You wouldn’t believe the difference

Last night I noticed that there was still daylight out at 5:30pm.

My heart lifted and my soul sang.

I noticed that it’s not been bone-chillingly cold the last week or so.

Telling the boys “get OUTSIDE” is becoming less of a chore now that they actually go AND STAY out.

I have a good schedule at school this time around. We’re still having some babysitting issues, but working around them is becoming easier and easier. I didn’t realize what a difference having this schedule would make on my state of mind.

It no longer feels like I’m drowning in housework and kids and homework and yardwork and..and…and…and.

Requiem for a sofa

It was ugly. Not butt-ugly, but…didn’t go with anything else ugly. A dual-reclining heavy monstrosity that was a pain in the behind to clean under. Blue, with peach plaid striping and a pineapple in each square.

The sofa was in the livingroom when I moved back home from Little Rock. Like everything else that has happened in my life, that monstrosity was waiting for me. The armrests were the perfect height for me to rest my pregnancy-swollen ankles on and still keep an eye on Daniel. The dual recliner not only meant that I could change positions, but that Alannah could have a sleepover and they could watch TV and still have a place to stretch out and sleep.

The ugly meant that my heart was not shattered when something inevitably got spilled on it. I blotted the spots dry and every few months I would wield the upholstery attachment on the carpet cleaner, rendering it fresh-smelling and relatively un-stained (though nothing would ever completely remove the stain of my entire cup of coffee splashed across one cushion).

Me sitting on the blue sofa

This is one of the first pictures I ever let Daniel take with *my* camera. That was (is) my favorite position for reading – curled up against the armrest.

Daniel's favorite sick spot

When he was sick, Daniel liked to sit “in my spot”. (Yes, french toaststicks do make it all better, why do you ask?)

(Yes, the sofa was blue. No, I didn’t realize the difference in color tone in the pictures until after I’d started writing. Yes, I’m lazy enough to leave it. Daniel’s pic was taken with a phone cam, we’ll leave it at that.)

Alas, Mama did not love the Blue Monstrosity. It was too big, too heavy, too ughLEE, and didn’t match. (For the record, I agree with ALL of those points.) She declared that it should be relegated to storage and the “new” sofa installed.

I objected, highly. Yes, the sofa is big and heavy and doesn’t match. And my heart doesn’t break when something gets spilled. Yes, it may be YOUR house, but you NEVER spend time in the livingroom and WE DO.

I lost the argument, natch.

Daddy hauled it off one day and replaced it with a nightmare. He told me the Blue Monstrosity was safe, but wouldn’t tell me where it was. He hauled it off before I could clean it and wrap it in plastic, sealed with a kiss. (Smart man. He knew I’d try to bring it back.)

And then the accident happened, and our world was made of upsidasium for a while. We cleaned out The Big House – no sofa. We cleaned out the barn – no sofa. We cleaned out The Little House – no sofa. Finally, we made it to the garage at The Little House. There, standing on end was the Blue Monstrosity.


My heart lept for joy….until I touched the fabric. It has been out there for two years. Yes, it’s been dry…but remember, that sofa needed to be cleaned. I made calls – everyone wants to reupholster it until they find out it’s a double-recliner. Then the price doubles.

Yes, I already have replaced The Nightmare with something more family-friendly. No, I really didn’t have room for the Blue Monstrosity. That’s not the point.

Vaya con Dios, my friend. You were so comfortable, and I miss you.

The Invitation

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon…
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.

Oriah

Okay, I’m done.

It’s over. Finished, kaput, fin.

I know I haven’t given you a blow-by-blow of the last month, so let me do that now.

He has called me every day, and asked for permission to call the next day.
He is in love, calls me his precious, his love, and tells me I’m more beautiful every time he sees me.
He wants to be married in a year, maybe.

I do not give my heart so easily. I like him. I appreciate his attentions, but am in no way shape or form in love. To be completely frank, the last time he told me I was beautiful I accused him of intoxication (In my defense, I’d been at work for 8 hours and was having one of those bloated uncomfortable “omg I’m a TROLL” days).

Neither am I ready to speak of marriage.

For a few brief moments, I felt badly that I didn’t return his sentiment. I do LIKE the guy, after all.

But.

Guilt is a horrible foundation for a relationship, and I did indeed feel guilty about not being as ready as he is to commit.

But.

Last night I tried again to explain to him that I felt as much, and found that it’s not about me, it’s about him. He kept kissing me and wouldn’t let me speak. I tried to push him away so I could speak, and he wouldn’t release me.

It’s frustrating enough with the language and cultural differences, but to think that kisses can change my mind is naive at best.