First week in July, 2013:
At the end of the day I hear the garage door, which needs oiling, going up, indicating Will's return from his office. The grinding of the door rising signals my sense of readiness to switch tracks and welcome my husband home with a smile as is my habit.
Upon parking his BMW along side my SRX (the purchase of which provides another story, concerning sound reason for expanding mindsets), Will pushes the button that lowers the garage door, and as the grinding starts up, again, he enters the laundry room, thus making his way into our one story, patio home—the exterior of which is painted various hues of beige to meld into the mountain, rising majestically to meet the sky directly beyond our royal blue tiled hot tub. Our home, built with thoughts of retirement lurking in the shadows of our mind, has a minuscule back yard, due to our decision to enlongate the model of our house. Our lot, chosen because of its peaceful proximity to the mountain in a friendly neighborhood where downtown events are only minutes away, is protected by a wrought iron fence, colored similarly to our home, thus blending into the landscape that serves as the natural habitat of desert dwellers, such as prairie dogs, road runners, countless cotton tails and pairs of quails that charm a smile to play upon my lips each time I slow my car and watch an entire family toddle hurriedly across the street in single file, papa in the lead, followed by mama, babies pulling up the rear.
Needless to say, wrought iron rails do not prohibit small creatures from visiting us. These rails have been installed to separate man from beast, specifically the hungry pack of coyotes that roams our streets, day and night, thirsting for nourishment and water. I say hungry because in addition to being skinny, the entire pack looks angry. I say thirsty because of drought. As to bob cats, they're known to be present, as well, though I'm glad to say that this city girl from the Midwest has yet to have spied even one during thirty-nine years of having them as neighbors. Though all three of our homes, two of which we built from the ground up, have been in the foothills of this mountain range, it was not until we moved into our present neighborhood that I shivered like prey upon my first sighting of these predators stalking our streets, seeking snacks, which at first had been comprised of my neighbors' beloved, small pets, which had playfully roamed the neighborhood, unleashed until word of these hungry hunters spread from home to home, causing the leash law to be adhered to more seriously than ever before …
One day, while slipping a letter into the slot of the out box, where about twenty mail boxes are clustered together, several skinny coyotes trotted up right next to me from out of nowhere, I swear. And you can believe me when I say that my feet took wing. With what felt like one flying leap, I took refuge in the driver seat of my SUV, and heart pounding like mad, I slammed the door and locked those wild things out in the cold!
The day before yesterday, our neighborhood book group (which I started about a dozen years back in hopes of building friendships with those living close by, who, like me, enjoy character development along with analyzing insight concerning many aspects of life) convened. As our group listened, rapt, a friend shared a true tale that took place earlier this week: Upon hearing strange noises scratching at her front door, my neighbor opened it to find a javelina, standing guard over a half eaten, apple pie … its close set, beady eyes staring her down in a mean spirited, pig-headed way. After slamming the door and catching her breath, my friend's mind couldn't believe her own eyes. What was a wild pig, devouring a pie, doing at her front door??? A bit later, her phone rang, and thank goodness for that, because missing details were about to transform mental strain, born of confusion, into sanity, again. Another neighbor had hurriedly dropped off the pie and forgotten to call ... which is why this desert pig, thought to be an offshoot of the hippopotamus family, got first dibs on such a succulent, home made dessert. As you can see, in addition to my book group, a wide variety of God's creatures who make up the food chain, live a short stroll down the block from my home.
At any rate, Will walks into the house and finds me in my natural habitat, which has changed over the years from preparing dinner in the kitchen to sitting before my computer in our home office, where, fingers flying across cordless keyboard, I enjoy two activities: One being keeping close touch with life long friends and the other, immersing both sides of my mind in writing my blog.
If I'm e-mailing or editing, Will's presence captures all of my attention. If my mind is wholly absorbed in emergent emotion flowing freely from somewhere in the distant past then it takes a whale of concentration on my part to refocus my attention because of this fact: While writing each story, every experience is relived with such depth that strings of insight pour out of my mind, illuminating subconscious fears of which I was unaware. And while engaged in that portion of the story-telling process, I inveriably experience opposing emotional reactions, causing my mind to struggle with this inner conflict: One side of my think tank feels resistant to Will's presence until the loving side wins that tug of war, pulling my whole sense of consciousness into the present tense. Once I was able to clarify that conflict for Will, his patience increased.
You see, I chose to explain my reaction in a way that Will identified with:
Will, before I began to write seriously (passionately) I did not understand how you'd disappear into 'the zone' while playing or watching sports. I couldn't fathom your difficulty transitioning from that wave length to recognizing that I was standing next to you, asking a question. Now that my whole mind disappears into 'the zone', I get it.
Once I'd framed my conflict within an arena that made sense to Will, his frustration while waiting for me to finish a thought transformed into standing in a seemingly relaxed and patient pose behind me while I wrapped up a sentence, pushed save, swiveled my chair around and lifted my face to welcome him home with a smiling kiss—as has become our custom. Though our relationship had not always been spontaneously affectionate, defensive reactions, on both sides, had good reason to change for the better quite a few years ago …
So at the end of most work days, Will's patience floats on white clouds of consciously respectful understanding at those times when the writer in me has to work at controling inner conflict just long enough to finish a thought, and when I lift my face to welcome my husband home after work, his smile matches mine. Not so much, today. In fact, it's plain to see that Will's smile doesn't reach his eyes. Uh-oh, I say, my mind snapping to attention upon recognizing that Will's spirit is flat—What's wrong?
At the end of the day I hear the garage door, which needs oiling, going up, indicating Will's return from his office. The grinding of the door rising signals my sense of readiness to switch tracks and welcome my husband home with a smile as is my habit.
Upon parking his BMW along side my SRX (the purchase of which provides another story, concerning sound reason for expanding mindsets), Will pushes the button that lowers the garage door, and as the grinding starts up, again, he enters the laundry room, thus making his way into our one story, patio home—the exterior of which is painted various hues of beige to meld into the mountain, rising majestically to meet the sky directly beyond our royal blue tiled hot tub. Our home, built with thoughts of retirement lurking in the shadows of our mind, has a minuscule back yard, due to our decision to enlongate the model of our house. Our lot, chosen because of its peaceful proximity to the mountain in a friendly neighborhood where downtown events are only minutes away, is protected by a wrought iron fence, colored similarly to our home, thus blending into the landscape that serves as the natural habitat of desert dwellers, such as prairie dogs, road runners, countless cotton tails and pairs of quails that charm a smile to play upon my lips each time I slow my car and watch an entire family toddle hurriedly across the street in single file, papa in the lead, followed by mama, babies pulling up the rear.
Needless to say, wrought iron rails do not prohibit small creatures from visiting us. These rails have been installed to separate man from beast, specifically the hungry pack of coyotes that roams our streets, day and night, thirsting for nourishment and water. I say hungry because in addition to being skinny, the entire pack looks angry. I say thirsty because of drought. As to bob cats, they're known to be present, as well, though I'm glad to say that this city girl from the Midwest has yet to have spied even one during thirty-nine years of having them as neighbors. Though all three of our homes, two of which we built from the ground up, have been in the foothills of this mountain range, it was not until we moved into our present neighborhood that I shivered like prey upon my first sighting of these predators stalking our streets, seeking snacks, which at first had been comprised of my neighbors' beloved, small pets, which had playfully roamed the neighborhood, unleashed until word of these hungry hunters spread from home to home, causing the leash law to be adhered to more seriously than ever before …
One day, while slipping a letter into the slot of the out box, where about twenty mail boxes are clustered together, several skinny coyotes trotted up right next to me from out of nowhere, I swear. And you can believe me when I say that my feet took wing. With what felt like one flying leap, I took refuge in the driver seat of my SUV, and heart pounding like mad, I slammed the door and locked those wild things out in the cold!
The day before yesterday, our neighborhood book group (which I started about a dozen years back in hopes of building friendships with those living close by, who, like me, enjoy character development along with analyzing insight concerning many aspects of life) convened. As our group listened, rapt, a friend shared a true tale that took place earlier this week: Upon hearing strange noises scratching at her front door, my neighbor opened it to find a javelina, standing guard over a half eaten, apple pie … its close set, beady eyes staring her down in a mean spirited, pig-headed way. After slamming the door and catching her breath, my friend's mind couldn't believe her own eyes. What was a wild pig, devouring a pie, doing at her front door??? A bit later, her phone rang, and thank goodness for that, because missing details were about to transform mental strain, born of confusion, into sanity, again. Another neighbor had hurriedly dropped off the pie and forgotten to call ... which is why this desert pig, thought to be an offshoot of the hippopotamus family, got first dibs on such a succulent, home made dessert. As you can see, in addition to my book group, a wide variety of God's creatures who make up the food chain, live a short stroll down the block from my home.
At any rate, Will walks into the house and finds me in my natural habitat, which has changed over the years from preparing dinner in the kitchen to sitting before my computer in our home office, where, fingers flying across cordless keyboard, I enjoy two activities: One being keeping close touch with life long friends and the other, immersing both sides of my mind in writing my blog.
If I'm e-mailing or editing, Will's presence captures all of my attention. If my mind is wholly absorbed in emergent emotion flowing freely from somewhere in the distant past then it takes a whale of concentration on my part to refocus my attention because of this fact: While writing each story, every experience is relived with such depth that strings of insight pour out of my mind, illuminating subconscious fears of which I was unaware. And while engaged in that portion of the story-telling process, I inveriably experience opposing emotional reactions, causing my mind to struggle with this inner conflict: One side of my think tank feels resistant to Will's presence until the loving side wins that tug of war, pulling my whole sense of consciousness into the present tense. Once I was able to clarify that conflict for Will, his patience increased.
You see, I chose to explain my reaction in a way that Will identified with:
Will, before I began to write seriously (passionately) I did not understand how you'd disappear into 'the zone' while playing or watching sports. I couldn't fathom your difficulty transitioning from that wave length to recognizing that I was standing next to you, asking a question. Now that my whole mind disappears into 'the zone', I get it.
Once I'd framed my conflict within an arena that made sense to Will, his frustration while waiting for me to finish a thought transformed into standing in a seemingly relaxed and patient pose behind me while I wrapped up a sentence, pushed save, swiveled my chair around and lifted my face to welcome him home with a smiling kiss—as has become our custom. Though our relationship had not always been spontaneously affectionate, defensive reactions, on both sides, had good reason to change for the better quite a few years ago …
So at the end of most work days, Will's patience floats on white clouds of consciously respectful understanding at those times when the writer in me has to work at controling inner conflict just long enough to finish a thought, and when I lift my face to welcome my husband home after work, his smile matches mine. Not so much, today. In fact, it's plain to see that Will's smile doesn't reach his eyes. Uh-oh, I say, my mind snapping to attention upon recognizing that Will's spirit is flat—What's wrong?
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