She only calls me “Schnuckums” in the cartoon. It makes me laugh every time, the nuance in this alternate-cartoon-reality of ours.
What is true in both realities is the delight I take in our fashion shows. She regularly asks my opinion about her clothes, “This or this?” Sometimes it’s about her shoes, “These or these?” It’s a riot when we are in the ladies clothing section of a store because other women stare in horror when Kerri asks my opinion – and then their mouths drop open when I actually answer with something aesthetic…style-informed…and not merely a caveman grunt.
Once, when we were shopping for new jeans, she came out of the dressing room and asked, “Do these make my butt look big?” and a women emerged from the next dressing room and said, “Girl! Big butts are in!”
It’s not that we are inept or anti-tech. We are not. We are mostly savvy and can generally figure things out. When we can’t, we have a 12 year-old cultural-informant on standby who can guide us through the maze of complexity.
One of the promises of technology is to make our lives easier. Often that is true. Often it is not. I have found that being inundated in a 24/7 firehose of information with multiple competing channels, services and choices and changes and updates, password-password-do-you-remember-the-password, resets, google searches for clues, revamps and rolling technological improvements…life is not easier. Too much is too much. Too fast is too fast. And, let’s face it, much of what is out there is noise. It’s impossible to fill the belly of a 24/7 hungry ghost with brain-or-heart-nutritional substance.
We don’t watch much tv. But, when we do, we don’t want to spend an hour scanning or searching or retrieving or updating the app. I confess to fondly recalling the days of three channels, an on-and-off switch and a remote with a single button. I also like the feel of turning pages in a book and have been eye-rolled a time or two for saying it.
Here’s the bottom line: I have limited time on this earth and don’t want to lose it looking for something to watch.
In my pre-Kerri-era, I took a 20 minute power nap every afternoon. I’d hit the studio floor at about 3:15, snooze like a champ, and be ready to go for the rest of the day. All that changed when I moved east. All of my work patterns and life patterns changed.
Although she definitely does not see herself as a nap person, occasionally, after a loooong night awake, I have been able to coax her into a dedicated-nap-fest. And, as a rule, she is fast asleep before my head hits the pillow. It tickles me. I confess: I am plotting to expand her definition of herself to include more naps. I tell her it’s a sign of sophistication. I tell her naps are sign of arriving at adulthood. I’ll tell her anything as long as we eventually arrive at the return of the power nap. The only thing better is a good hot bath.
It’s true. There’s rarely been a punch-clock in either of our careers. No one who actually holds the service imperative of a mission-driven-not-for-profit counts minutes and hours because it would only serve to confirm what you already know: if you are good at what you do, you’re working for pennies-per-hour. There’s a reason it’s called a not-for-profit. There’s a reason they call it a service organization instead of a business. Those folks dedicated to the gods of efficiency and effectiveness, those bottom-line devotees, can never fully grok it. It’s almost impossible to see actual service through an accounting focus and a forest of numbers. It’s very possible – in fact, predictable – to strangle a service organization by attempting to make it run like a business.
It’s also true that we used to be night owls. There was a time that my best work, my most productive time in the studio, began at 10pm and ended with the sunrise. There was a time when we took midnight walks. Now, we are transformed. Night is for sleeping. Or at least the attempt at sleeping. We delight (I exaggerate) in rising at the crack of dawn, the birds sing us awake. Dedicated 9-to-5’ers!
She disappeared over 4 years ago. A world-class pianist who fell and broke both her wrists. And then, fell again. Her artistry fractured, her community blew apart and then consumed itself. Pandemic isolation. Depression. Confusion. Hurt. Despair.
And then, in a moment that I can only describe as miraculous, in the most-unlikely-scenario, she let it go and laughed. The choice was easy. The heaviness fell from her spirit. Sitting next to her, I felt the light return. It was so startling that I turned and stared. It was like watching a sunrise. There she was. She came back. After 4 years, she came home.
We walked down the hill, hand-in-hand, and got into the car. We drove away. We literally giggled for miles, overwhelmed with the return of spaciousness in her spirit, the bright light shining in her eyes. Ahhh.
We took a walk to clear our heads. There, on an embankment adjacent to the trail, were daffodils in full bloom. The yellow was shocking. They were so vibrant that they stopped us in our tracks.
They were so unexpected that they tossed us out of our dilemma-of-the-day and infused us with their quiet hope. We didn’t stay for long but we did take their inspiration home with us.
Such a small thing. Such a generous and timely blossom.
She rarely sleeps the whole night through. Which means neither do I. And, to be honest, most of our midnight conversations are world-class. The deep night calls forward the deep conversations. We generally talk until dawn. It is ironic that the light in the sky is, for Kerri, like a sleeping potion.
And, if I am honest, there are nights that I am incapable of cogency. In other words, I am less than lucid. With white noise buzzing between my ears, the best I can do is listen. And nod. And mutter. And hold my head up. And hang on for the dawn.
*****
and in a fit of randomness, here’s a blast from the past song that has almost nothing to do with this post except that Kerri began raucously singing the chorus when I read her my post…
My dad used to call coffee “the nectar of the gods.” Kerri and I feel the same way about a good strong cup of black java. There’s nothing better. The smell of fresh coffee brewing is hard to top. We giggle each night in anticipation of the coffee we will sip the next morning.
So, on those rare mornings that the coffee is brewed, the scent fills the house with rich warm delight, I bring the “errand of mercy” to my sleeping wife and announce the arrival of the nectar…and she doesn’t open her eyes…
It has been THAT kind of a week. There’s always more coffee to make, but sleep, real deep rejuvenating sleep, now that is hard to come by. Better than nectar. A welcome gift from the gods.
Posted on February 24, 2024 by davidrobinsoncreative
It’s true. When one of our children alerts us that they are coming for a visit, life as we know it instantly enters a high-energy-whirling-dervish phase. Kerri begins spinning so fast that she blurs. Dogga and I seek cover.
Eventually, a list of assigned duties comes flying from the tornado. A small piece of paper lands at my feet. I try to make sense of the instructions that whip out of the whirl but sound travels slower than my bride and, in her spinning, I can only catch every third word. With my list in hand and a puzzle of instruction, I begin my tasks, careful to stay out of the path of the funnel-cloud-of-excitement whizzing about the house.