"and you'll rise up free and easy on that day"

I'm feeling maudlin, with that sore and overused feeling in my chest somewhere around my breastbone that usually means I'm going to cry in the coming hours. I can't settle on songs to listen to, or what book to pick up next, or even what to clean.

I get these moments of giddiness, usually when Light tells me I'm adorable, or when there are raspberries in the room, or at library book sale, or when someone tells me I've done something that improves his or her life, or assures me that they are interested in finding ways that we can be in each other's lives, or Passim shows.

That giddiness is part of why I call my husband Light. To me, there's a quality of light, at certain angles and in certain times of the day, that make me catch my breath. It's usually around sundown, but sometimes it's before or after a storm, and sometimes it's the interior of a very well constructed building (usually a church) and you can see the dust glittering in the sunbeam where there's this brief moment where everything seems fresh and clean and it's like there's a little more oxygen in the word.

I've thought of love as finding the perfect resonant note to sound inside your rib cage, somewhere between hearing the bass in a car driving by thump in your bones, and that one note on a violin that slides inside you and gives you shivers. I've always been more drawn to images of love hollowing you out, rather than filling you up. And Light is like that. And Light is like finally figuring out how to draw a deep breath.

But, he's also human, and sometimes he's overtired, or just wants to play his video games, and sometimes he goes to bed early, or sleeps late, and I rattle around this house, which is never exactly what I want it to be, or as clean as I'd like, and I've oversteeped the tea by accident, but I'm going to drink it, no matter how bitter, and I still haven't mopped, and my hands get twitchy.

And I get maudlin, and it's easier to remember the things I'm missing, the things I'm left wanting, the fear that means I almost never call anyone, or even IM anyone first, because the unreturned serve hurts worse than never getting on the court ever could, and all the other ugly parts of me.

Bah. I guess it's time to go dance in the kitchen and make dinner for the week. Maybe my ipod will save me.

"and you'll rise up free and easy on that day"

I'm feeling maudlin, with that sore and overused feeling in my chest somewhere around my breastbone that usually means I'm going to cry in the coming hours. I can't settle on songs to listen to, or what book to pick up next, or even what to clean.

I get these moments of giddiness, usually when Light tells me I'm adorable, or when there are raspberries in the room, or at library book sale, or when someone tells me I've done something that improves his or her life, or assures me that they are interested in finding ways that we can be in each other's lives, or Passim shows.

That giddiness is part of why I call my husband Light. To me, there's a quality of light, at certain angles and in certain times of the day, that make me catch my breath. It's usually around sundown, but sometimes it's before or after a storm, and sometimes it's the interior of a very well constructed building (usually a church) and you can see the dust glittering in the sunbeam where there's this brief moment where everything seems fresh and clean and it's like there's a little more oxygen in the word.

I've thought of love as finding the perfect resonant note to sound inside your rib cage, somewhere between hearing the bass in a car driving by thump in your bones, and that one note on a violin that slides inside you and gives you shivers. I've always been more drawn to images of love hollowing you out, rather than filling you up. And Light is like that. And Light is like finally figuring out how to draw a deep breath.

But, he's also human, and sometimes he's overtired, or just wants to play his video games, and sometimes he goes to bed early, or sleeps late, and I rattle around this house, which is never exactly what I want it to be, or as clean as I'd like, and I've oversteeped the tea by accident, but I'm going to drink it, no matter how bitter, and I still haven't mopped, and my hands get twitchy.

And I get maudlin, and it's easier to remember the things I'm missing, the things I'm left wanting, the fear that means I almost never call anyone, or even IM anyone first, because the unreturned serve hurts worse than never getting on the court ever could, and all the other ugly parts of me.

Bah. I guess it's time to go dance in the kitchen and make dinner for the week. Maybe my ipod will save me.