So Matt and I are back in town, after a weekend of camping (nice, but HOT), seeing old friends (lovely), and spending time with his family (wonderful). We fell into bed about 11 o'clock last night, exhausted. Today we finished up the last round of thank-you notes to the kind people who generously bought us wedding gifts (mostly kitchen toys, which we couldn't have been happier about). In the midst of that, of course, we made food--Matt experimented with a salad of potatoes, cucumbers, and radishes, which was quite good; and I made a whopping batch of zucchini bread, actually split between two loaves of bread and a dozen muffins. The zucchini was donated by friends we visited on the way back from Madison, some of which (the zucchini, not the friends) we breaded and fried last night and ate with brown rice, carrots, and mushrooms. Between the breading/frying and all the fiber contained otherwise, that all has to balance out to be somewhat healthy, right?
It seems like we're both feeling a little (probably predictably) melancholy as our move closes in. It's wonderful to have seen a lot of old friends in the past few weeks, but it's bittersweet knowing it will certainly be the last time for awhile, and it's a potent reminder of the inescapable fact that one almost never knows when "the last time..." will be the last time. UPDATE: In between writing and publishing this, I found out one of the nurses who helped orient me to my current position has cancer that has metastasized to the bones, lungs, liver, and pretty much all the other places you really don't want cancer. She's no older than our parents, a lovely woman and a wonderful nurse who has been slowly cutting back her hours in anticipation of a lively retirement traveling to other countries with the husband she loves. You just never know.
I think these kinds of thoughts have put--not distance, but a certain amount quiet between us. We both seem to realize that even this, a trip we take together with the greatest amount of joy and solidarity, requires a certain traversing of one's own inner landscape that still must be done alone before it can be shared. That said, I know we're both embracing our commitment to be there for the other one, and to learn to turn to each other above everything else (which, happily, I think we already do well), as we approach the day when, for all practical daily purposes, we'll be all each other's got.
It seems like we're both feeling a little (probably predictably) melancholy as our move closes in. It's wonderful to have seen a lot of old friends in the past few weeks, but it's bittersweet knowing it will certainly be the last time for awhile, and it's a potent reminder of the inescapable fact that one almost never knows when "the last time..." will be the last time. UPDATE: In between writing and publishing this, I found out one of the nurses who helped orient me to my current position has cancer that has metastasized to the bones, lungs, liver, and pretty much all the other places you really don't want cancer. She's no older than our parents, a lovely woman and a wonderful nurse who has been slowly cutting back her hours in anticipation of a lively retirement traveling to other countries with the husband she loves. You just never know.
I think these kinds of thoughts have put--not distance, but a certain amount quiet between us. We both seem to realize that even this, a trip we take together with the greatest amount of joy and solidarity, requires a certain traversing of one's own inner landscape that still must be done alone before it can be shared. That said, I know we're both embracing our commitment to be there for the other one, and to learn to turn to each other above everything else (which, happily, I think we already do well), as we approach the day when, for all practical daily purposes, we'll be all each other's got.
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