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Even after thirty years I still confuse my husband. Maybe I am confusing.
The other day I was stewing about a feisty email. It probably took the sender less than five minutes to churn it out, but after four hours I could not let it go. John did what he was sure would fix things. He brought me my favorite lunch, and then skittered out of the room lest I start spontaneously combusting. I kept belaboring the same internal diatribe, back and forth like a caged lynx. Finally I took action. I wrote to a friend. I did alert her in the subject line.
WARNING! WHINING AHEAD! PROCEED WITH CAUTION!
She still opened it, brave woman, and although she was riding a crowded train and could not fully respond she said the most important things.
I hear you. I love you. I honor your needs, feelings and process. More soon.
Huge love. And a few deep cleansing breaths.
Wooosh. Her words opened the plug of the clogged drain and the angst washed out of me.
How can I go from up to down so quickly? Or, more curious to me, how can John not? His life has the same minefield of criticism, mishaps and break neck decisions, but he stays calm 90% of the time. Granted thirty percent of the time he is sleeping, but still.
The irony is, he loves the jerking thrill of roller coasters, and I do not. Perhaps it is because I live on one. Years ago we were some of the last lingering people at Knott's Berry Farm near closing time, and John and his brother got on a ride that tries to disconnect your brain from your skull. It had some clever name like Ricochet Rider, but I know the real intent. Patrons with lower IQ's spend more money on souvenirs. There was no line so the attending underpaid teenager let them stay on. I think they rode it six consecutive times. How can he call that fun? It happens to me on a regular basis without having to buy a ticket.
Once I was teaching sewing to eight sprightly girls and things were not going smoothly. Everyone in the room was armed with scissors, pins and a machine that thrusts a sharp implement up and down hundreds of times a minute.
"No, let's not cut that fabric Lucy... it is the tablecloth."
"Ok, go ahead and step on the foot pedal... good...good... stop... stooop.... STOP!!! Emily it is important to not sew over my fingers..."
"Beautiful job, Megan!!! Everyone clap for her pink pillow with forty seven yellow buttons!"
"Oh, Ashley, remember we cut out pieces from the corner, not the middle of a yard of fabric!" I sighed at the demise of a pricey batik I had meant to use in a quilt.
I admit it. I am a yo yo. I go up. I go down. But sometimes all it takes to snap me back is those loving words.
I hear you. I love you. I honor your needs, feelings and process. More soon.
Huge love. And a few deep cleansing breaths.
Photo by Andy Sullivan
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