Extraordinary love

A couple weeks back, in the midst of putting an offer on our new home in Boulder I looked out of our living room window on a scene of extraordinary tenderness and love. A young man, maybe 30 years old was walking up our street toward the mountains with his black lab. Suddenly the lab stumbled, her back feet and legs collapsed under her and she listed sideways toward the gutter. I got up and stood at the edge of the window. The man caught the dog and steadied her with his knees. After a few minutes they started walking but before long she faltered again. This time she went down all the way to the sidewalk. The man stood over her then squatted beside her, stroking her as she lay on the cold concrete. A woman who lives nearby came out and bent down to stroke the dog too. They stayed like that for a while, exchanging soft words between them, gently caressing the lab as she lay so still. The two people seemed to be peaceful, not in distress, maybe just acutely aware that there was nothing they could do now but provide some comfort. The woman went back to her house after a time and the man coaxed his dog back to her feet. She took one or two halting steps...fewer than a dozen and she went down again. I held my breath as he tried to get her to walk. He was gentle and patient and I could see that he wasn't ready to accept that she simply could not walk any more. At last the dog just fell and lay down on the sidewalk, head down, very still. The young man walked around to her feet side and tenderly, carefully put his hands under her body to lift her up. He scooped the dog into his arms and turned to walk down the street, pain and disbelief in his expression, knowing that this day had finally come. I think--I hope-- he was going to bring her home and lay her down on a warm bed and talk with her about the hundreds of hikes they took together, the games of frisbee catch, the years of devoted friendship. He loved her very much, and she, him.

On coyotes

We saw our first coyote yesterday. We were walking with our little dog Enzo in the hills above Wonderland Lake in north Boulder. It was a blue sky day, blustery but not cold and we had just begun to climb when Mark noticed the animal loping across the path 100 feet from where we were. We drew back the retractable leash to keep Enzo close to us (recalling every trail head warning sign) and for a few minutes became hypervigilant in case the coyote was the lead dog in a hungry pack. It was a thrilling sensation--we're really in the wild west!--and also scary to feel so vulnerable and tender in the wilderness. We're new to these western mountains and are still getting our footing, still getting oriented to the vast wildness of the place. The coyote was solo, it turned out, in fact it disappeared as suddenly as it appeared, dissolving into the grey-green landscape. We climbed on, reflecting on the probability that any time we walk in the mountains we're being monitored by wary wild animals that tend to keep tabs on humans in their territory. Three months into my Colorado life I have a healthy respect for the mountains and a hyperbolic fear of the creatures that live in them; I hope that with enough time spent in the western woods my fear of the animals will evolve into a healthy respect for them as well. I believe that they could easily kill or hurt me but I also believe that if I'm aware of their habits and habitat and give them a wide berth that the odds are in my favor. The end result of being respectful but not afraid of the woods and its inhabitants is that I get to be out there, up high, breathing the thin, cool air, feeling the radiant heat that comes from being a mile closer to the sun, feeling at peace in the world.

The weight

It's a feather-weight anxiety and anticipation concerning whether we will in fact live in this house we wish to buy. As my friend Lesley referenced in a recent blog, it's an embarrassment of riches, not just the material kind, but for me, right now, it's also the wealth of time. I feel like an ordinary citizen who is suddenly wealthy after striking it big in Powerball. I've been handed an enormous (literally and value-wise) check and am now deep into spending my riches. What shall I do today? The sun is out, my belly is full from breakfast and the day stretches in front of me. Today I'll reach out to old friends to let them know how much I value their presence in my life. An exercise class to keep my body strong, a walk outside with the dog, a trip for provisions and gratitude that this is my life today.

The offer

We put an offer on a house! I know, you're asking where the hell have I been and now suddenly I'm writing about putting an offer on a house? Well yes, and it's really ok. This--this writing/not writing seems to be all part of the process for me right now. The house is really, really nice. Not "McMansion" nice, not pretentious, but just really nice. It's the kind of house you might look at every morning when you get up and think how did i get so lucky to be able to live here? The outside of the house belies the inside. The outside is big and dramatic, like its made to evoke a wow response from people. And then there's the power line that presides over the property, a crackling sentinel. You can't miss it as you approach the house. My research on the safety of living near lines reassured me. The house is on a Mesa and backs onto open space that will always be open. We'd have our own prairie dog Calvary. Inside it has a southwestern feel with thick walls and arched doorways. Lots of windows, lots of wood and lots & lots of room for out-of-town visitors. More to come as we know more.

Productivity continued.

My wired coffee shop turned out to be the Boulder library, second floor near the windows overlooking Boulder creek.  I suppose that you have to get here pretty early to claim a spot at the window, and my hunch is that once you have your spot you don't easily give it up.  As I was at the front desk turning my temporary library card into a permanent one (now that I have a piece of mail with my new Boulder address) I was helped by a man who was simultaneously trying to slough off the insistent complaints of a grubby, red-eyed bearded homeless guy, something about his card not working... The librarian seemed patient at first, stating politely that he was going to help me now, and would the complainer please wait a minute?  But then as the security guard came over he casually said to her, "can you get rid of him please?"  And she did, with quiet efficiency.  There are so many visible homeless people in this town, so many people on so many street corners with cardboard signs reading things like "I fell off the fiscal cliff" or "homeless and hungry."  Most signs say "anything will help." Sometimes they make eye contact with you as you wait for the light to turn green.  Sometimes I smile and once I gave a guy a buck.  Do the good, generous people of Boulder have a ready supply of ones that they hand out to whomever asks?  Or do most people become blind to these folks after a while?  I want to learn more about them, why they're here, what happened to them, where they sleep at night.  It's an uncomfortable juxtaposition to find a place for them in my mind and heart while I'm spending so much time pondering the enormous amount of money that we're thinking of dropping on a house of our own.  And because its uncomfortable I should stay there a while.

Speaking of uncomfortable, let me go back to the idea of productivity and what I am doing with these days in my life.  I'm nowhere near having a crisis, but as the days come and go I find myself struggling with the rhythm and flow of the hours.  I'm quite cognizant of my mandate: to allow myself to just be, without schedule, without appointments or commitments.  To nurture my long-
neglected parts and to become a whole, healthy person again.

And so, this is what I've been doing: I get up at 6am, have coffee, read email and news headlines, check Facebook and the weather, make Mark's lunch and maybe breakfast and help him get out the door by 7:30.  Enzo and I take a walk in the morning, usually from about 7:45 to 8:30.  Then I clean up the house a little and get ready for yoga if I'm going in the morning.  I leave for yoga at 9 and by the time I'm showered and ready to leave its 11:30.  Then....well, recently I've taken a number of exploratory trips to neighboring towns to see if we could live there.  And the answer is an emphatic "no" so far.  "Sprawling" is the most apt word.  Anyway, so then I come home by 2 or 3 and let Enzo out of his crate, play with him for a while, maybe read for a while and then start to get supper ready for when Mark gets home at 6 or 6:30.  Last night I got upset at him because he made a joke--an innocent joke--about something I was talking with him about.  That's when I realized that I needed to refocus my thoughts--recalibrate my compass--to remember just what's going on here.  I was feeling momentarily dependent on him for validation of my current existence.  Aarrgh.  And that's when I also realized the extent of the loss of my job at Odyssey and the proximity of my friends...the daily interactions and conversations with people who knew me well, who cared about me, who valued my contributions.  Which brings me back around to productivity--if I'm not working at a job, how am I being productive in the world, and do I even need to be productive, and does the business of taking good care of myself, my husband, dog and house count?  Ad the deeper question, the more honest question is, can I stand being quiet with myself for an extended albeit limited amount of time?

Productivity

This won't be a long post; I just need to get something down to break through my resistance to go where I know my writing wants to bring me.  I feel like a 5-year old being dragged by the hand through a museum or on a winter walk, reluctant, resisting the possibility that this could be good, fun even.  The dearth of tangible stuff going on in my life is lately matched by the overflow, standing-room only show going on in my mind as I navigate through my days.

I learned how to write my blogposts on my iPad so I think I might go to a wired coffee shop and do some writing today.  Maybe the Laughing Goat on Pearl.  More later.

Dancing at the Dickens

Mark and I went out last night, no easy feat considering the post-game somnambulance having as much to do with beers and tortilla soup as with the double overtime ending in a loss for Peyton and the Broncos.  But out we went to the Dickens Opera House in Longmont to meet up at a Grey Wolves Meet Up (look for the balloons) with a couple dozen other over-40's.  Johnny O's power trio was on the stage, compelling a middle-aged frenzy of spastic, gleeful movements.  I love to watch people dance, especially the ones who don't take themselves too seriously.  My inspiration for how to dance comes from Steve Martin and Lily Tomlin in All of Me, at the end of the movie when they're lost in a silly, joyful boogie on the black and white tiled floor.  Last night there was blue shirt guy who unabashedly whipped off his sweater 30 seconds into the first song, hawaiian shirt guy who sported the white man's overbite like a champ but who partnered his adoring girlfriend with drunken abandon, the older couple who moved like saplings bending toward each other in a warm breeze, always in harmony created over years of dancing together through breakfast dishes, children come and gone, hospital beds and whispered dreams in the dark.

The Opera House, the "best place music venue in Colorado" is a dark, high-ceiling-ed, red-walled historic behemoth with well-marked exits and not a few disco balls sending sparks of light through the fog machine haze.  And two yellow smiley-face balloons telling the Grey Wolves where to meet up.  We sat aside from the group at first, both of us a little shy about meeting new people.  During the break we sat down next to Sue from Lafayette and Steve from Jackson, up in the mountains.  Sue said it took her 3 years before she got her nerve up to attend a Grey Wolves outing.  Maybe all humans are essentially insecure, all looking for companionship, relationship, connections.

We ask everyone we meet about where they live and how they like it.  We've talked with native Longmonters, transplants from everywhere else, folks who love conservative suburban Broomfield, folks who love liberal hipster Boulder and folks who love the redneck freedom in the mountains.  For us it will all come down to where we can picture making a life, where we'll feel that we're home.  Even though the farm is a financial stretch we find ourselves circling back to thoughts of making that property our home.  We talk about the direction the sun will come in during the winter months and where we'll sit during different times of the day.  We talk about where we'll put our Christmas cactus and fig tree and where we'll find boards to make a dining room table to fit the space.  We talk about how we'll situate our grapevines on the land and whether we'll pay an electrician to wire the studio or whether we'll do it ourselves.  We talk about filling the house with the people we love and where they'll all sleep.  It's a beautiful, special home and if we can see a way to pay for it I believe we'll put an offer in.  There's so much waiting in real estate, so much being patient and holding the tension.  We could be doing all this dreaming and unbeknownst to us another offer is floated, this one without the constraints of a work-around mortgage and a down-payment scraped together from 5 different savings accounts and a truncated retirement fund.  But that's the game and that's the price to pay for the opportunity to call another place our home. We'll know more tomorrow when the bankers tell us about the possibilities or lack thereof.

It's 7 degrees this morning, chance of more snow showers.  A fire is taking hold in the stove, Enzo is on his first nap and pancakes are calling to be made.  The Patriots play at 2.  Today we nap, overtime or no overtime.  Sunday afternoon naps in January by the fire could very well be sacred.