM tinkles at me again, flashing orange on my computer screen.

“Just a second, I’ll ask my boss” I snicker over the keyboard. “She’s astonishingly understanding.”

He laughs.

“I can leave anytime.”

“Call me when you get on the road.”

The clock blinks 5:37pm when I turn my car south. I have spoken with all three of my kids. I’ve ordered pizza, as promised for Wednesday night, and I’m good to go. My thoughts turn to the man whizzing along in his truck towards me from Lexington. (Did I mention that he has a truck? And facial hair?) The spontaneity of this evening’s adventure is not lost on me, and I contrast this with our plans for Saturday, which have been carefully mapped out over the past three days. Lunch at LuLu’s, shopping at Jungle Jim's, an assessment of my backyard fence, a trip to the hardware store, and then, cooking together over my stove, menu carefully planned.

The man is ambidextrous when it comes to dates, he can do impromptu and structured equally and with ease. I like that.

The phone rings and I laugh and laugh through the tiny transmitters of my cell phone as we both hurtle through space and time towards each other. He gets there first. I pull into the driveway of the designated meeting place and there he is, smiling at me. He pulls me to him as soon as my car stops and his mouth is sweet with spearmint.

This man has been so easy. No controversy over other women. No heated debates about abortion. No divergent spiritual issues. No gasps of surprise and uncomfortable questions over the reasons for my divorce.

Just easy.

And fun.

I like easy and fun.

Something tells me I’m into something good.

And for some reason, I keep repeating that line….

A Moment on Mount Massey

The cabin sat in a clearing, beaconing beams of pine and birch, on top of a small mountain. It was surrounded by beautiful trees, barren branches, brown leaves quilted around their roots. The air was crisp and clear, the stars brilliant, visible even as the moon twirled her way to fullness. We unpacked the car and you gave me a tour, informing me that the cabin was a “no bra” zone and I laughingly complied, slipping the straps off through my sleeves and whisking the offending scraps of cotton out from under my shirt. You presented me with a gray plastic package to open, cotton slipper socks hiding within. I slid them over my toes and sighed in grateful comfort.

I unpacked the groceries and found places in your cupboards for my things. You set about readying the cabin for the weekend, lighting pilot lights, explaining the wonders of the energy efficient “cool tube”, which I didn’t totally understand, but believed because you said it to be true. While you performed the perfunctory tasks, I took in the cabin, the mirror to your soul. You had been here the previous weekend with your daughter and the pine tree and strings of colored lights reflected your holiday spirit. Sparkling clean dog bowls awaited your next visit and the company of your Brittany spaniel. Knotty pine panels adorned the walls, antlers of deer and moose displaying your passions, window after window overlooking the wooded hillside, your personal slice of paradise. The space was compact and efficient, kitchen leading into living room, ladder leading to loft, door to your bedroom wide open and waiting.

So I did. But not for long.

We melted into each other’s arms, that first hot and hurried time. Tugging at sleeves, dispensing with buttons and boots and bending elbows. Skin to skin, finally and at long last, not even bothering with making up the bed, passion nibbled and suckled and sighed in contentment. We whispered endearments we meant at the time, which stood still those first few hours, and gave ourselves the gift of feeling fleeting moments of connection.

The rain began before we went to sleep, drumming lightly on the roof throughout the night, its cadence in sync with the bonds of connection we built making love in the wee hours of the morning and again at daybreak. You spent the first day replacing the master bedroom furnace and for a while, I watched you work and played you music. You surprised me with tears after hearing the haunting melody of Pachelbel’s Cannon in D, causing me a secret smile as your unpredictability blossomed. Finally, I busied myself with baking cookies while you worried over your work.

Midafternoon, pausing from your project, you joined me at the window as I gazed in wonder at the foothills stretched in front of me. Raising the binoculars to your line of vision, you gasped in surprise, and handed the lenses to me. Across the horizon, a gushing gorge surged down the hillside, collecting the remains of the overnight rain and hurtling the water on its way. The wind had picked up and the trees swayed and bent and bowed to the god of weather. I got dizzy watching those trees. We turned to watch from the west and just as we turned, a tree gave up, crashing to the ground across the tractor path. You swore. More work. But for later, for another day, when other strong male arms could help you.

The wind whistled all afternoon, howling at times, a dissonant harmony to the calm and peace of the day before. Fearless Betty wondered at the strength of Mother Nature, and worried, as she almost never did, that perhaps she might not be safe. Turning my anxious eyes and words to you, you smiled and acknowledged the danger.

It stopped after awhile, and with your project complete, we took a walk in the woods before dusk, you pointing out the buck scratchings and laughing as you explained their mating rituals. We climbed around rocks and looked up at critter nests and admired the water rumbling down the hillside. We grilled salmon for supper, sharing a sweet potato and salad and tumbled into bed, delighted with each other’s company and the warm camaraderie.

We woke early the next morning, a mission to accomplish. You guided me down and around the perimeter of your property and we posted the no trespassing signs, watching for deer, watching for hunters, watching for slickened leaves and muddy slopes and lost footholds. Bundled up in boots and woolen socks and hats and gloves and insulated coats, we quietly made our way through your wonderland, softly speaking, smiling, stopping on occasion to press our lips together in appreciation.

I showered and napped in the afternoon while you watched a football game, waking tousle headed and fresh. Your eyes lit up with such delight when I padded over and sat next to you on the couch. Excitedly, you told me about the bluebirds which had come to visit while I slumbered, fluttering a show for your eyes only. I smiled up at you and you kissed me, eyes darkening in passion, your hand slipping between the folds of your red plaid bathrobe, which I had usurped from the back of your bedroom door after my nap.

You pulled me to my feet, your mouth on mine, urging me backwards, your need fierce and strong. The inside of my knees found the edge of the bed and you pushed me back, the bathrobe falling open, your pants quickly dispensed with. Pinning my arms with strong hands, you held yourself above me, desire dark in your eyes. Releasing my arm just long enough to pull one of my legs up and over your hip, you entered me, eyes burning into mine with enough heat to illuminate the whole cabin. I bucked beneath you, loving every minute, loving every stroke, every touch, every surprise, every inch of your skin. I loved you, with my body and with my soul.

And then something changed.

Perhaps it was fear, as you said. Perhaps it was seeing my hunger and vulnerability as I lay beneath you in that lustful moment of submissive passion. Perhaps it was something I can never comprehend, but a distance sprouted between us, confusing me, saddening you. You tried to combat it, taking me outside to see your tractor, letting me drive the 1934 green International Harvester mechanical horse. I whooped with delight, cautiously, nervously, shifting into gear, your warm breath on my neck, calming my fear.

My mental sword challenged the distance over a dinner of hamburger and baked potato. I revealed my heart, telling you that if I hadn’t known that I loved you before sharing your cabin and your soul, I knew it now. And then, I did the unthinkable. I asked a question and you answered, honestly, for the first time ever in your life, and your secret swirled into the night, extinguishing our budding blossoms of love. I watched in horror. Not at your secret, I honored and acknowledged your tender, sad and broken little boy, pleading with me to understand and not judge. And I didn’t! I wanted nothing more than to gather you into my arms and hold you, comfort you, assure you that you were still whole, still worthy, still wonderful and deserving of love.

It was too late. Our foundation was too young, too wooden, too green to survive the tempest of your secret. Sadly, I cleaned up the kitchen and went for a walk, on the premise of admiring the stars. I found a soft spot under a tree and I cried salty tears of remorse. When would I ever learn to keep my mouth shut.

We slept without touching that night. I woke before you and noticed, as I rounded the corner of the bed, that you held your pillow while you slept exactly the same way I do when I sleep alone, and I knew that it was over. Coffee mugs nestled in our hands, we talked and you confirmed my fears. I offered you my advice. Don’t tell a woman that you love her until you are absolutely certain that you mean it. Testing the waters with words leads only to heartache.

We move on from heartache, some more quickly than others. I look back now at those three days with you and I smile. How hopeful that weekend was. How encouraging to find someone so companionable. Another year, another lifetime, it might have worked. We take our lumps, assess our losses and learn our lessons, counting to three the next time.

We wished each other well.

And then we let go.

New Year's Resolutions

Another year wends her way into this particular space in time, turning before the mirror, checking the length of her hair. I’ve taken stock, as I always do when the calendar turns the big one. It was a good year. I fought some battles. I grew some flowers. I fell in like and I fell in love. The like tends to last longer than the love. Why is that?

My boys are growing up into fine young men. In December, the two oldest both got their driver’s licenses. They both have cars of their own, license plated and insured. It’s a wonder I ever see them anymore, but as luck would have it, they still seem to like paddling about in the pond at home. Gregory has amazed me, volunteering to run errands for me, being a bigger help to me that I would have ever suspected. I don’t know what that’s about, but I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth. I’m guessing the reason is simple. He’s growing up.

For those of you who read my blog and wonder, I have a new love in my life. He is funny and smart, kind and compassionate. His political and spiritual beliefs mirror my own and he gets me in a way that is disquieting, except for the fact that I get him in a similar way. I don’t know about the first two of the four leaf clover of relationships equation, because I don’t know him well enough to make those observations…but I do know that communication is easy and intensely personal, the way I like it. His libido more than matches my own, which quite frankly, I didn’t think was possible and I am enjoying immensely that aspect of new found romance.

And for the record, I’m not talking about sex.

I am talking about his libido for life, the embracing of all the quirks and quagmires we encounter on the path. He wraps his arms around experiences and celebrates them, even the most intensely painful of them…and he lets me wrap my arms around him and experience them vicariously. I love that about him.

He is every bit as upbeat and positive as I am. Playful perches smack dab in the middle of his persona. Every day, I look forward to talking with him because I know he will make me laugh. In the depths of his despair, he seeks to lighten my load.

Something tells me I’m into something good.

Now, wait. Someone said that before I did.

Something tells me I’m into something good. The melody is murmuring in the background. Time is rolling backwards…1965, Herman’s Hermits. Hmmmm.

I called this post New Year’s resolutions for a reason. I want to post mine. I have a couple. Here they are:

1. I want to get up by six every school day.
2. I want to write every day.
3. I want to exercise every school day.
4. I want to not be stupid about love.
5. I want to get into work before 9:30 every day.

The fourth one might be asking for the impossible.