Some thoughts thus far....

Here are a collection of things I've written down since we got here. Some of the writing I love, some annoys me, but it's what was written nonetheless:

9/10/09


A sliver of emptiness wedged between us as we moved around each other in the kitchen, making dinner. It wasn’t an obtrusive sadness or loneliness, but more an allusive cloud of grey threatening to grow darker. The sentiment--in that moment—dug into our sides and put distance between us, and at the same time drew us closer in our mutual awareness of the expanding quietude.
In an almost shameful haste, I turned on the TV and some more lights, warming the big room and taking the edge off all that empty space. A brief explanation was offered, and with relief and understanding, Jason nodded and smiled. From then on, neither of us could stop talking and plans for all that we would do while we here blossomed into a series of deeply contented conversations.


If my perceptions are accurate, Fall seems to be unloading her bags here in Hendersonville—in grocery store displays, around the curling edges of leaves and on top of a chilly breeze—with intentions of sticking around. Kip says we can expect a week or two of warmth in a few days, but that steadily cool weather will follow. I’m not knocking the seasonal changes I’ve come to know and love in Florida, but this mountaintop welcome to autumn is natural and reasonable, unlike the farce we put on further south.

9/11/09

Today as we were walking around the lake, I asked Jason if there were parts of the walk that he liked better than others. He said, “Yes, I like this part a lot,” referring to the quieter, less lived-around stretch of the walk where open space, trees and shrubberies dominate. It was the part that gave me a mild case of the creeps. I like the part where there are more houses, cars and signs of life. I thought it was interesting that we were perfectly opposite in our lake-walk nuances, and began to pay a little more homage to the quiet parts.

9/12/09

I’m trying to make friends with the gray. At home, in Florida, I know what an overcast sky means, how it will affect me, and usually even how long it will last. Here, I don’t know what to expect from gloomy skies and during this time of transition I’m finding that ever so slightly unsettling.

The crickets lull us into night, providing a quilt of comfort that wraps us close to the Earth and yet—at once-- elicits a dream that we are not on Earth at all, but that we are actually dancing on the stars.

9/16/09

I’m not sure if we just haven’t realized that our time here will stretch beyond a little vacation or what, but there are no feelings, almost entirely, of sadness or longing for home. Everything here’s falling into place so comfortably and with such ease that we haven’t even noticed how easily it’s all falling into place. New friends, jobs, a routine. Not a ruffled feather in sight. This, more than most anything else I’ve experienced, seems to be in the hands of God, and He smiles as He watches us be tickled and moved by the unfurling petals of this new blossoming life we’re living. I am open and waiting, confident that we will understand when the wind blows us in another direction, whatever that might be.

Although I have a long way in identifying the trees and plants and flowers around us here, I noticed today that by simply having that consistent curiosity and desire to familiarize myself with my surroundings, I am becoming more in tune with nature, and can sense the beginning of a lovely conversation between it and myself.

I’m trying to keep tabs on the changing of the leaves. I think that there has already been a shift in the landscape’s color since we got here. Mostly we’re still padded on all sides by lush green, but tangy yellows are bursting forth here and there, and a dignified burgundy is settling in sporadically. A sultry vine twists up an electric pole beside the lake, and her leaves are proud and showy, rich with auburns and shades of cranberry. She’s so pretty. I wonder what will become of her as the seasons revolve through.

I was caught off guard and left slightly disoriented upon discovering Kanuga has a bustling underbelly , festering beneath the grounds we have come to find such comfort in. It is a den of constant movement and noise, with washing machines and dryers spinning and spinning, burping their steam into the faces of older women, worn women, women with premature wrinkling and stained teeth. The break tables of common laborers line one wall, littered with Marlboro boxes, empty Cheeto bags and Styrofoam Cups-O-Noodles. Mexican women speak to each other in Spanish and young black men make jokes and talk above the rumble of the dryers. Kanuga has, to me, always been a sweet tonic of fresh air, God and seersucker. Where will I store this new information? This sweaty, uncomfortable information that seems to be chafing at my monogrammed Laura Ashley dress???