Passion

My husband is in love with tennis. Maybe love is the wrong word. He has passion for tennis, passion for the experience, passion for the way his body moves and feels playing the game. It is his fountain of youth and his catnip.  He thinks about it, reads about it, and talks about it. He coaches tennis, goes away to tennis camps and hires teachers to show him how to become a better player.

I am not tennis. I am a woman he cares for and loves, but there is no passion. In the evenings we sit at our computers, reading or watching DVD’s to avoid what is not happening between us, the big white elephant in the room.

Yesterday we floated down the river ~ together and apart, not speaking. I was having fantasies of going up to fishermen standing on the shore and saying, would one of you make love to me please? I would like to have sex with a stranger. I want to cuddle up to the masculine and feel held, but I don’t want any part of what comes after. I don’t want to know the person, or see beneath the masculine exterior. I simply crave the beginning times when love is a warm inviting sensual bath and I’m not dealing with family, coffee spilled on the couch, or the ‘Why didn’t you call if you were going to be late,’ conversations.

I hoped our marriage would bring us closer together, not farther apart. But, instead of developing the trust that leads to more openness and touching, I have been learning to do without him, to let him go, to live my life alone, as I did before.

Last week, moments before he walked out the door on a camping trip, he came into the bathroom. I was combing my hair as he slipped his arms around me and said, You are so beautiful, I am a lucky boy, I mean man, and he was a man in that moment. In that instant, I was with the man that found me beautiful and desirable, the man I fell in love with, the man I married. I was with my husband. I felt stirrings of intimate feelings, the first I’d known in a very long time. I wanted to go to bed with him and love him and hold him. I wanted to remember us as we used to be. Then it was over, time for him to leave to go camping with his son.

This man used to grab me by the hand and say, come with me, come out into the world. We are 60. We can do whatever we want. But now his spirit has dampened and his desires have disappeared; now he is compliant, I don’t care. Whatever you want. What do you want to do?

He is willing to go where I choose, but his mind is too busy with tennis, running a pallet company and making time for his family to think of ‘us.’ The time that we need is seen as a distraction, a diversion from things that are important. ‘We’ can always wait, as in the unspoken, Are we done yet, cause I have to leave?

I’d like to go to Europe and live for awhile in Italy, France, Spain or Greece. I’d like to let my artist soar and the healer in me rest. I’d like to ride along the Italian Rivera on a motor scooter and settle into a little villa where sunlight greets me each morning and I am inspired to create. I want to escape to a better version of myself.

I fear this marriage side of me comes from a conservative out-moded value system, one I mistakenly ingested like bad pasta. I have tried over and over and over again to make it work, but in the end it becomes nothing more than a settling, while specialness and delights are found away from one another in the company of other people.

A Moment

I’m working too much. I don’t stop because I love what I’m doing. I love being flooded with ideas, words and images. I love fashioning them like a seamstress to fit the page. I finish a piece of writing but there is no rest, my mind goes to the next and the next with excitement and wonder. I am a slave to the muse. I have kissed her face and eaten her ambrosia. I would follow her anywhere.

I stopped sleeping months ago. Midnight to three is typical, midnight to five is better. Today I slept from midnight to seven, which rarely happens. I envy the young who sleep for hours, needing to be called into the day. If I stay up past midnight my body decides it’s a new day and gives me a fresh burst of energy, then I’m really in trouble. 

Gib is working long hours as well. He plays tennis at eight, runs the pallet company until three, then leaves to coach at the high school. He comes home after dark with more work to do and too much on his mind. 

We live like spinning tops swirling in and out of the same circle, but sometimes as he lies on the couch looking into his laptop, and I make my way toward my own pile of work, I’ll pause near the edge of the sofa. His silver hair spreads out just enough to grab my attention; I remember, stop and touch.

I’ll run my fingers against his scalp, gently pull on his long hair and move my hands along his brow. That’s all it takes. His body moves to meet me, his eyes close and his expression changes from one of worry to a deep and welcome letting go. It’s only a moment, but it saves us. We remember and rekindle who we are together.

The moment is broken when I ask his advice, or shake my head in wonder as I glance into the kitchen.

You’re constitutionally incapable of closing a cupboard door, aren’t you?

He smiles, looking at the evidence of his absent-minded path. I never seem to learn, do I? 

My oldest sister, Mary Ann, once told me that men are like loyal dogs. I thought that was demeaning and offensive at the time, but the longer Gib and I are together, the more I take her point. A good scratch behind the ears and all is back on track.

The Cosmic Fireman

My husband, Gib, is a crazy man. He is full out insane. I only have to be with him for moments before the quiet pond I live in is filled with crashing waves and turmoil.

I have read that the Gods protect children and fools. Gib does not fit on the child shelf, so you know what’s left.

The fool is an ancient archetype in the Tarot, his feet barely touch the earth, he is the embodiment of freedom and travel. The fool remains unhurt when stepping off a cliff. His essence is full of grace and an unspoken faith that calls the Gods to place a pillow where a cement wall might reside. His is a faith without words or structure, which summons unseen forces on his behalf.

Gib is the kindest man I have ever known. He lives without judgment or criticism of others, and will exhaust himself for a cause. His wood pallet company is crashing, a company he never wanted, a company he inherited from a family too broken to care. He has worked night and day to breathe life into it, going without pay and using his own funds, so the Mexican men who are employed there will not lose their jobs. When it was time to lay them off from lack of work, he decided to bring in an English teacher instead, so they could be paid to better their lives. I believe this company will die this month, a victim of the recession. It can not be resurrected on the back and good intentions of a single man. I will be delighted to see it go, but he will lose sleep worrying about the families who will suffer from lack of income.

He has coached tennis at Century High School for the past six years. They threatened to close the program if no one came forward to save it. And so he did. He gives of himself again and again in a million small and very large ways. I respect and admire that in him. He is supposed to be retired, but the concept lives in a different orbit than his deeds.

Gib is a cosmic fireman, running around throwing his time, love, and energy on every fire he sees. Sometimes, I get very angry about this, since I am not on fire. But in the end, it’s just as well. That is what he is here to do, and it allows me to go back to my quiet pond.

Almost selling the truck

Saturday morning my husband Gib listed his truck on Craig’s List. He put it in for $1,300 because it needs work. The truck was full of Gib’s stuff, because he is basically a trasher, so it was a real mess. I told him last week-end that we should clean it out, but he was not up for it.  Gib gets a call as soon as the ad hits the net from a guy that lives basically as far away from us as he can live and still claim he lives in Portland. They talk and he makes him an offer of $1,000, which is fine with Gib. Gib offers to bring the truck to the guys house in two hours. “Bring the truck over and I’ll go get the cash!” This is Saturday morning and we are sitting around in our pj’s.

The truck is over by the pole barn, so we walk over and start to unload it. It is full, full, full of his crap. Gib: Gee, I guess we should have done this earlier. Me: No comment.  There are locked boxes in the back where he stores his camping equipment: sleeping bags, chairs and tents. Of course, this is mixed with tennis balls, old socks, tools, and tavern receipts. When he opens the box the worst smell comes out. A mouse or mouse family have lived in there, been pooping and dying and have eaten ALL of his camping equipment. The smell is overwhelming, an odor mixed with mold from sitting too long in the shade of an Oregon winter.

So we start pulling stuff out and tossing it to the ground. Gib is throwing wood screws out the back of the truck into the gravel where we’ll have to hunt down each one, so the gardeners don’t get flat tires.  More work.

 We drive the truck to the house and get soap and the vacuum, both of us gagging on the smell. The front cab is also covered in mold, and more of Gib’s twelve year old way of storing crap. Meanwhile, it’s nearly two, and I’m saying, “This guy is waiting, give him a call!”  Gib is SO attention deficit disorder he can only focus on what’s right in front of him, everything else gets lost. We are hours away from done, so I keep saying, “time to call him, time to call him!” He calls at two, and tells him three thirty, which I think is terribly optimistic. 

 Gib tells me he still wants to get the oil changed and go through the car wash. I tell him to let the new owner do that, but he is determined; plus the clock is ticking, we are going out that evening and need to be dressed and ready. I load the crap we took from the truck into my trunk to dump it in a dumpster, but Gib doesn’t like that idea, because he’s not ready to deal with that part yet, so I haul it out again. Finally, after mopping the ceiling, sides and floor of the truck it looks okay. I spray air fresher in there, but it has the same effect it has in the bathroom. You still smell the shit, it just has an artificial smell laid on top, even worse. We use Windex on the windows and that helps.

Time to get our evening clothes and run. No, Gib needs a shower first, and advice on what to wear to the concert, and he can’t find his belt….anywhere. Finally, we are on the road with me following him in my car, but guess what?  The truck needs gas, so we pull into a station. I’m thinking, knowing Gib, that he is probably filling it up instead of putting in ten bucks. I want to yell at him, but am all yelled out.  That’s done. We make it to the oil change place, but they have long lines and an hour wait. It’s an oil change and car wash. Gib says he will take the wash only, but they say they only wash cars that have had an oil change, but he has already pulled in and there is no road around, so they have to let him go through the wash, because the truck has no reverse, except in the morning when the weather is cold, which is why we are selling it in the first place! The guys at the car wash are not happy. They don’t know how to handle it, so they talk about it for a loooooong time.

I wait for him to go through the wash. We are on the road again. Oh, nope. We are not. Gib pulls into a Shell Station to buy oil. He parks the truck so it blocks all the gas pumps and slowly walks inside to buy six dollars worth of oil. Cars are waiting to get gas as he leisurely pulls the dip stick out, wipes it clean and makes his assessment. Okay, oil in now. Old man blocking gas pumps has been politely tolerated by everyone in the long line that reaches out to the street.

Now we are ready to make the long drive to this guys house. I honk my horn really loud because Gib is pulling the truck into the side of a bus…..~!  “Didn’t notice that Karen, wonder where it came from.”

Nerves on edge now.

We get to the guys house and he lives in scumville, because he is a scum. He hops in the truck with Gib to test drive and doesn’t come back for a really long time. He offers Gib $500 and keeps Gib in his clutches, while he does his slimy salesman routine.  They walk to my car and Gib tells me what’s up. I hit the ceiling!

 “What, we drove this truck all the way over here so he could break his word?”  The guy is still talking to Gib. “We had a deal!” I say, “The deal was for $1,000.”  The guy has Gib’s keys and doesn’t want to give them back. I said, “NO DEAL!!!” Gib smiles, and says, “We all have wives. You know how that goes.” He is leaning on me, because he doesn’t know how to get free of him. He finally gets his keys back and we pull out, both of us shaken by his Mafia manner.

Stressful… Now we have two vehicles, so we take the truck to my daughters house and park it. We’ll put a For Sale sign on next week. It’s time to meet our friends at the fancy restaurant for dinner. I don’t even bother to change, just go as I am, because I’ve had it. I order a coffee drink and good food, the day is looking better.

The show afterwards is fabulous. Flamenco dancers from Spain. Unbelievably beautiful, but I’m having trouble staying awake. We get home at midnight and suddenly I am wide awake and so is Gib, so I begin doing a sketch in my art pad, and he does some computer work. It’s two o’clock in the morning and we HAVE to go to bed, but somehow we are not tired. At four, I am still laying in bed going, I must sleep!, but can’t. Finally, we sleep.

My daughter calls at eight the next morning to see if we’ll help her paint a bedroom. Sure, why not? Half awake we drive into Portland again, stopping to dump all the crap from the truck in a big dumpster outside a manufacturing plant. Illegal dumping. Gib is fumbling around with the lid, being nervous and looking over his shoulder. He makes a horrible criminal. He has no skill at it at all.   

written 11-06-07

I imagined you

I imagined you walking down the driveway this morning. As I looked out the big circular window in the bathroom, there you were. Just for a moment. You were wearing black shorts and sandals. Morning light danced in the silver of your hair; your head was bent and your arms overfull with all that you carry from truck to house. Your walk was distinctive and measured. You didn’t look up or notice me. Your gaze was on the driveway and the cases in your hand. I imagined also, before loading your arms that you had eaten yellow plums plucked fresh from the branch, a little soft and overripe. 

How grand and welcome you looked against that long gaze of forest drive, too preoccupied to notice the fields of clover, ferns and draped ivy that witnessed your return. The wooden piles that divide pavement from foliage quietly and firmly directing your path to our shelter and into my hungry arms. 

In that moment, seeing you there, a smile drifted across my face, my body lit with recognition. He has come back to me, I told myself, he is home. But you are not here yet. You will not come tomorrow or the day after or the next. I must wait for your return. But the plums will not be able to hang on much longer. They are already losing their grasp. It is hard for me to wait as well, but I can pass the time. I have fasting to do, clients to see, friends who visit, clothes to sew, dreams to dream, pictures to draw and words to write. I’ll spend a day of silence going in and in and in. 

I am a new person now that you are with me. I am a woman with a veracious longing. I am the desert and you are the water. When you are away, I return to my essence and know myself. It’s familiar, comfortable and rich. But when you are with me, I abandon the beauty of that place and reach for you. I can do nothing else, nothing. My longing has a life of it’s own and there is no stopping it. It’s a force running through me and its only path, surrender.

From nowhere you appeared in my life, changing it deeply and forever. Is it any wonder I have visions of you? My spirit lies open and waiting.

written 8-10-05