Each day is a fracture landscape of moments we intend and moments we do not. There is so much reaction in my day; so many times Iâ€™ll carry something from one end of the house to the other without thinking about it; or worse, say words I donâ€™t really mean. More than words, it is tone that oozes with the organ-dark mess of moods.
Especially breaking back into a daily routine structured by necessity: earlier wake-up times, more to accomplish within the falling sand of every hour, I watch my energy and effort splinter off. I remember certain things while others leave me almost as soon as they happen. Like steam from a mug of tea; or summerâ€™s heat once autumn has arrived.
Maybe Iâ€™m shallow. Maybe I am hardwired to be more resilient: able to move forward shaking off the past that has drenched every pore. Iâ€™m not sure. I do know that there are times when I need to be more consciousâ€”especially with DH. We so easily hook each other into little spats. Small words that tailspin, ripping context to shreds. I nearly always take his bait. A sentence flung sideways.
The worst part is that often right in the middle of it, when Iâ€™m still bristling with ego and unwilling to back down, I cannot quite, entirely, recall the words that were said. I tag too much on tone, too much on gesture. I remember the context but not the specific content. I assume too much.
And then in the blurry high-moon dark Iâ€™m dream-soaked and restless, making up for lost clarity. I skate across the surface of sleep like a water-bug; not really in the water, not entirely above it either. Iâ€™m grateful for morning, and early quiet of the house as the sun slowly rises, pulled from behind the mountains like a marionette. The trees are dappled with gold. Each day more leaves turn the color of fire and persimmon. Deer apples, small and round, are sweet and tangy on the trees. Iâ€™ve promised Bean weâ€™ll gather them and make an apple pie.