A button flew across the room, with a friend shortly following it. No there wasn’t a revolt of buttons happening in my house. The buttons had not decided to unionize and refuse to fasten things any longer. Rather the buttons were protesting their work load. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say the buttons were protesting the strain they were under due to the load….
Hmm if there were to be a revolt by the buttons I wonder if they would be the Buttonistas or perhaps under the leadership of Che Button? I’d like a good revolutionary button, someone to lead the way for the working buttons of the world. The underappreciated fasteners of clothing and such. I mean it is a cause I’d end up getting behind, probably along with most other people because buttons do a lot of work, work we never think of.
But no there was no revolution, just a tired thread no longer able to support the button in its brave attempt to keep Beloved’s suit jacket done up. The thread let go, the button flew across the room in what was no doubt a bid for freedom with another button following close behind. Naturally my response to this was to burst out laughing while Beloved grumbled about poorly conditioned thread.
And then his stern look gave way to mirth as he said he may have had just a wee bit too much here or there. And then the mirth gave way to unbridled and unfastened glee on his part while we searched for the escapes.
Robert Frost wrote a poem about taking the road less taken. It’s always been a favorite of mine as it reminds me that my journey and the path I travel is not meant for anyone other than myself. It also reminds me that the going may be a little tougher on this path which has been less travelled. After all the ground won’t have been trampled on the same way.
Beloved is also a fine of the less travelled road. He is also a fan of tarrying along a road if the spirit should strike him to do so. He doesn’t necessarily believe that time needs to be felt as something rushing past him and he refuses to make it priority with everything in his life. It has allowed him more time to take in the views, and to be late and not offer apologies other than the views he has witnessed.
I, on the other hand, have a desire to chase and make up for lost time. As if there is always going to be something better just up ahead. Yes I know this won’t really be the case, but while he tarries along, I run headlong through the valleys ignoring the views in the name of time. I reason that this is better than being late and having no real explanation to offer up to people who are waiting on me.
Is one of us more right than the other? Some would say yes. Some would tell you that enjoying the view and working at your own pace, allowing yourself to not have to worry about what could have been because you make it so, would be the better way to do things. And for them, they’d be right. But for me, I have a need right now for speed. So I shall rush into each stumbling block on my less maintained path and enjoy the stumbles, trips and rolls all the same.
Sometimes you just need to leave, no destination in mind. Just hop in the car, climb on your bike, or walk some where. Just for the sake of going somewhere and getting away from where you currently. I’m not talking about running away as per say, just a change of scenery for a short period of time.
And sometimes where you end up going, is something more than you expected it to be. Sometimes it leads to adventure, romance or something new to explore. I have been blessed to experience that more than once in my life. Once on the seashores of my own continent and once on the seashores of another.
I’ve been a thousand miles from where I started, heck I’ve been several thousands miles from where I started, and discovered that there was no place that I’d sooner be than where I was at that moment. Foolishly I have tried to keep those moments for the times when I would need them and be nowhere near the seashore. I’ve bottled the sea’s water, placed sand in jars and tried to capture it all on video. It never works out the same. You cannot recreate the seashores of other places when you haven’t one of your own to work with.
And that’s okay because it makes those moments that much more special. It makes them so much more precious and dear to the heart. The trick is to not try to recreate it, to not just take off back to that place you landed and expect it to be the same. It isn’t possible. Instead capture those moments in your memory, hold them safe in your heart and open yourself to something new. Seashores are not required. Nor are picnics, but I’ve found both to be, well, rather good when it comes to getting some place that I wasn’t at before and enjoying it all the same.
It’s not my place, not to tell someone how I think s/he should live his/her life. I mean who am I to pass that kind of judgement when half the time I’m not even sure if I’m getting my own life right? And it’s not my place to tell someone how that person should identify as far as country, race, religion, or gender. For who am I to know more than that individual knows regarding the specifics of his/her situation?
It’s not my place to tell Beloved how he should do things either. How do I know if the feather he wants to chase in the wind will turn out to become a dream fulfilled or just a worn feather? I can’t even seem to figure out what is a flight of fancy versus a real possibility of a dream coming true in my own life. So surely I am not qualified at any of this.
Really about all I am qualified for is stumbling through my own journey of life. Sometimes I seem to get the hang of things, other times I fail spectacularly at something someone else would easily avoid. So I struggle and bite my tongue because I have no clue how to get it to stay right.
And maybe, at some point I will be in a position to speak from authority or as an expert on the subject. If that happens, I’m sure it will be about how to fail spectacularly, because that’s what I got going on.
I’ve a friend who spends an hour each morning just doing her hair and face. I only know this because her husband was complaining that for two hours when she first gets up, he is banished from the ensuite. If he needs a washroom, he needs to use the “public” one.
She said that she gets up, has a shower, dresses and spend an hour doing her face and hair. Then she grabs a coffee and a nibble before heading back into the ensuite to brush her teeth and finish doing touch ups to her make up and hair. She said it’s not like her husband needs to do an awful lot to get ready. As if that it all that should be taken into consideration.
Now I can’t say I’ve ever actually timed myself, but if I spent an hour on hair and make up it better be for some amazing event. I just have neither time nor the inkling to do all that stuff. Presentable yes, but beyond that, not for day-to-day things. And Beloved, well he rolls out of bed, has a five-minute shower, dries and dresses before throwing some gel in his hair and is good to go. If it takes him a total of fifteen minute that’s about it.
If we take an hour together on hair and makeup etc it would be surprising. And ere is a part of me that sides with her husband on finding the amount of time she spends getting ready to be a bit much. But to each their own, unless it’s creating issues or hurting someone.
I’ve never thought of myself in terms of being the girl you’d bring home to meet your parents. It isn’t that I see myself as wild or what have you. It’s just I’ve never seen myself as the marrying kind and therefore not the kind to go home to your family.
Beloved of course saw things differently. So he brought me home to meet his mother and his entire family. I swear it felt like meeting a small village, in a strange land. All I really wanted to do was get used to the new land first, but on the second day he insisted we pop round to meet the family. All of them. For a nice tea. Or so he said. I’ve yet to find a nice tea to be honest.
Since that time we’ve witnessed nieces and nephews bring people around to meet the family, the whole family of course. A rite of passage I guess. An honor some would say.
Maybe I’d feel differently if I felt the urge to get someone else’s approval about Beloved, but the way I see it, I’m the one living with him so who else need some to approve anything. And maybe that’s my right of passage for him, letting him come into my life so fully. To become a sense of home for me.
Beloved was reading, out loud, some of the material he was working on. Evidently none of it was of any interest to the four-footed one as she fell asleep not long after he started!
I was attempting to grate cucumbers, not really that easy of a task if you don’t want to have the strands of the cucumber flying everywhere. Why I felt compelled to do what the recipe required is a bit beyond me as I never fully follow recipes. And yet there I was grating cucumber while he was reading he own words. The four-footed one was snorting away in her sleep.
Not most people’s ideal of perfection, but it certainly feels of home to me and there’s nothing more I’d want. Well other than not grating cucumbers because it’s just not worth it. But the idea of domestic scenes like this fills me with a sense of home. That’s important because when I’m on the road, or in hospital, I can recall those scenes and warmth. And the same for when Beloved is gone to work, I can feel him from these memories as well.
I will confess though what Beloved was working on was something that would lull most people to sleep, especially when he started with once upon a time there were two chieftains.