Yesterday, despite high wind warnings, the extended Team Tanguay decided to check out Grandfather Mountain. We bundled up, loaded 3 cars, and drove the 16 miles down one mountain and up another. Grandfather Mountain provides an audio tour for the drive up to the parking lot at the top. We listened to facts about the mountain and the park, while drinking in the wide open vistas--especially wide open because the road had no guardrail. At all. Not even on the switchbacks. By the time we were halfway up, I was near frantic, leaning as far to the center of the vehicle as I could, and telling the boys (and Guy!) to stop laughing at me so I could hear the CD. I was laughing, too, but the tears my son captured on "film" were mostly there from terror. I spent the drive up saying I needed to try to breath, that we were going to die, that Guy was driving too fast, commanding him not to look at the beautiful views, on and on.
Reaching the parking lot, the boys roared with laughter that there was no guardrail on the perimeter, either. They encouraged their father to park directly on the edge, which he, because he loves me dearly, did! The next question from the boys concerned my getting out of the van. They didn't believe me when I told them the problem was being on wheels. Sure enough, everything about my demeanor--and heart rate!--changed dramatically as my shoes touched pavement. Truly, there is no problem with edges when I have my feet on the ground.
The views were worth every minute of sheer terror. The world went on forever in every direction, except up. Above us, the heavens stretched in all remaining directions. The pamphlet we were given at the admission booth mentioned that one never feels as grounded as when they are at the top of the mountain. I must say, I concur. Being at the summit, crossing the Mile High Swinging Bridge, and picking our way along the crags beyond, I felt more rooted to the earth than on an average day nearer to sea level.
Why is that? What is it about the wonders of nature that makes me feel more? Certainly related is the awesome power of the wind, in this particular case. It's an amazing place, and I could have easily stayed for another hour or so without really noticing the cold, for it was cold. The record wind gusts recorded by the anemometer at the top of the bridge were 115mph. Before we headed out, gusts of 110mph were being reported, and sustained winds of 50-55mph. The car thermometer told us the outside temp at the parking lot was approximately 44 degrees--not super cold, but with the wind chill.... I love mountains, and oceans; rivers and lakes, and the woods. I consider them all to be special blessing areas; places where I can be alone and contemplate my place in the world, or where I can be with others, as yesterday, observing the small details that make nature beautiful.
For places like Grandfather Mountain, I am grateful. For the ability to laugh and cry, I am grateful. For the family, both immediate and extended, and the joy we share together, I am grateful. For the changes in my life since last year, I am grateful. For the future, I am grateful.
Showing posts with label vacation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vacation. Show all posts
Monday, December 24, 2012
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
a great teacher
This morning, I woke to find news that a teacher of mine from High School had been murdered, outside his home. While I was shocked, I continued on with my morning as usual. At work, I told a co-worker, and after finding a news article online, emailed it to her, along with my thoughts at the moment.
I remember, I had space in my schedule, and decided to take some business classes, so I took accounting to fulfill a math requirement, and I took Intro to Marketing as an elective. How hard could it be? I thought, and I figured I would be circulating in a slightly different crowd than usual. Both thoughts were not entirely correct! The marketing information was fascinating to me--none of it was particularly difficult for me, but I ate it up: shrink wrap vs. clam shell packaging; the ratio of soda straw diameter to soda cup as figured by fast food chains; the relative hardness of seating in regard to turnover in a dining room.....all information that ultimately helped me in some of my college classes, though I remember sitting in that back corner of the room whining along with everyone else that it was fairly useless information. (I had a mad desire to fit in when I started that class.) As for the "new crowd," well, some of my friends must have had the same idea, as I don't remember meeting too many I didn't already know there. The teacher was Mr. Poet, and I loved class with him. He was not murdered.
He did, however, encourage any of us that were enjoying his class to join the school's Distributive Education Clubs of America (DECA), which he co-advised with a fairly new teacher, Mr. Keith Reed. Mr. Reed was, I discovered today, reading the news articles, only 6 years older than me. Yet he had the confident professionalism that made him both much older than that and ageless at the same time. And, yes, we all thought he was "cute." I remember even Mr. Poet mentioning it from time to time. I believe he was newly married at the time, and impressively aloof to our admiration. We didn't know anything about DECA, or what we were supposed to do as part of the club, but we would get to spend time with a fun, youthful teacher--and get out of school once in a while! What more could high school seniors ask for? Turns out, there was so much to learn--about business, about competition, and about life.
In DECA competition, Mr. Reed put me in the Supervisory Level competitions, even though I was terrified at the idea of playacting as a Manager. He said he knew that I had more brains than most of the judges, and that all I had to do was be myself and I'd do well. Nothing ever made me feel more confident in high school than his assurance, along with darn good scores at my first attempt at competition! I don't remember how many competitions we went to, although I do remember a hotel stay that was one of the best experiences of my Senior year. Sharing a room with three friends, all nervous about performing well and looking good in our business suits, was good prep for college dorm living! At competition, we would wait in chilly hallways for each other, and at awards, we'd eagerly await each other's scores, and graciously thank "Keith" (or "Keithage," as Jackie referred to him!) for his guidance, to which he would shake his head and say, "You can't call me that, you know." Eventually, it evolved into KEEEEEith! Since graduation, I have always thought of him as "KeithReed;" all one word.
When I'd have boyfriend troubles, he'd tell me to behave "professionally" and "with dignity" so that it wouldn't evolve into drama in my life. I learned so many life lessons from him. From him, I learned the value and importance of discretion, transparency, discernment. At the same time, I learned about teamwork in a work setting, and how it differs from, and is similar to, the teamwork necessary in sports. When Tanya and Jackie made it to National Competition, he encouraged us to be supportive of them, rather than jealous, promising to cheer for them on our behalf, which I have no doubt he did. At that same competition, I was being awarded a DEX scholarship from Johnson & Wales, where I would be going to college. Keith, my parents, and I (reluctantly! I wanted to go to NOLA!!) agreed that it made no sense for me to go on the trip just to accept the scholarship. Instead, Keith walked the stage to accept it for me while Jackie and Tanya cheered him on. Before I even knew what one was, he was my mentor.
I lost touch with him after graduation. (I left that September with the intent of never looking back. Another story for another time.) And with Mr. Poet. Though I have thought about the lessons, and the random information about marketing and merchandising floating in my head, and I frequently thank God that they were part of my development. Keith Reed will be missed by the students he was serving as Superintendent, those for whom he had been Principal, and by us, his early students, as well as by his family and friends. My prayers, and my tears, are for you today. I never could say it in the public school setting in which we knew each other: God bless you. Thank you for all you were, and for continuing to utilize the extraordinary gifts you had!
I remember, I had space in my schedule, and decided to take some business classes, so I took accounting to fulfill a math requirement, and I took Intro to Marketing as an elective. How hard could it be? I thought, and I figured I would be circulating in a slightly different crowd than usual. Both thoughts were not entirely correct! The marketing information was fascinating to me--none of it was particularly difficult for me, but I ate it up: shrink wrap vs. clam shell packaging; the ratio of soda straw diameter to soda cup as figured by fast food chains; the relative hardness of seating in regard to turnover in a dining room.....all information that ultimately helped me in some of my college classes, though I remember sitting in that back corner of the room whining along with everyone else that it was fairly useless information. (I had a mad desire to fit in when I started that class.) As for the "new crowd," well, some of my friends must have had the same idea, as I don't remember meeting too many I didn't already know there. The teacher was Mr. Poet, and I loved class with him. He was not murdered.
He did, however, encourage any of us that were enjoying his class to join the school's Distributive Education Clubs of America (DECA), which he co-advised with a fairly new teacher, Mr. Keith Reed. Mr. Reed was, I discovered today, reading the news articles, only 6 years older than me. Yet he had the confident professionalism that made him both much older than that and ageless at the same time. And, yes, we all thought he was "cute." I remember even Mr. Poet mentioning it from time to time. I believe he was newly married at the time, and impressively aloof to our admiration. We didn't know anything about DECA, or what we were supposed to do as part of the club, but we would get to spend time with a fun, youthful teacher--and get out of school once in a while! What more could high school seniors ask for? Turns out, there was so much to learn--about business, about competition, and about life.
In DECA competition, Mr. Reed put me in the Supervisory Level competitions, even though I was terrified at the idea of playacting as a Manager. He said he knew that I had more brains than most of the judges, and that all I had to do was be myself and I'd do well. Nothing ever made me feel more confident in high school than his assurance, along with darn good scores at my first attempt at competition! I don't remember how many competitions we went to, although I do remember a hotel stay that was one of the best experiences of my Senior year. Sharing a room with three friends, all nervous about performing well and looking good in our business suits, was good prep for college dorm living! At competition, we would wait in chilly hallways for each other, and at awards, we'd eagerly await each other's scores, and graciously thank "Keith" (or "Keithage," as Jackie referred to him!) for his guidance, to which he would shake his head and say, "You can't call me that, you know." Eventually, it evolved into KEEEEEith! Since graduation, I have always thought of him as "KeithReed;" all one word.
When I'd have boyfriend troubles, he'd tell me to behave "professionally" and "with dignity" so that it wouldn't evolve into drama in my life. I learned so many life lessons from him. From him, I learned the value and importance of discretion, transparency, discernment. At the same time, I learned about teamwork in a work setting, and how it differs from, and is similar to, the teamwork necessary in sports. When Tanya and Jackie made it to National Competition, he encouraged us to be supportive of them, rather than jealous, promising to cheer for them on our behalf, which I have no doubt he did. At that same competition, I was being awarded a DEX scholarship from Johnson & Wales, where I would be going to college. Keith, my parents, and I (reluctantly! I wanted to go to NOLA!!) agreed that it made no sense for me to go on the trip just to accept the scholarship. Instead, Keith walked the stage to accept it for me while Jackie and Tanya cheered him on. Before I even knew what one was, he was my mentor.
I lost touch with him after graduation. (I left that September with the intent of never looking back. Another story for another time.) And with Mr. Poet. Though I have thought about the lessons, and the random information about marketing and merchandising floating in my head, and I frequently thank God that they were part of my development. Keith Reed will be missed by the students he was serving as Superintendent, those for whom he had been Principal, and by us, his early students, as well as by his family and friends. My prayers, and my tears, are for you today. I never could say it in the public school setting in which we knew each other: God bless you. Thank you for all you were, and for continuing to utilize the extraordinary gifts you had!
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
the story I knew about
One of Guy's aunts used to live on Long Island, and when Joseph was about 2, we went to visit. Their home was our base for a long weekend in New York. We had a wonderful time visiting with them, touring Yankee stadium, riding the subway trains, and enjoying a free performing arts festival at Lincoln Center. But there was one thing that made the trip truly unforgettable and different from any other trip I've made to the City.
One of the things I insisted on was to take the Staten Island Ferry and see Battery Park. On our last day, we left early, drove all the way around to Staten Island and rode in on the water. We did some of the usual park things: watched performers, had a 'name' painted by a street artist, perused the merchandise. Then we walked up to Ground Zero.
As we approached, there was still a silence, a reverence in the area; memorial flowers, notes and ribbons fluttered in the fence. At first, we were a little surprised that the fence was so high and the portholes through it so few, but the closer we got, the harder it was to focus through our tears, through the collective conscienceness' pain that still hung in the air. It was more than a little disconcerting to see the mess, the rubble and cracked pavement that could still be seen; and yet a little church across the street was unscathed. We were a somewhat somber group heading back to the ferry to go home. It's hard to be lost in thought for long with a toddler and 3 other young children while visiting an unfamiliar city, though.
Back on the Ferry, I sat on a bench and watched Guy with the boys, lifting them one at a time to the rail to get a better look, and eventually putting Joseph on his shoulders. I tried not to be too nervous about the whole scene before me, since I was tired and glad for the break. A woman sitting next to me asked if they were all mine. "All five," I answered, with a smile, and that warm feeling of mingled pride and admiration at our family. "It's so nice to see families come to the City again," she remarked. Until that point, I had not even considered that she was from the area.
Raised in Upstate New York, I had always heard adjectives ranging from "standoffish and aloof" to "downright unfriendly" used to describe New Yorkers (what we called those from the City). Living in Rhode Island, I had learned that city folks could be a bit bristly, but, in all reality, the city people I'd been in contact with were simply people--busy people with someplace to go all the time, but people nonetheless. This woman was striking up a conversation with me, a total stranger--and obviously an out-of-towner at that. I turned my head to look at her and asked, "Have there been fewer visitors?" In reality, life in Pennsylvania had gone on since September 11th; tourism was moderately affected locally.
She told me that people had started to come back, but for a while--a long while--there were far fewer tourists. Something she noticed particularly on the Ferry. Then she told me about that day. She told me about the boats--hundreds of them--ferrying people from Manhattan to the shores of Staten Island. She told me about thousands of people, dusty, dirty, dazed, in shock, streaming off the boats. For hours. She told me, too, about the Staten Islanders greeting them all.
That was the part of the story that got to me. The part that made me proud to be listening to this woman I sat next to by chance. The part that made me feel an unexplained kinship to her. She told me that the citizens of Staten Island--at the docks at first to get a glimpse of what atrocities had happened across the harbor, like any red-blooded American rubbernecker--became the greeters. Like the Maine Troop Greeters of Bangor, ME, the members of this community gathered at the terminal with blankets, soup, coffee, fresh water, and, most importantly, open arms, shoulders to lean on, and a willingness to listen, to comfort, to cry. And they kept it up for the entire evacuation. Afterwards, many of the shopkeepers and innkeepers on the island offered rooms and goods to the people who didn't know where to go, or who couldn't get home. The Staten Islanders opened more than their arms that day; they opened their hearts wide. They made a difference. They did what needed to be done, without even thinking about how hard it might be, how dangerous, how frightening. They opened themselves, and they grew as a consequence.
I asked the woman if the tone in New York and on Staten Island had changed. She told me that there was a new respect for survival; a new feeling of oneness, if not family. She said there was obviously more generosity of spirit, and more willingness to make eye contact with strangers, and not the suspicious stare-down familiar on TV and in the movies. She said the City had become friendlier, more open, more inviting, without losing its identity. This was what she found most telling. The ability to learn something fundamental about the very depths of your being and still manage to stay who you are impressed her....and me. New York was still New York, only more so. What also impressed me was how humble she was. According to Boatlift, a film short chronicling the rescue efforts, half a million people were ferried off Manhattan island to various locations nearby. A half a million people. The woman had told me that they did what they should; nothing more and certainly nothing less.
As for myself, I was changed by the encounter. We exchanged nothing but some conversation. I don't know her name, and I cannot remember anything at all about what she looked like or her voice. Only her words, and the intense feelings behind them. At the beginning of the Boatlift film, there is a quote: "A hero is a man who does what he can." (Romain Rolland). When I shared the video on my Facebook page, I said that "This is what Character looks like." Riding on that Ferry, out of earshot of my family, a Hero spoke to me. A real Character. And I am all the better for it.
One of the things I insisted on was to take the Staten Island Ferry and see Battery Park. On our last day, we left early, drove all the way around to Staten Island and rode in on the water. We did some of the usual park things: watched performers, had a 'name' painted by a street artist, perused the merchandise. Then we walked up to Ground Zero.
As we approached, there was still a silence, a reverence in the area; memorial flowers, notes and ribbons fluttered in the fence. At first, we were a little surprised that the fence was so high and the portholes through it so few, but the closer we got, the harder it was to focus through our tears, through the collective conscienceness' pain that still hung in the air. It was more than a little disconcerting to see the mess, the rubble and cracked pavement that could still be seen; and yet a little church across the street was unscathed. We were a somewhat somber group heading back to the ferry to go home. It's hard to be lost in thought for long with a toddler and 3 other young children while visiting an unfamiliar city, though.
Back on the Ferry, I sat on a bench and watched Guy with the boys, lifting them one at a time to the rail to get a better look, and eventually putting Joseph on his shoulders. I tried not to be too nervous about the whole scene before me, since I was tired and glad for the break. A woman sitting next to me asked if they were all mine. "All five," I answered, with a smile, and that warm feeling of mingled pride and admiration at our family. "It's so nice to see families come to the City again," she remarked. Until that point, I had not even considered that she was from the area.
Raised in Upstate New York, I had always heard adjectives ranging from "standoffish and aloof" to "downright unfriendly" used to describe New Yorkers (what we called those from the City). Living in Rhode Island, I had learned that city folks could be a bit bristly, but, in all reality, the city people I'd been in contact with were simply people--busy people with someplace to go all the time, but people nonetheless. This woman was striking up a conversation with me, a total stranger--and obviously an out-of-towner at that. I turned my head to look at her and asked, "Have there been fewer visitors?" In reality, life in Pennsylvania had gone on since September 11th; tourism was moderately affected locally.
She told me that people had started to come back, but for a while--a long while--there were far fewer tourists. Something she noticed particularly on the Ferry. Then she told me about that day. She told me about the boats--hundreds of them--ferrying people from Manhattan to the shores of Staten Island. She told me about thousands of people, dusty, dirty, dazed, in shock, streaming off the boats. For hours. She told me, too, about the Staten Islanders greeting them all.
That was the part of the story that got to me. The part that made me proud to be listening to this woman I sat next to by chance. The part that made me feel an unexplained kinship to her. She told me that the citizens of Staten Island--at the docks at first to get a glimpse of what atrocities had happened across the harbor, like any red-blooded American rubbernecker--became the greeters. Like the Maine Troop Greeters of Bangor, ME, the members of this community gathered at the terminal with blankets, soup, coffee, fresh water, and, most importantly, open arms, shoulders to lean on, and a willingness to listen, to comfort, to cry. And they kept it up for the entire evacuation. Afterwards, many of the shopkeepers and innkeepers on the island offered rooms and goods to the people who didn't know where to go, or who couldn't get home. The Staten Islanders opened more than their arms that day; they opened their hearts wide. They made a difference. They did what needed to be done, without even thinking about how hard it might be, how dangerous, how frightening. They opened themselves, and they grew as a consequence.
I asked the woman if the tone in New York and on Staten Island had changed. She told me that there was a new respect for survival; a new feeling of oneness, if not family. She said there was obviously more generosity of spirit, and more willingness to make eye contact with strangers, and not the suspicious stare-down familiar on TV and in the movies. She said the City had become friendlier, more open, more inviting, without losing its identity. This was what she found most telling. The ability to learn something fundamental about the very depths of your being and still manage to stay who you are impressed her....and me. New York was still New York, only more so. What also impressed me was how humble she was. According to Boatlift, a film short chronicling the rescue efforts, half a million people were ferried off Manhattan island to various locations nearby. A half a million people. The woman had told me that they did what they should; nothing more and certainly nothing less.
As for myself, I was changed by the encounter. We exchanged nothing but some conversation. I don't know her name, and I cannot remember anything at all about what she looked like or her voice. Only her words, and the intense feelings behind them. At the beginning of the Boatlift film, there is a quote: "A hero is a man who does what he can." (Romain Rolland). When I shared the video on my Facebook page, I said that "This is what Character looks like." Riding on that Ferry, out of earshot of my family, a Hero spoke to me. A real Character. And I am all the better for it.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
downs and the ups they bring
This weekend was supposed to be our family vacation. School starts Monday for our boys. I work at a pool in the summer, and the school district there started Wednesday. Combine those factors with the fact that August is always slow at the pool, and the formula is complete for a weekend to go away.
Our plan had been to go to Maine to see the Blue Angels at Brunswick, ME, and stay with dear friends in Topsham. Unfortunately, the stars did not align; they had to take their daughter's things to school, so we decided to have our first-ever Staycation. Giving our son, Henry, parameters, he made a chart with weather forecast, planned activities for each day, and an alternate activity, too. Hurricane Irene made an appearance on the eastern seaboard, which led to Plan B each day, but so far not due to severe weather, just some clouds and sprinkles.
Yesterday, we did get to go on our planned hike at Hawk Mountain. The climb up started out fairly flat and easy, with lookout points requiring a little rock scrabbling. Fun, easy, and we enjoyed each others company--and the chipmunks that showed up at each lookout point. Rather suddenly, the path got rocky and rough, but before too long we summited and took in the panorama. It was absolutely breathtaking! Sky with hazy clouds, trees swaying gently in the breeze, green fields, railroad tracks and a few houses below......I could have stayed for hours.
After a few minutes, probably 15 or so, my husband and Henry were ready to go, Joseph asked if he could just take a nap, and even Drew was ready to move on. I chuckled, as awed by the differences in all of us as I was by the view. Differences that not only make us who we are, but also help our tolerance to grow, help us to appreciate one another, and make our lives more interesting. I knew that it was quite possible that my desire to just sit on a rock may very well have been greatly indulged by my guys, so with a last look, and a simple "already?" I climbed up off my rock to head back to the trail.
On the way down, other pink-faced people were heading up--looking, I'm sure, very much like we did not long before. Henry joked about his disappointment at not seeing any hawks or eagles, and I feigned exasperation at his lack of patience. As I was thinking about how sweet my "city boy" husband is, and how fun it is to do outdoorsy things with him, we passed the benches provided very near the point where the trail changes from smooth to rocky. Sitting alone was a woman, perhaps mid-60s. The boys, ahead of us, politely ceased their chatter. That's when Guy spoke.
"Are you doing okay?" he asked. Such a simple question, but one that completely blew me away. The woman's face softened, and she replied, "I'm fine. I'm just waiting for my husband. Thank you." It's one of those things that always catches me off guard, yet it's one of the things that made me fall in love with him in the first place. Guy has a way of picking up on the needs of strangers, and addressing them in a way that puts them at ease. The question he asked is one that I could certainly have asked, but never occurred to me until he asked it. As life has gotten crazy with jobs, kids, dogs, bills, we don't get to spend the same kind of time together as we did when we were dating or newly married, so moments like this are so very necessary to our marriage, our relationship, our love. In that half a moment, I fell in love with him yet again. No, it wasn't the falling off a cliff in love feeling I had back in the early 90's, but I still recognized it in that bit of breathlessness, that "ah!" in my heart, and especially in the way my eyes were affected.
When I think about the things that are our love, I can feel my eyes soften on the edges. I imagine it's the "soft focus" of real life. When I concentrate on that feeling, I realize that my neck and shoulders also soften, relax a bit, become a little less tight, and my heart opens. That's when I remember the cliff-falling, ultra-intense, uncontrolled explosion of feelings from all those years ago. Those small moments feed the fire. It's still there, although having become familiar with it, I sometimes take it for granted. Searching for those small moments, and recognizing them when they present themselves, is such a beautiful exercise! I love falling in love again, unexpectedly. I wonder where the next one will be.....
Our plan had been to go to Maine to see the Blue Angels at Brunswick, ME, and stay with dear friends in Topsham. Unfortunately, the stars did not align; they had to take their daughter's things to school, so we decided to have our first-ever Staycation. Giving our son, Henry, parameters, he made a chart with weather forecast, planned activities for each day, and an alternate activity, too. Hurricane Irene made an appearance on the eastern seaboard, which led to Plan B each day, but so far not due to severe weather, just some clouds and sprinkles.
Yesterday, we did get to go on our planned hike at Hawk Mountain. The climb up started out fairly flat and easy, with lookout points requiring a little rock scrabbling. Fun, easy, and we enjoyed each others company--and the chipmunks that showed up at each lookout point. Rather suddenly, the path got rocky and rough, but before too long we summited and took in the panorama. It was absolutely breathtaking! Sky with hazy clouds, trees swaying gently in the breeze, green fields, railroad tracks and a few houses below......I could have stayed for hours.
After a few minutes, probably 15 or so, my husband and Henry were ready to go, Joseph asked if he could just take a nap, and even Drew was ready to move on. I chuckled, as awed by the differences in all of us as I was by the view. Differences that not only make us who we are, but also help our tolerance to grow, help us to appreciate one another, and make our lives more interesting. I knew that it was quite possible that my desire to just sit on a rock may very well have been greatly indulged by my guys, so with a last look, and a simple "already?" I climbed up off my rock to head back to the trail.
On the way down, other pink-faced people were heading up--looking, I'm sure, very much like we did not long before. Henry joked about his disappointment at not seeing any hawks or eagles, and I feigned exasperation at his lack of patience. As I was thinking about how sweet my "city boy" husband is, and how fun it is to do outdoorsy things with him, we passed the benches provided very near the point where the trail changes from smooth to rocky. Sitting alone was a woman, perhaps mid-60s. The boys, ahead of us, politely ceased their chatter. That's when Guy spoke.
"Are you doing okay?" he asked. Such a simple question, but one that completely blew me away. The woman's face softened, and she replied, "I'm fine. I'm just waiting for my husband. Thank you." It's one of those things that always catches me off guard, yet it's one of the things that made me fall in love with him in the first place. Guy has a way of picking up on the needs of strangers, and addressing them in a way that puts them at ease. The question he asked is one that I could certainly have asked, but never occurred to me until he asked it. As life has gotten crazy with jobs, kids, dogs, bills, we don't get to spend the same kind of time together as we did when we were dating or newly married, so moments like this are so very necessary to our marriage, our relationship, our love. In that half a moment, I fell in love with him yet again. No, it wasn't the falling off a cliff in love feeling I had back in the early 90's, but I still recognized it in that bit of breathlessness, that "ah!" in my heart, and especially in the way my eyes were affected.
When I think about the things that are our love, I can feel my eyes soften on the edges. I imagine it's the "soft focus" of real life. When I concentrate on that feeling, I realize that my neck and shoulders also soften, relax a bit, become a little less tight, and my heart opens. That's when I remember the cliff-falling, ultra-intense, uncontrolled explosion of feelings from all those years ago. Those small moments feed the fire. It's still there, although having become familiar with it, I sometimes take it for granted. Searching for those small moments, and recognizing them when they present themselves, is such a beautiful exercise! I love falling in love again, unexpectedly. I wonder where the next one will be.....
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