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It's a fine line between living for the moment and being a sociopath.

Patricia B McConnell: For The Love Of A Dog.

Pema Chodron: The Places That Scare You

Daniel Wallace: Mr Sebastian & the Negro Magician

All paths lead to the same goal: to convey to others what we are. --Pablo Neruda

Monday, November 28, 2005

Too little of the best thing for a few weeks

I've been traveling too much recently: last week in Canada, missions to the Netherlands and Italy, and a silly trip to India -- three days out for one day on the ground to give two speeches.

Today, however, it's Flame-Haired Angel who flies. I won't see her again for three weeks. Is it because we've only been married for four years that we feel each other's absences so intensely? Or, perhaps because we married so late we are more aware than some how little life there is to share, even if we are both granted healthy longevity.

As she flies off to her original home and her family, in advance of Christmas, we're both happy she'll have this extra time to soak up all that only one's old home place can provide. Yet, we feel even these few days of not being in the home of each other's shuffling and rattling around in the blessing that is close proximity.

So, no more Flame-Haired Angel for a few weeks, except the thin strand of her light that travels in photons down the phone line. Although I will distract myself with the affections of indulgent friends, I will eat poorly, drink too much and stay up too late. Not because I can't take care of myself, but because her absence is like a pall. I hide from it. Eating means eating without her. Sleeping means confronting the deserted bed. Drinking means not hearing the lyrics of what she smells and tastes in the wine, and it means not having her to kiss after the indulgent second glass.

I could write some ode to the joy of reunions -- ours is, I'm thankful, but weeks away -- but it would be insincere, no matter how true. Because, as I write this, her plane is taking off, and what I feel is the present forceful thrust of the engines pushing her away.

Is there anything so simply ridiculous as separated lovers pining for one another? And is there anything more true?


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