One of the best things about life is that we have an allotment of new days.  Today in Fort Collins there is an opportunity for a little bucolia– new word, new coinage.  There are optimistic birds in the trees, getting to work.

The mares are preoccupied with the new shoots of grass.  Yesterday a small female fox jumped up on the apex of the roof of a dog house: so it is that we take a moment for the extraordinary.

This morning I have been revising my memoir, Nightfall in Verona, determined to make this as strong a story as I can.

It is tough to write a book.  I have momentum and energy for a few hours and then have to do something else.  Things come up that must be done– for instance, in a few minutes I’ll need to throw the ball for Tess, make myself a sandwich, spread a little peanut butter on a piece of bread for her to placate her while I lie down to rest for a while.

Last night my companion and I sat in the living room of the old place and talked about writing.  I made us a skillet of ham and potatoes.  We fed the animals.  It was an interlude, yet another moment in time within which, if I were to look, I would find something extraordinary.

Isn’t it somewhat extraordinary that two people who fell for each other twenty years ago and have had so many ups and downs not only are still speaking, but still have each other’s backs?

I can’t think of anything we haven’t been through.  In November, when he wasn’t up to it, I called the vet out to euthanize his old mare, who had deteriorated rapidly.  Three years ago, this time of year, when my mare and foal ran into trouble and I lost both of them, he held me in the night while I was in labor with terrible grief.

It is true that in recent years there has been a paucity of joy between us, but when we talk about our writing, when we talk politics, who we are when we are “crosswise” as he puts it, fades away. Lately we’ve been laughing more.    Perhaps we are one couple part of the time and a different couple at other times.

I wish I had a window into someone’s marriage so that I could see if others experience this. And I wish I knew why being happy frightens me.

I toned down yesterday’s post.  It’s never a good idea to write when you are enraged, simply because it doesn’t really add to anything or accomplish anything.

Other thoughts:

I am not as good at accepting my imperfections and shortcomings as I would like to be.  This business in fact of self-acceptance is a life long process.  I’ve gone from being trapped in depression to relaunching a writing life and my expectations of myself are off the scale.

Still, I felt blessed this morning, sitting in the window at work, able to discern the intimations of spring.  I am writing about the experience of a lifetime, finally able to see it for what it was.  I don’t know what will become of my manuscript– only that I hope that I have told a good story of something that really did happen to me and writes on the letter of our common recent history that romantic love is not only something one reads about.

Years after living the experience of which I’m writing, I have companions.  I still yearn, I still long, but thankfully can sublimate in memoir and fiction, and trying to live fully in the moment.

What about you?  Regarding any of these questions?…..xj

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