Relative Something

We are now into the final days before Cyndie’s departure for Boston. Up to now, it has been all fun and games as we talk, and talk, about what is going to happen. Suddenly, we are faced with the reality that mere days remain before she leaves our current home to set up new residency in Boston. On Monday, she begins work with the Boston Public School system. She hasn’t even figured out how she is going to furnish her apartment yet.

Our current living room has become the central staging area for small items she is packing to ship to Boston. Every day I discover another room that has been purged of minutiae, as Cyndie is sweeping through the house, room by room, to clean areas that have been static for years, collecting select items to take to Boston. It is prime uncluttering mode. I hope I can pick up some of that vibe.

One thing that will definitely be uncluttered is our refrigerator. Or is it, my refrigerator. –We haven’t figured out how to refer to things yet. We are separating, but it’s not like we are actually separating!– I won’t be filling the refrigerator in the way that Cyndie fills a refrigerator. The cupboard will be another thing. It will be filled with bags of Ramen noodles and brimming with boxes of cereal. Or, I could take up cooking. …Naaaah.

Friday, my new diet begins.

When you reach the middle of October, there is something to consider about numbered days that is at a distinctly different level than when the first inklings of autumn appear in August. The onset of brilliantly colored leaves in September would seem an obvious harbinger of doom, except for the fact that the colors are so distractingly beautiful.

But by October 15, the color is fading and the sunlight is waning and the temperature is declining, and if you have more than a quarter century of experience with October, and thus less naive youthful exuberance and enough winter awareness, the sensation of mid-October makes a unique impression.

That is, if you live in the northern hemisphere, and in a place where the temperature drops below freezing for months at a time and snow covers everything. Don’t try to tell me you get it, if you live where I could still walk around in street shoes and wear a light jacket in the dead of winter. Just because you think it is cold when the temperature actually drops to 45°F a couple of times, that doesn’t equate.

I am lucky, because I have always loved winter. It is my favorite season. And not just because it means the end of the aggravation from neighbors leaf-blowing. The joys of stepping out in expedition on a cold and snowy winter day are innumerable for me. However, in the years since realizing my 50th October, and the 50 winters that have followed the month each year, I am perceiving a change in the sensation which October brings. It is not the same as my 10th October, or my 15th. Back then, I looked ahead to candy at the end of the month. Now, I have a much greater sense of what lies ahead.

It is a good thing that, at this point in my life, I am undertaking additional effort to become more fully aware of the present moment. It just might lend the arrival of the middle of October a less ominous perception as my experience with future Octobers multiplies.

There are days when the urge to do something creative is incredibly powerful, but those times can often manifest for me in something of a paralysis of action. It is an interesting conundrum. However, that is very different from the times when there is simply nothing in the way of inspiration to draw from. Unmotivated, unemotional void. It can be a very peaceful state of mind, unless it occurs at a time when creative production is the goal. That can ultimately result in an increase of angst.

I believe that one very pure antidote for either of these situations will involve a relationship with horses. It is intriguing for me, since I have had very little in the way of interaction with horses for the great majority of my life. The precious days I had the benefit of being with Ian Rowcliffe and their horses in Portugal, are proving to be increasingly special to me, in light of the dream that has developed for Cyndie and me to create our own similar situation in Minnesota.

This all becomes even more convoluted with the unplanned job offer that Cyndie has accepted in Boston. You just never know what is around the corner.

I am growing more able to be “both/and” in my acceptance of what the universe presents for me. It is allowing me to feel comfortable with both the possibility of Cyndie’s and my dream, and the reality that will have us separated for a big chunk of the near future.

Most people would agree that something that gets classified as noise, can understandably be identified as polluting. When it is merely the ‘sound’ of the device put to use, the majority of reasonable people would refrain from labeling it as pollution. I admit, I am not always a reasonable person.

This morning, with the October temperatures thus far still holding warmth that requires the windows of the house be open, the sounds of the day are starting slow and sweet. There is the constant trill/buzz of crickets, which sounds like it hasn’t changed one bit since the darkness of last evening. Do they ever pause? There is nothing audible that would in the least bit be considered pollution

The bluster of the last few day’s dramatic gusting wind has ended and the air is incredibly calm, which sets the stage for this priceless aural tranquility. In the distance, there is a brief call from a friendly-sounding dog. I do everything in my power to absorb this peacefulness in desperate hope it will be enough to carry me through the day. My nemesis looms, near at hand.

I suffer from an inability to overcome an anxiety over the sound of the dreaded scourge of suburban residences: the leaf blower. It is like fingernails on slate to my ears. I can’t move away to a horse farm in the country fast enough. I may be driven insane before I get the chance. Complicating the impact of the sound, for me, is the aspect of what people are choosing to do that makes that infernal pulsing drone. They are using gas or electricity to create their own wind to move the natural debris of the desirable trees on their property; move it off of their lawns, sidewalks, and driveways. I witnessed someone yesterday pushing the pile into the street! My city tries to inform its citizens that this is bad practice.

AAack! My time has run out. The pain has begun. It is 9:56 and the blowing has started already, two houses down. It is too bad the leaves don’t stay where these people blow them. They need to get out, time and again, to repeatedly blow off their property. INSANITY!