It's late. For me, anyway. Kaeden has just fallen asleep and I am contemplating the richness of Japanese Sour Cherry Green Tea within the confines of a tiny pot and an even tinier mug. Makes me feel exotic to drink from a vessel smaller than my dog's paw.I am moving soon. There is a duplex with five bedrooms, two bathrooms, two living rooms, one kitchen, a carport, and many doors in just the right places, simply dying for the arrival of my son, my friend and her daughter, and I. It's been a long time since I lived with anyone and I am looking forward to the company, but will also savour the privacy of the arrangement. I am going to miss my little church, partly because it's beautiful and partly because this is where I first brought Kaeden home from the hospital. It will, in a sense, feel like I am leaving a part of our short history together behind. Good thing I have a camera and a strong will or I might chain myself to the front door on moving day.
I was thinking about buying some rubber pants tomorrow and taking Kaeden to the pool. The pants are for him, silly, not me. Mind you, it would be an interesting experience in human behaviour if we both wore rubber pants and peed in the pool anyway. We could giggle and snicker. Until we got caught. Imagine: photos of us being tossed from the Nanaimo Aquatic Centre together. Would that require a page in the baby book reserved explicitely for deviant behaviour or would that just go under the general heading of "firsts"?
There was a time in my life, not too long ago, when I felt that I was as perfectly satisfied and beautiful as I would ever be. I may have been about 23, and filled with a new found ability to express myself in ways I never knew imaginable. I travelled and wandered and partied and laughed and cried and did just about anything that tickled my sense of wonderment, even for a minute. It was during this time that the garden gnome you see above in james' picture made his journey across BC, with a brief stop in Seattle, WA. When things began to change, I was afraid everything I had learned would change too, but lo and behold: I have only compounded on those discoveries and added an inkling of maturity to the potpourri of developmental scraps we collect like bag ladies along the way. I love who I am now and in seven more years, I can only dream that there exists enough beauty in the universe to expand this same feeling expotentially.
Where did that come from, you ask? I have no idea. I just sit in this chair and wait for the words to tell me what to write. Perhaps moving makes me melancholic; it exacerbates the duality between my insatiable hunger for diversity and desparate clinginess to familiarity. I should have been a Gemini.
I'm finished now. Che Guevera is waiting for me in my bed. According to the New York Times, this John Lee Anderson masterpiece is the most extensive, well-researched biography ever written about my little Argentine hero. I question how many biographies of left-wing guerilla revolutionaries this right-wing, ultra-conservative newspaper is actually familiar with, but anyway ...
... there is Love in everything. Can you see?
