There’s something to be said about the floor. I mean it’s always there for you. Just waiting around, letting you stand on it or what have you. People assure me that once you have a small child, you rediscover how amazing the floor can be for playing on, or just resting on for short periods of time.
I’ve taken to sitting on the floor these past few weeks. It isn’t that I don’t have furniture, but I can’t do what I want to do on the furniture with the four-footed one stretched out against me. She can do that easily on the floor. So I’ve designated a few pillows as ones to be used for sitting upon while I work away on an end table. It works out rather nicely. Until I get up off the floor.
You see the problem with the floor is that’s its far down and getting up is not as easy as it use to be. I’m pretty sure it has to do with the floor rather my age. And I’m almost positive of this because Beloved has taken to joining the four-footed one and myself on the floor these days. He too seems to struggle to get back up on to his feet when we are no longer sitting on the floor.
A normal person would probably not sit on the floor, or at least not for hours on end given the drama of getting back up off it. But neither Beloved nor myself have ever really been normal. So we lose track of the time, sit far longer than we should and then moan about as we struggle to our feet. Only to do the same thing again and again. The four-footed one seems rather pleased with these arrangements.
Never go to bed angry at each other, someone once told me as being the key to a lasting relationship. I have to assume either this person and her partner did not have a lot more of differences in their lives, or she had a different take on angry from what I have.
And yet recently, furious with Beloved over some smallish thing, we ended up staying up to sort things out. Not intentionally, but we started talking and there was no ideal place to stop talking so we just did that, until it was resolved.
And then we just sat there, the two of us, as if we were waiting for something magical to happen. Or maybe we thought there would be a sign, or perhaps applause since we both can be exceedingly stubborn. We didn’t know what to do.
After several moments of looking at each other, we went to bed. Not angry, not a thing but tired. And I’m not sure if it makes a difference or not that we didn’t go to bed angry. That we didn’t sleep n negative emotions and have those join us fr breakfast. I’m also not sure if this is a new way of how we deal with things, but t sure was different.
I came home in the light of the morning; the house was still dark and still. I let myself in, slipping through the door silently so as not to draw attention to my return. The four-footed can be a light sleeper at times, so I did not want to give her reason to stir.
Except as I turned to head into the kitchen there she sat. Just looking at me. No barks, no whining nothing. Just the stare that said everything. From the back corner, Beloved got up out a chair and said, “well then, that’s that”.
Yes I guess it was that and in the that, there was a ton of unsaid words. Hurt would hide between the silence of the words, waiting to exhale without drawing attention to itself. The hurt would stand in for the unsaid accusations and the incredible guilt. Because I missed the transportation back. Not on purpose, not really. Just a little. Maybe.
I didn’t plan to be gone that long, but then I didn’t understand how randomly the transportation would come to bring me home. I didn’t think they’d wait up for me. And of course they did. And all that was left unsaid spoke in volumes enough to shake me to my core. I wanted to shout at them, to tell them that I don’t know when or how I’d live my life right, but I was going to enjoy it as much as I could while I could.
And yet neither of them deserved that. They waited, worried, fretted and stressed. While I, well, I stayed out and played a bit. Ignoring my health, my rest, and yes them. Because a chronic illness can mess up more than just some of the stuff you thought you’d have as a future.
Beloved almost never goes by his legal name. Now and then he will for professional purposes, but he rarely insists on being called by his legal name. Unless he is annoyed with someone. Then he will insist on being called by his legal name.
Continue to annoy him and he will insist on being addressed properly with his family name. Push further and you will find he will only engage with you when you address him by his proper designation with his family name.
It’s an easy tell for me to know when he is annoyed with me because he will apply the same theory to me. If he calls me by my legal name I know he is annoyed with me, or at least something I have done. If he is really frustrated and infuriated with me, he defaults to what my mother used to do and calls me by my full name.
Which I must confess, is a bit like him waving a red cloth in front of me. It does not calm me down, it does not amuse me. It raises my level of annoyance to a point of not wanting to work through the issue. Not then. Not at that time. Instead I want to debate him, I want to push him around, push back at his points. After a bit of time, I will come back to it like a rational, logical adult. Until he calls me by my full name.
Just as in time I will go back to annoying him enough to watch him insist that I call him by his legal name! 😊
Once upon a time a young man stood across a rocky shore and glanced backwards to where his people came from centuries before he had even been a twinkle in his daddy’s eye. His people never looked back as far as he knew, the accepted the rocky shoreline as the beginning of a new start. A place to start over, learning, winning and gaining since they had really nothing prior to that.
Beloved has never stopped looking back at where his people have come from so this year I opened up the idea that he could go and see what had once been a place of his people. Before the left. And so he packed a small-ish bag and headed back to what was once the homelands of his ancestors to explore, to see if it felt like home. Mostly he went to see what might have been.
But you can’t ever really go back can you? One small change sends ripples in all directions leading to other changes and soon you can’t see through the water. Nothing remains the same and so going back will never really show you what might have been, or what could have been. You can only go and realize that once upon a time your ancestors walked the ground and maybe, if you are lucky, you may feel like you are going home. But it’s all a trick of light, slight of hand and emotions.
In the movies, or television for that matter, if a person is holding a glass when s/he receives bad news, it almost always slips out of the person’s hand and shatters onto the floor. As if it represents how the news is shattering the person’s life.
In reality that doesn’t always happen. Sometimes glasses are broken in a tightened grip and sometimes, if you are like Beloved, you set it down carefully and gently. You take great care to not pass the horrors of the news onto other people or objects. I know because I’ve watched him receive bad news in a way where he set his glass of whisky down carefully before rubbing his face with both hands and heading to the door for some fresh air.
To look at him, unless you know him well, you’d never know that he received bad news. But the tightness, just there by his eyes, the slight crease between his brows and the set of his jaw told me all I needed to know. Just as the way he placed the glass told me he needed time to himself. He’d tell me everything when he was ready. Until then, I’d leave the glass where he placed it and just wait.
When he did come home, he didn’t pick up his glass. Instead he came over and took my hand to lead me gently to the large chairs facing the window. There he shared his news, never once taking his eyes off the scene outside the window. But when he was finished, then he looked at me with those soft eyes of his before he got up and took to his glass of whisky, silently drinking.
I would have thrown the glass if it were my news. But it wasn’t. It was his. And in his way, he is far more mature, far more composed than I am. And so, he set it down gently to pick up later on when he was ready.
It was one of hose days, the kind where you just want to stay inside and curl up with a book, a nice cup,of coffee and let the dog curl up on your feet. Of course if you are Beloved, you do none of these things. Instead you let me curl up with a book while you take over the kitchen.
Beloved spent over 12 hours in the kitchen today preparing delicious meals for the freezer as well as other side of be consumed now. Oh and snacks. He made snacks and cookie before he cleaned the kitchen. He took inventory of the kitchen and created a grocery list. He packaged, wrapped and stored food.
When he was done, he dropped down beside met with a sigh. He pulled me close again t his chest and just sat there, holding me while we watched out the window. To him it was a near perfect day, and to be honest I am not going to complain either. I mean he created delicious food while I read. He cleaned while I made notes. And while he held me, I rested safe and secure against his chest. It was, in fact, a perfect day for arms. Beloved’s arms.