Leveling off. Chapter 2

I'm sitting on the sand, trying my best to bring some semblance of order to my sketching of the boardwalks at Asilomar. My date, bundled up against the cold wind, sits watching quietly next to me. He puts his head on my shoulder and tries not to fall asleep. The afternoon still has plenty of light left, but I can't stop the feeling that this time with him is passing much too quickly. Soon our weekend will be over and who knows when we'll be able to do this again.

A few months later, I'm sitting in the driver's seat of his car, on a lonely stretch of I-5, watching the sun come up on my left and hearing his soft, sleeping breaths on my right. It's a beautiful sunrise and a song that I can't recall is playing on the radio. I'm sorry that I can't remember the song, because at the time, it felt hand-picked for this moment. We're on our way out of town and I'm happily surprised at the fact that we get to do this again. We've barely begun this trip and I'm already sad that it has to eventually end.

I really must learn to live in the moment, because in this moment, I love this person in a way that's new to even a seasoned romantic like me. But I haven't learned my lessons about life's impermanence yet, and I foolishly let too many moments slip away in worry. I love the road I'm on with him and wonder how long I can continue this journey...

I'm sitting once again in front of my computer, impatient for the rest of the family to wake up. It's only 9:14 a.m. on a Sunday, however, and they have every right to sleep in.

I see my former date on a regular basis. We have ties that should never be broken. But I don't see him romantically anymore. We're close, but we're so far away. The memories that I cling to seem a lifetime ago and even if we wanted to, I'm not sure we could ever go back to the way things were before. I'm trying to see the good in this and hope that we will always be close in one way or another.

And since time has since taught me a few of those valuable-albeit-painful lessons about impermanence and living in the moment, I'm trying to be thankful that he's still here now, in some form or another, and not saddened by the fact that we're not who we were. I still love him dearly, but any hope of recapturing what once was, fades with every day that we forget to tend to the weeds that have grown ugly along the way...

...but in my memory, I still see the sunrise and I still travel down that road.

Leveling off. Chapter 1.

I'm in a large front room of a huge home in San Francisco's panhandle. There are chairs lined up in front of me and behind, theater style. Since we got here early, we were able to score seats on the only sofa in the line up. The weather outside is sunny, but chill with the last of whatever cold winter has left to offer. I'm with someone special, so I've made sure to look pretty, for him and for me. There are snacks and hors d'oeuvres and everyone's milling about in a friendly/subdued/ excited way. I've never heard these guys before, but I can already tell that I'm in for a treat.

Andy McKee and Don Ross are moving to the front of the room and everyone finds their seat. There are large picture windows behind the performers and the trees make a perfect backdrop. My date sits close to me and holds my hand. An older woman (the homeowner, maybe?) introduces Andy and Don and gives a brief, albeit impressive summary of their musical history. I can't wait for them to start. My date has payed a ton of money to treat me to this private concert, and we're both hoping for some amazing memories.

Somewhere in my collection of memorabilia, I have the list of the songs they played in order. I don't know why it was important for me to remember them at the time. Maybe I knew that someday (like now, almost two years later) I would write about that experience.

The room gets quiet and they begin to play their guitars. The room's silence is replaced with music, music that I can hear and see and smell and taste. I can feel it flowing through me and through my date's warm hand. I've never experienced music like this before. I don't look at their hands because the music is coming from them, not their hands. The music is telling what they feel, not just what they can play. I'm excited and happy and relaxed all at the same time. I rest my head on my date's shoulder and look past the performers at the trees swaying in the yard behind them. Even the trees understand how special this is. I don't ever want this concert to end. This is ecstasy...

I'm in my living room, warming up my brain. I've got a book to write and I can't be sleepy or distracted. I put on Andy McKee's CD and sit down to write. The first strains of 'When She Cries' fill up the room and I am right back where I was almost two years ago.

Today I'm no longer with the date that brought me to that concert, but I see him in the same social circles quite often, lately. We're different people with different interests and we both seem to be doing well. I get more than just a passing feeling that this is the way the universe wants it to be. There was a time, at the beginning of this year, that I was a wreck at having lost not the intimacy, but the friendship. We're far from friends now, but at least we can be in the same room and laugh at the same things. We're both better this way. Time passes, and time heals. Life moves and changes and if we're wise, we move and change right along with it. But we can always go back to the moments that brought us joy.

And ecstasy.

Bacon tastes good.

Gretchen is making brunch! Nam and Zack are setting the table outside. It's a warm November day. Warm . November. Awesome.

Indy's playing the Lego Indiana Jones game and I'm about to drag him outside for some bacon.

Dan's at work :( but at least he enjoys his job.

It's all about the moments, and this moment includes good people and bacon.