Thursday, 12 July 2007

Comments are off and I have a flight booked for the kids and I tonight. We're going to Toronto. If you have a kind wish, fling it this way in spirit.

Apt and obvious.

From Dictionary.com so there's no mistake:

    pro∑found /pr?'fa?nd/ [pruh-found] Pronunciation Key
    -er, -est, noun
    ñadjective
    1. penetrating or entering deeply into subjects of thought or knowledge; having deep insight or understanding: a profound thinker.
    2. originating in or penetrating to the depths of one's being; profound grief.
    3. being or going far beneath what is superficial, external, or obvious: profound insight.
    4. of deep meaning; of great and broadly inclusive significance: a profound book.
    5. pervasive or intense; thorough; complete: a profound silence.
    6. extending, situated, or originating far down, or far beneath the surface: the profound depths of the ocean.
    7. low: a profound bow.
    8. deep.
    ñnoun Literary.
    9. something that is profound.
    10. the deep sea; ocean.
    11. depth; abyss.

Amantium irae amoris integratio est

(The quarrels of lovers are the renewal of love, it means.)

Floating on the wings of a cast-iron moth she crashed to earth and realized that nothing was changing. Nothing ebbed, nothing flowed. There was no air. The extreme joy and delight with which she looks at him still gives her pause, makes her goosebump all over and fills her up with thankfulness and gratefulness and incredulity. He is no less starstruck by their union and the perceived societal time-line imposed by those with no similar emotions fails to dent their spark.

Sometimes now that light is tinged with shadows, for she is wary of luck, suspicious of good fortune and used to worlds crashing into fire all around her. And so is this always the beginning of the end? Is it an eventual disaster biding time? Is it a price that will be paid at date to be determined later?

Are you running on borrowed time, Bridget?

No, I wasn't.

As long as you don't bring it up I'm not afraid to wake up breathless. I'm adjusting to those goosebumps and the lump that rises in my throat when he touches me. OhhessobeautifulsobeautifulIwanttocry.

I can hear him now when sometimes I'll head upstairs first in the evening. To wash my face, brush my teeth, put on a little eye cream to try to stave off the ravages of sun and time so he will always see me as he did that first night, well-lit in forgiving semi-darkness, reflected in the water, preparing to unwind in style with few cares in this world or the next.

I laugh, because alone I have ravaged myself and all the potions and hopes in the universe aren't going to lessen my damaged interior. They can't reach. It's simply too far.

(Prettyontheoutside)

I hear him talk easily, a guarded film coating his voice when he can't find the right words but still so much better than before. We made it to this place. The together-place and so everything after will eventually sort out.

He is still amazed that he can touch her and she goosebumps all over, that he can tell her he loves her so and it brings her to tears when it should make her happy and she assures him it does but then why is she sad?

He knows, I think he knows. And I thought I was adjusting.

Had I had half a chance I would have presented myself perfectly. Oh my, the love then! Could you imagine it, if only for a moment to indulge me, if he and I had met and there would have been no others. No commitments, no baggage, no details, no established flaws in her being, none of this to work through. Oh sure I would have been depressed but hopefully only mildly so, well-managed and not stifled by the games of another without my best interests in his heart. Oh no.

It would have been perfect. Imagining perfect is what you ride through imperfect. It's what buoys you through rough seas and long hurricane nights. It's what, foolishly, we cling to. All of us.

It's a poor description of faith, he tells me. A joke, a cop-out. An excuse for lack of trying. A despicable thought. Faith doesn't come with a price. There is no eventual crash-landing, God doesn't exist on an iron moth any more than Bridget has to pay for her sins anymore.

Some would argue that he does and she will.

Jacob would argue that she already did and not to stick God in metaphors to suit one's will. God is God and that is that.

Bridget has paid, and there is no longer a cloud over her head. His year is up and he is no longer taking a back seat to dead abusive husbands, petulance or princesses with peas up their arses. Nor stupid friends, counselors who wish to carry out experiments or any definition of what appears to be right or wrong to the greater population. Life is now. Life starts here. Goosebumps are welcome, appreciated and so freakin' neat.

In other words, we haven't gotten anywhere but I don't feel like spelling that out. It's becoming so painfully obvious.

Wednesday, 11 July 2007

Butterflies are deaf.

The morning, for your imagination's pleasure.

    She's all that I see
    And all that I breathe
    Take a breath and hold her in
    As the shadows whispering

    And I can hear the laughter
    Knowing what they're after
    While she flies beside me
    A man with broken wings


There is a crack that runs from the floor to the ceiling in a lazy zigzag in the front hallway. The pictures on the walls are never straight. There might be muddy paw prints on the kitchen floor and the sun comes beaming through the sheer curtains each morning, beginning in the front hall and working through the house to dip below the fence that separates our yard from the next.

There are dirty teacups in the sink, and stack of books on the steps waiting to be put away on the crowded shelves upstairs. A giant Nova Scotia flag flutters gently in the porch window now and a giant Newfoundlander sings Gravedancer in the music room downstairs, because the kids appear to be sleeping in today. We leave the basement door open in the summer and the laundry's thundering in the ever-noisy dryer but Jacob sings above it, never shy about singing as loud as he feels the urge. I can hear him perfectly.

Perhaps instead of the carpentry as a new career he could go back to being a rock star.

Well, a fledgling rock star anyway. I can hear the girlies screaming again now. God how they screamed. Oh I was so happy when he gave it up and he didn't even belong to me then.

The coffeepot is full, and so is my heart this morning. All is well.

I meet Joel for lunch at 1 pm sharp.

    And everytime that we feel it
    It's just another long wasted night
    And the dance that we tear
    Is just another way for you to roll over me
    And the bed that we're sharing
    Is the home that I wanna bring you
    Want to feel you
    I don't want to hear you

Tuesday, 10 July 2007

Berry extravaganza update.

We now have six pies and will soon have eight jars of jam for the dry pantry. I froze the rest. I don't think I'll ever need to see another strawberry in my lifetime. Pies have been dispatched to PJ's mom, one to Ben, one to the new neighbors on our right, one to Chris if he uses two hands to eat it, one to creepy Jack down the street (long story) and one to keep for late night snacks for Jacob, who has already pointed out he plans to eat the whole thing for dinner so maybe we shouldn't have given one to Chris.

Them's sour berries, I said.

I need a recipe for Strawberry cake because I would have rather had that. Unfortunately I have a knack for scratch pie crust. Who knew?

Tomorrow is lunch with Joel. Should give me lots to write about.

Endless afternoons.

He smiled at me from across the porch as I sat in the sun on the peeling boards of the steps we never find time to paint, hulling strawberries with his jackknife, my lips stained full and red from eating as many as I put in the bowl, cheeks burned pink from sun and wind, my hair tangled into knots and full of dirt. My legs were bare, splayed out in front of me as I sat trying to keep the newspaper and the big tin bowl centered so the mess stayed in one place. Dirt under my nails, even, dirt on the hem of my dress.

You look beautiful. Are you going to do jam or pies?

Thank you, and both, I think. There's enough.

He laughed and went back to reading his paper.

We've been busy working on our communication skills, like allowing each other time to get the words out before we jump all over context. And doing Five Things, which is when we verbally list five things we are thankful for in that day or moment before daring to complain about something we don't have or can't seem to reach.

For some reason we're always strolling through the farmer's market when we come up with the best lists and then we get distracted, forget to complain at all and wind up bringing home strange things like parsnips (no one in this house really enjoys a parsnip) or twenty pounds of berries, like yesterday.

Want some?

Monday, 9 July 2007

Scoundrels, all of them. But it's okay.

Somewhere around midnight last night, I fell asleep. A book on my face, the cool breeze carrying the scent of roses in to me, a few drops remaining in a cup of tea on the table nearby. The windchimes in the front room a gentle toll of bells that brought into my dreams a flood of boats bobbing on the water and buoys clanking. The hammock swayed just enough to mimic a rowboat slumber and I was in my glory, soon to wake up by the seashore, my first view that of my favorite blue water, the place where I breathe. I waited with such anticipation. I could almost taste it.

Instead I was gently prodded back to earth and away from heaven when skin mixed with rough stubble rubbed against my cheek. Lips against my ear, a hand on my other ear as he tried to rouse me to come to bed without startling me.

His lips left my ear and trailed gently, butterfly kisses until he reached my lips and we met in a sweet dream unto itself, those best ones being when you wake up mid-kiss.

So relaxed was I that not a single coherent thought could work through my brain and form into words. I struggled to greet him, to tell him how tired I was, to point out I loved him and this wasn't the ocean and oh, gee, I have to go to bed before I fall down. The words stumbled out in slurs. He laughed, he kissed my forehead and led me to bed by the hand, taking the book and the tea too, and once I was in a so much more comfortable place I had a final notion that I would sleep fully clothed because zzzzzzz.

Upon waking I am still a little fuzzy. I feel good, I feel a little tired but good. There is no barometer and these are the best days. The ones where I feel vaguely happy and barely ambivalent and all is strangely well.

Which means that I am still medicated.

Ha!

Jacob is so much smarter than I am. Because I didn't figure it out until this morning. Here I took the encouragement and support for what has amounted to a twelve pound weight gain and two averted almost-lows and thought I was handling things so much better. The joke is on me but you know something? It's fine. We'll leave it. It explains multitudes of events, or should I say, non-events.

In other news fit to print waking up on a Monday knowing the fridge and pantry are stocked, the house is clean, the laundry is caught up and summer vacation is now in full swing is just wonderful. I'm going to enlist the kids to help with a little yard work out front and then we'll retire into the shade this afternoon for ice cream cones and then a movie before dinner. Tonight is fresh sweet corn for dinner, courtesy of the farmer's market. So good with real butter and a little salt. I find something wonderful about a day with no commitments. Except for getting being well, but it looks like he's going to take care of that for me. Jacob takes care of everything.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

    Daylight dims leaving cold fluorescents
    Difficult to see you in this light
    Please forgive this selfish question, but
    What am I to say to all these ghouls tonight?
    "She never told a lie,
    ... well might have told a lie,
    But never lived one.
    Didn't have a life,
    Didn't have a life,
    But surely saved one."
    See? I'm alright
    Now it's time for us to let you go.

Sunday, 8 July 2007

Round tables with square corners.

Updates for today are light. My ankle is fine. I can walk on it all day or climb and it throbs a bit at night but otherwise it works. I haven't run yet but I'm hoping to get back to it midweek.

The gym called Christian last night and told him he was stripped of his privileges there. He's fine with that, he says cockily that he can climb anywhere, there are tons of outdoor venues. Jacob asked him who would trust him for a partner and Chris just shook his head, knocked down a peg and apologized again. I don't think he really meant to do it as much as he meant to try to prove he is as strong as Jake.

Jacob, who is built like a blacksmith on steroids.

Those guys, geez, they're so busy trying to outdo each other the room invariably fills up with testosterone and chokes off their common sense. Nothing has changed in the last decade. The good news is it wasn't malicious and once Jacob cooled off a little he backed off considerably.

You see, Cole let everyone get away with murder. Jacob lets them get away with nothing. They're all still feeling out their boundaries with me, with us, with everything. Really, I give them credit for sticking it out. Most friends would have just drifted away when things get too tough. Not my guys. This army is going to ride it's own dissension until everything gets ironed out. Infighting knights. Kindhearted and fearless. Fierce and slightly hellbent on making a new and better history for these ages. Fools on errands.

When we went to bed last night before it was even dark outside Jacob took me into his arms and kissed me long and hard, to put his heart back from where it rose into his throat yesterday afternoon. I returned his kiss with fervor, cementing his heart exactly where it should be, held aloft by love and not by terror. I'm safe. I'm fine, but still he never rests.

The fragility returns, like it always does, to form my unwelcome shadow. I can't hide from it, I'll never outrun what seeks to keep me brittle and precious. I think Jacob likes things better this way anyway. He wields the sword, I'll stand behind him and he goes right back to being In Charge. We always return to this.

Because it works.

Today is church and then the park. It's cooler today weatherwise too, a perfect day for a walk and an ice cream and then maybe a movie late tonight. Some quiet times for four, then two.

Have a nice weekend.

Saturday, 7 July 2007

Always use two hands, Chris.

Christian can be such a jerk sometimes. This afternoon he let me fall twenty feet to the heavily-padded floor of the climbing gym, only I didn't hit the floor, thank God, I landed in Jacob's arms. Because for once he was standing under us yelling repeatedly to Chris to use two hands. Chris got cocky and used one hand, making some joke about feathers and angels which ended in an oath of fear and surprise and one of those moments you wish you could stuff back inside whichever hole it crawled out of.

Jacob.

Caught.

Me.

One of those rare and wonderful moments where he's right where he wanted to be.

They made it out to the parking lot before Jacob went at Chris. They went down in the dust, and I stood watching until I saw blood and then I dryly asked if we could go home now. We arrived back in the house and cooler heads prevailed as I managed to fill PJ in on what happened. PJ barely had time to remind me that trusting Chris with my life probably isn't such a great idea when Jacob decided he wasn't through and launched at him again.

Sigh.

I have now locked them in the backyard and I can still hear Jacob swearing. It's great to see the summer sports going as smashingly as the winter ones do.

Friday, 6 July 2007

Jesus on a skateboard.

Jacob's secret to long life and how to gain fifteen pounds in a month flat? Because he's gaining weight along with me, which only makes him more of a wall of man?

Dunkaroos.

He's got a raging addiction to them, which I just found out about after wondering how half a case disappeared in less than three days. I figured August was a serial snacker so I didn't say anything and then I caught Jacob red-handed. He swears they're vegan, and so that makes it okay. I think he just likes the blue packaging. When I look in my bag it's full of blue Dunkaroos and blue keys.

The day we attended our final counseling session with the marriage counselor we kept firing and rehiring, I saw a older man with super long brown hair and a long beard on a skateboard and he looked like Jesus to me. A stoplight savior, I guess he was.

I rolled down the window and stuck my hand out to give him one of those blue keys from the stopgap program we have here to help feed the homeless. Instead of cash we can buy keys to give that they can exchange for a meal or assorted services and Jacob does not like it. He would rather see the money expand the shelters and get people off the streets at night and into rehab programs during the day.

Skateboard man smiled at me with his faded brown eyes and one dirty tooth and said,

Bless you, my child.

I smiled at him. Jacob looked across me and smiled and blessed him right back but that man never took his eyes off me.

The skateboard man has become a ritual for me. He hasn't left the corner where I make my left when I leave downtown and so if he is a summer fixture then I will be a fixture for him. I've given him seventeen keys so far this year, the equivalent of taking him out to dinner each night on a shoestring budget so he can rest with a warm belly full of food. He looks past my easy smile for him and sees other things. Maybe he sees things I don't even know he sees, as if we are both on level of madness that is only discernible to others who suffer the same grief. Some days I want to ask him how he ended up here, why he doesn't have someone, but instead I give him his key and receive my blessing and move on when the traffic dictates that it's time to go.

He's my daily reminder that things could be worse, but they're not.

Jacob brought home ten more keys last night for him, and suggested we park and walk to him to see if he wants further options. But I don't think he's real. I don't think he'll be there if we try to approach on foot. I can't explain it to Jacob because he might think I've gone off it but I think the skateboard man is Jesus and he's appearing to me and focused on me because I'm the one who needs help. Sort of like God sent Jacob to me but maybe God is frustrated too with how long it takes me to react to things and how long it takes me to accept the signs, take the help, make the changes. I have triggered a monumental flood of sympathy and support from those around me willing to help save Bridget. The army, I suppose.

I must be meant for something great. I think I even know already what it is.

Love, silly. It's love. I just need to stop fighting it.