Oh Dave! Now

Last week’s blog of the TMI Survey was a reaction out of anger against someone I pay for services. It’s someone I only see every few weeks so direct communication of my feelings wasn’t the easiest option. Writing the survey was cathartic and after a fit of giggles at the purge of sophomoric humor and passive-aggressive revenge, the anger was gone and I fell into a calm state of mind. Lying on my bed under the blankets curled up on my side, my head caressed by two fluffy pillows, I opened my eyes to daydream.

I don’t do enough daydreaming anymore.  In every house and apartment I have ever lived in, I have lied in bed or on the sofa and gazed out a window and let my thoughts wander. I partly marveled at how lucky I was to always have an interesting view. My teenage bedroom window on the 2^nd story looked into the top branches and leaves of a maple tree framed by patches of ever changing sky. The bedroom in my first apartment in California looked out over the red Spanish tiles of a dentist’s office. The window framed perfectly a single, tall, swaying palm tree. The 2^nd story bedroom window of the French cottage I shared in Oakland with my former partner looked out over the apartment building roof next door and again my view was of a soaring tree surrounded by usually blue sky. One time I rolled over onto my partner’s side of the bed to see with surprise that his view had no foliage and was an ugly web of electric and telephone wires.

In my current bedroom, I don’t have a window view. From where I lie now, my eyes fall upon two paintings over the fireplace mantle. Each painting, one, my favorite Caillebotte framed print, and the other, a small framed original watercolor by my late friend Tom Young, has a detailed story to it. I don’t dwell on the stories while I daydream. Instead I just use them as a familiar focus to calm my thoughts. Daydreaming is my time to slow down from everything. I take a few easy deep breaths until my breathing calms too.

I notice the sounds inside and outside the room. Air blows out of the furnace vent. Electricity hums with reliable consistency. An owl hoots beyond the walls from a temporary perch in a California pine alongside the house. Then it sounds like a second owl on the north side answers. I am just another living creature alive in the world. The simplicity of it makes me happy and I smile to myself.

“Honey,” my partner Eric says from his side of the bed. “Are you going to sleep or are you going to read?”

I’m slightly startled and only slightly annoyed. “No,” I reply. “I’m daydreaming.” I close my eyes against his innocent intrusion. He’s lying in bed next to me on his back, engaged in his ritual of reading a mystery or suspense novel for ten minutes until he can’t keep his eyes open. There are stacks of books on the floor on his side of the bed, books he has quickly sacrificed to his ritual, at least one a week. On my side of the bed, there is a small stack of books on the nightstand waiting to be picked up.

Eric is perplexed by my daydreaming—he always thinks something is wrong. His family is all about activity that never stops—talking, eating, drinking, emailing, crossword puzzles, and reading-reading-reading. More talking.

I settle back into my daydreaming. It is relatively peaceful in here tonight. The usual mental loops have turned off. My mind is not racing about the next deadline at work. Nor am I dwelling on petty slights that I take too seriously. Nor what groceries need to be replaced. Nor are the music and lyrics of Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” or the Wild Beasts’ “We Still Got the Taste Dancin’ on Our Tongues” playing over and over as they frequently do.

Instead I notice how the walls and ceilings look from my current angle. I still like the shades of sandal wood we painted the bedroom a few years back. The big room is not a typical square or rectangle—it is all interesting angles and cutouts—high ceiling down the center but then dropping down dramatically almost to the floor on either side. A plant that we’ve had for years needs water and trimming. Probably more light.

I am suddenly shocked to realize that our fireplace mantle has unintentionally become a shrine of sorts to those who have passed. Four little pine boxes, each put there at a different time, hold the ashes of two special dogs and two special cats. My late father’s small collection of tattered Louis L’Amour westerns is held together by two carved yellow stone bookends, kitschy stallion busts that I inherited from my late friend-poet-artist Tom. I decide that once I finish reading a contemporary novel, I will lose myself in the Old West the way Dad did over and over again.

I reflect without anxiety on all the years behind me now. What a lot of activity there was, building a career and taking home a paycheck. Looking for love and finding it. Alternately fighting to keep hold of it and telling myself I don’t need the drama. Wishing I hadn’t chosen to live so far away from my family—everyone there has grown up and I wasn’t there enough. Yet it is hard for me to imagine living anywhere but where I am.

I pull the blankets closer and almost purr. I am tenderly grateful for my enduring partnership with Eric, a good Midwestern boy, loyal and smart and full of good humor. He snores too loudly—drinks too much soda pop—doesn’t clean up after himself quickly enough. Kisses me good night after he closes his book. Keeps the tea kettle warm for me in the morning. We have an affectionate, high-spirited little dog, a Welsh Corgi, a demanding and dependent child who brightens up our days with her peculiar and predictable habits. I think about some good friends and family and wonder how they are doing tonight and when I will see them again. All of our lives are complex and we live in a complex world, built on simple, individual day-to-day actions. But really, like me here, we are each just another breathing animal needing warmth and to be fed.

I close my eyes and open them again, and remind myself that I am in my early 50s—it’s easy to forget—and should get on top of all the unfinished business that surrounds me. There’s the stack of books full of undiscovered insights and adventures. Several aging magazines with once-important news are losing their luster. But they will have to wait until another day.

I roll onto my back and my daydreaming is over. The clock says it is time to go to sleep. Maybe now, I can.