What Was That?

       Sharing the last post with my has been a decided extrovert was most constructive. Therapeutic even.  For me.  His role was clearly uncomfortable.  Since by psychological nature his "way" is to act rather than to react, questions like, "Why do you think I wrote about that? I mean, what was the point?", clearly throw him. 

Had I posed the question before I began writing, asking for direction or inspiration his role would have been clear,

His ideas at the ready.  Like  any good life coach:  "What should you write about? Why this? Well clearly you're at a juncture in life where there is time for reflection and analysis - two of your favorite main courses - why not reflect on the past as you would audit a story after you closed the book, finishing a chapter.

       Choose a time frame - crisis, celebration whatever - and re-tell it with enough distance and experience to also see what it meant for you or us.  Perhaps it could develop into a tutorial - "Honey Dos and Don't Lists - and Why".  Then back to watching the Olympics, a ballgame, the lawn not being mowed or raked.  Safe.  Comfy.

Unfortunately, I was switching roles - asking him to re-act, NOT act.  Not comfy.  Irritating.  Borderline, "There she goes again", sigh.  Because my second most dominant function is intuition, I saw the potential approaching the threshold and going on to action so I intervened with some clues.

       "Out of nowhere, considering the really jolting experiences we've lived through, I dipped my quill into the 'hard-to-open-because-it-is-so-rarely-used-jar of ink and scrawled several pages all about early chapters of our marriage, parents of only one child, professional neonates, social misfits as well as  using an insignificant social event as the vehicle to present this ineptitude to possibly three or so readers (who are probably scratching their heads wondering "A glimpse into the book she's 'not writing'?", "Evidence that I missed a few posts?", "An ominous hint at a split with Phil?", Somebody slip her some Ouzo?". What?")

       Relieved, and thinking "that was close", he'd rush full speed into a-c-t-i-o-n mode: "You don't need a 'why' to explain something you've written.  This is not rocket science here.  You're just reiterating thoughts about what you've learned over time about people and relationships.  It was a simple but very important lesson-sharing session. (Hint of a smile.  Acting.  Doing.  Makes the man giddy.).

A casual is you have a avuncularr pat on the shoulder

and he it was on his way to the fridge to stock up for a few more runs of skeleton or maybe a hockey game.  Overcome with the sheer weight of this comforting conversation, I am charged with continuing, carrying on as they say.
       He raids the fridge.  I scan my blog posts.  That there is no particular pattern is a fact driven by decision not serendipity today.  I write what moves me.  And this day I am driven by two things, both of which fell out during the answer to my query.
A chapter ends.  What was it about? (topic selection in the prior post would seem to imply that life - as a story - poses questions the answers to which are in the past.)
That people are not always what they seem to be might be a lesson we must learn for future chapters to be smooth and told with candor.

 

 

There must be a reason for this preamble; a door that has to open in order for me to tell my story.  Instinct tells me that the answer lies in my having shortchanged the facts.  So let's go back and fill in the some of the blanks that surrounded the early part of our marriage.

       I spoke of living in a flat while the navy had my husband in the Mideast.  After his return it wasn't until our little guy was almost three years old when we found our first home.(That would be the little white Dutch colonial on "The Days of our Lives".) The adjustment to having daddy home was both a challenge and a joy.

       Philip was a very imaginative and spirited little guy.  I guess I was a rather lenient and easily amused mom.  So, when he decided that like his dog Max, he too would have his meals on the floor and bark rather than speak, it really didn't concern me.  Dr. First Lieutenant was not as amused.  Fortunately, Philip was a dog for only two weeks.  He easily reverted back to being a happy little boy. 

Perhapstomorrow, we will see where things were not always going so smoothly
Later, Lorane. . . .