Halfway (nearly) through my 365 Project, I stop to take stock. Joyous, momentous events overtook my ability to write about them in recent weeks — Dearest and I honeymooned in Paris, eloped to Chicago, and created a home in Wisconsin (a United State in the Midwest north of Chicago, in case my Coastal and international readers are fuzzy on that place name).
I haven’t counted how many dates I’ve skipped in the past six months; it makes me feel bad. I don’t want to skip any in the second half of the year, both to prove something to myself and to the blogosphere, where I hope to establish myself.
So from here forward, the rules are simplified: New pic and new text every day by midnight. Period.
We’re not in Madison anymore. That great freshwater sea is called Lake Michigan, and today the first light of dawn woke me to record a spectacular sight. I took it as symbolic of the new beginning that Dearest and I are making, which is still a secret, but I just had to drop a hint.
Safe in a sea of green, I find sanctuary — a place of refuge and protection. And also a place of worship. A consecrated place, dedicated to a sacred purpose, a union of souls, a place for offsping to feel loved and launch themselves from, an oasis of good and order and peace in a troubled world.
Not only are all my wordly goods here now, all that I am is here, and all that I will become. It was a long road with many twists, but my Dearest was waiting at the end to share eternity.
Moving doesn’t usually make me smile. Trauma from all the Army moves as a child — on a boat to Japan at 2, back at 6, Georgia to California at 8, to Milwaukee, then Mequon at 11. College began in 1966, and at least a move a year. Same with apartment living, then changing cities, splitting things up in a divorce — moving has had few good associations.
Until now. That’s because I’m moving home. To the home of my heart, a place I have gotten to know well this past year, but which never existed before that. A home that Dearest makes.
I felt I was fated to wander, rootless, an urban nomad, fatherless at 12, motherless at 24, no family home once the grandfather who finished raising me died in 1988, going to whatever Thanksgiving dinner would have me, going to Mexico to escape Christmas. Playing house a couple times, I went through the motions, sat at the head of the table, but those weren’t faimiles with a heart.
So every time I load the car with CDs, boxes, or fans, I smile. Round time is rolling me home.
It happens every summer — you leave for a while and your garden gets taken over by weeds. All that wonderful dirt is just too tempting for the opportunistic little buggers — not so little after a while.
But rather than despair, I take it as an editing challenge. Somewhere in that miniature jungle are plants I actually want. Trouble is, I’ve never planted these species before, so I have to look for patterns, eliminate known weeds (you see them evey year, they can’t fool you any more) and hope I don’t yank too many “friendlies.”
Such is life — weeding out the false and untrue, nurturing the good, never letting the garden of your love go to pot.