I might have a poem or story to share, I might need to vent away on a particular subject or I may have just discovered the meaning of life. Who knows? Some will be serious, some light, some pointless and silly. Some will be writing just to write. But, hopefully each day I can be inspired by something going on. Most entries will be a little of this, a little of that. And most likely, they will not be continuous from day to day, unless I am working on a longer story that I want to break up into daily snibbles.
Like I said, anything and everything in this mind of mine, for good or for bad. It will all end up on here sooner or later!
I would honor your opinions of my endeavor and the pieces that arrive here. Feedback is crucial to my success! If you have any constructive criticism, just want to say you like/don't like, or that it affected you in some way...that would be fine. Quite nice, in fact.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
It's even more fun when your wide-eyed, uncomfortable-in-his-own-skin husband decides to accompany you at the last minute, and you feel responsible for his nervous fidgeting of foreign design. The only fixation taking his mind off his discomfort is studying the breast exam posters in the room, every so often uttering a collegiate giggle. I sigh, wondering why he is there, yet strangely enjoying his camaraderie.
Waiting to find out if our baby was alive and kicking made me more than a little anxious. Discovering we were pregnant a month prior, we arrived to ease our fears of a potential miscarriage. A condition, known as Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS) wreaks havoc on my reproductive system, and some studies claim the disorder to harbor a 45% chance of losing a pregnancy. I was a little worried. Hell, I was freaking out.Even though we needed no help in getting pregnant, PCOS also causes massive rates of infertility. If this baby didn't make it; well, let's just say I worried for the state of our future family.
We waited, surrounded by patients, cracking nervous jokes. We poked fun at the whole idea of pregnancy and kids; nothing was sacred. At one point, he looked at me sharply and said with mock horror on his face,"What if it's twin girls?" I involuntarily gasped. Thinking about twin teenage girls in our household one day did not sound appealing; coming from a house with just my sister and me; many shared, destroyed belongings and vicious fights ending in dismembered Barbie dolls.
Quickly regaining my composure, I reacted as I knew best - I threw the horror back at him. I put my hand gently on his arm, feigning a dramatic and somber tone. "No, no, honey. See, my grandmother was a triplet, and with something like that running in our families, combined with our 'luck,' it's going to be three girls! Just wait and see!" He did look genuinely shocked then, for the first time pondering the family history and the actual feasibility of it all. I only giggled in satisfaction because I had just won the shock contest. He looked up at me, a little green in the face and seemed as though he was about to ask me a serious question. Luckily, we didn't have to wait around to contemplate our imagined fate, with the nurse calling us in.
Ultrasound underway, the nurse blithely asked me, "How are your nerves?" I thought she was having a problem with the machine. I wondered if my nervous trembling was interfering with the readings; the trembling only a moment of truth could bring; was our baby alive? Lying through my teeth, I told her I was fine and she only looked at me, turning the monitor our way. She traced her finger along the black and white abstract on the screen and calmly delivered the word, "twins."
I don't think my brain wrapped around that description, that we were having twins, because I knew in my heart that this was not the real thing. It hadn't clicked yet. Looking at the two circles, each holding a jumping bean, the wonder of it all seemed to be waiting for the other shoe to drop; curiously, I don't know why I was immediately questioning their existence without another look. A momentous weight hovered on the air and both of us instinctively knew that there was more to the story.
We looked at each other, eyes locked, both recalling the recent joking conversation with bated breath, and respectfully asked if she was sure there wasn't another one. I had instantly felt "three" in my heart and soul after her discovery, I knew it already, there on the exam table, and wasn't leaving without confirmation of our eerie premonition. It was all too coincidental to be unrelated; the family history, the waiting room jokes, the long wait for a family, not knowing if there would ever be more.
Mike delicately pointed to the monitor and underneath the connected circles of two sacs was an elongated and curved black hole. It looked like one of those long, thin balloons made by a traveling clown, arcing into a smile just after inflation. It wrapped under the other two, like a cupped hand, cradling them. He asked if maybe that might be another baby, just waiting to be discovered. She looked perplexed and skeptical; maybe thinking to herself how she could have missed it, but more likely just how rare three really was. She moved the wand around a bit to placate us, unimpressed. Trying for a difficult view, she broke out the heavy equipment, the internal ultrasound; Da-Da-Da . Via this new (and awfully invasive) toy, she immediately realized that he was right. From a different angle, there bounced Baby #3, directly beneath the other two.
In one swift movement, her hand flew to her mouth and she croaked loudly. I remember that she was in the throes of laryngitis, and her voice sounded painful. The Frog Lady was yelling, I realized, in her diminished and damaged voice, yelling "Oh, my God!" over and over. It sounded downright awful and I wondered why she was getting so excited.
Let me just say that we were in shock. Who wouldn't be? In this slow, perceptive state, we were suffering from the effects of brain fog. Looking at our lives from the outside of the bubble, wide-eyed, faces pressed to the glass in rapture, right before it gave way and imploded from the pressure. We were simply watching an uber-exciting soap opera, or we were dreaming, surely. Nothing like this happens in real life! The mesmeric quality of the moment was surreal, we had to be watching someone elses' lives, or we were being "Punk'd", I was sure of it. I felt slow on the uptake, a blur of light following behind everyones' movements made me feel like I was suspended in a thick liquid. My brain was doing the equivalent of a "huh? say what?!" Understanding, even in its simplest form, had not yet arrived.
We said nothing, just watched the circus show with an air of detached amusement. Mike with his back pressed firmly into the wall for stability and me, trying to contain my own body parts under the thin piece of paper they called a gown. After a while, I felt like I was floating on a cloud, high up in the air, feeling nothing but slight curiosity. Wafting and delicate, floating closer to the precipice of a fathomless abyss, a major development, breaking news, but so far, all I felt...was numb. It seemed as though we were hearing and watching the festivities from the other end of a long tunnel. My vision was now only capable of black and white tones. The light had a texture bleeding on to the edges and sounds seemed ancient and crackly. I wonder now if this is what it feels like to almost pass out. People shouldn't ever have to get news like that lying on your back, half-naked.
They were screaming, grabbing our hands and squishing our faces, dancing around the room, as if someone had hit the lottery! Little did we know that we had hit a lottery of sorts. Spontaneous conception of triplets only happens in 1 of every 8000 pregnancies¹. Is that luck? If it is, I'm not sure of what kind. Strangely, I started to wonder what the other waiting patients were imagining of all this carrying on.
With our lukewarm desire and commitment to becoming parents, mostly unsure and conflicted, these 3 babies, this "all-in" development seemed cruel and unusual. I was hoping that this first look at our little hand in creation, residing inside of me, would instantly bring us both on board, would miraculously cure our worries and insecurities, and would right our life's picture frame which seemed so crooked without the inclusion of children. But three? Three seemed as harsh as a blow to the face, a KO from God himself, sending us some sort of encrypted message. We were so confused. But there we were, our path set and inextricably paced; from zero to sixty in 9 months.
Lying on the table, in a compromising position, all pride dropped, the screaming nurses had an idea. They wanted to call my doctor, who was attending a conference in NYC. He wasn't to be interrupted, unless there was an emergency. They figured this would make the cut. The clue for us that spontaneous triplets were rare, the piece of info that had us get on board the crazy train, was that he had only treated 1 other woman in the same condition in his fifteen years of practice.
Frantically dialing the phone and then connecting, First Screaming Nurse talked rapidly in what sounded like a different language. Then, she handed it to me, the cord stretched all the way down the long hallway, me lying on my back, just chatting on the phone, as if I wasn't half naked with an internal ultrasound still in place. I told you, surreal.
He was so worried, and happy, and shocked, but worried. His first comment after the high energy subsided was that we were definitely having a c-section now, no doubt. He continued that with my history of problems, my body might not handle 3 babies well. I was only 8 weeks along and 36 weeks is considered "full term" for triplets (since they develop at a faster rate than singletons) and that made for a long road ahead. 32 weeks is the average gestation, with many a mom found on hospital bed rest for the duration. Then he delivered the shocker; all of the babies may not make it.
He advised us not to tell anyone until the end of the first trimester, at least, since there was a possibility we may lose one of the babies in these early stages. He said, "go ahead and tell them you're pregnant, if you want, but save the big news for later, when we are out of the woods." He was cautiously optimistic.
We left that day, a flurry of emotions in tow; Serious Mental Baggage. We weren't going to be great conversationalists that day, and we had a family party to attend, pretending all was status quo in our happy life.
I was growing fast, too fast to not tell anyone, they all already suspected by studying my growing belly, even 8 weeks in.
Leaving the building, the most frequent thought we would have in days to come invaded our cozy shock. "What are we going to do?" I vividly remember sitting down (more like collapsing) on the steps outside the office, feeling too weak to hold up my heavy thoughts, trembling, the news starting to sink in a bit. The tornado taking up residence inside my head swirled voraciously.
We decided to wait one more month to share the news, on Thanksgiving; for by then, I was hoping we would have come to terms with our new life and perhaps even be, well, thankful for it.
After a long visit in the vestibule, we headed out to the convenience store for a drink, feeling parched and cotton-mouthed, all available moisture rushing to lubricate the cognitive gears in overdrive. I stared at the ultrasound copies in disbelief, tears coming for the first time. These were our babies. These shapes were actually three lives inside of me. So momentous, I wished my grandmother were alive to see this.
We had some real shopping to accomplish, but we only hopped from store to store, never buying anything, just repeating to each other in different ways our newly formed mantra "What are we going to do?" And more, "How are we going to handle this?"
And like a flash of lightning, the obligation of multiplicity hit us, escalating out of control; three Halloween costumes, three learning to drive at the same time, three proms, three weddings - whoa. Three.college.tuitions.And then we really did wonder; "what if it is three girls?" Holy Crap! It was all too much to process standing up and even more, on an empty stomach. I was already suffering from "evening" sickness those days, with the multiple doses of hormones swimming in my system. Becoming very ill every night, I could not eat after a certain time. It was now past this certain time, but I desperately needed something in my belly. I needed to counteract the urge to regurgitate in response to the surprise God threw at us that day. So we ate. And we walked some more, searching for answers in the organic food aisle, hoping to unearth an epiphany behind a package of dried noodles or chocolate sandwich cookies.
We drifted aimlessly for hours, like mental patients wandering the neighborhood, lost in their own mind, speaking incoherent sing-songy sentences, wafting from place to place, not really accomplishing anything but remaining conscious. It's a marvel we even stayed side by side, each drawn inward, processing thought and emotion, perhaps drawn together by the wispy ties of our shared shock.
Telling our family and friends was only a little more exciting than it was exhausting, and by the end of it all, after a few weeks, the reality was beginning to finally sink in to the very core of us. Deep seated feelings started to root, feelings that if I were to be honest, were unfair to the children growing inside of me. We wanted to test the waters, not jump into the deep end! When will we ever have freedom again, to do the selfish things we want to do? Travel, go out to eat, play video games deep into the night, see a movie, make love, be us ...just us. How will our marriage handle this immediate taxing of resources and emotions? Will we have enough to go around and support our new soccer team? How will we be devoted to and deeply love all three at once, having the patience to teach and discipline them together and also the fortitude to handle the screaming and sicknesses and hard times? If we're not good enough, we run the risk of screwing up three kids, not just one; what.are.we.going.to.do?
Another month passed, and the healing ritual of Christmas shopping commandeered our lives. We let the season wash over us, trying to forget the difficult future in store, ready or not. Concentrating on our 22 nieces and nephews, we raided the toy store. 4 Tired feet and 2 sore backs later, we were still as elated as when we walked through the door; we were finally catching the bug! Inundated with toys for all ages, we started to move past the worst and imagine now the best of times; the times when having a family is all worthwhile; and it all began with Christmas. With the exhilaration, dawned a new chapter of our family and the worry abated, if only slightly.
Registering for our baby shower shortly after, we became aware of all that one needs to care for a baby or three and scanned away. Stopping at a seemingly innocuous bath toy, Mike paused and looked profoundly thrilled. Watching him act as a child would, stealing over me was the realization that he was picturing life beyond those tough infant years. In a flash, he had stolen a glimpse of the fun times we would have as they got older. This forgettable toy was an effectual dam, holding back the flood of terrible predictions and anticipated difficulties, the awful advice and the fear of failing. I laughed and cried witnessing this evolution because when he found it, the look on his face beamed pure joy and excitement. Even if triggered by a mere toy, he was now truly ready to be a Dad, even better; a dad of triplets.
In that instant, amid the fluorescent luster and warehouse air, I just knew everything was going to be... okay. We were ready.
¹The odds of conceiving "spontaneous" triplets (i.e., without the aid of fertility enhancements) is about 1 in 8,100. (Note: These statistics are estimates, gathered from several sources, including a 2001 National Vital Statistics Report from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Odds - Twins from BabyMed.com, Facts About Multiples: Twin Basics Page 2
Thursday, February 26, 2009
A review of Scarlet, a new restaurant in Downtown Buffalo, NY – Allentown, specifically. Dined on 2/13/09 and in good spirits!
“Eclectic Cuisine, Casual Fine Dining”
The very word conjures up silken images of luxurious velvet, decadent indulgences and sultry innuendos.
Well, at least for me, it does.
My state of mind revealed, when I enter a restaurant bearing this rich and almost sinful moniker, I expect some drama; a menu brimming with the most extravagant and indulgent foods, sending me over the edge of blissful ecstasy. My mind envisions opulence dripping from the walls, plush cushions and copious amounts of dense foliage. Add to that imagery, glowing reviews from a few family members and my expectations were high. Very high.
Walking into this restaurant that had set up my imagination so richly, I immediately realize that the owners of Scarlet had a very different décor in mind.
Since we eat out maybe twice a year, I expected the sensation to be something akin to not having a meal for days, in the fact that anything would taste ridiculously delicious at that point. Or maybe we would experience the opposite; finally an opportunity for a “date night,” I dreamt of a perfect evening, and perhaps nothing could possibly measure up to the high standard I was holding. Whatever it was going to be, I tried to arrive with an open mind, allowing my senses to take over; a truly primal evaluation.
We had a reservation for 6:30 and of course, as always, we were late. Parking is a nightmare on Virginia Place here in Buffalo; a one way street lined with cars, n’er a space to be found. Ever. Once we found a spot and entered the restaurant, we were greeted by a raucous bar crowd and…no one else. The crowd eyed us up and growing uncomfortable we were faced with the choice of asking the bartender where we should be or boldly head up the long staircase in the hope that a greeter awaited us on the second floor.
Looking at one another, we opted for the stairs, if not for an exit from the vulturous crowd.
Rewarded for our action, only a few steps up and we were spotted as outsiders and finally greeted. Our hostess led us up the very same stairs we were attempting alone and we arrived to the second floor dining area, a small loft area perched above the loud bar. Red brick and black painted walls surrounded the space of about a dozen tables. Above each table, clothed in pristine white linen, was suspended a white pendant light, bathing each table in an unreasonably bright light, clinical, almost; each one a brilliant island in a sea of darkness. A few lamps were red, but the effect was the same. It was different than the expected sultry ambiance, my misguided mind creating private and cozy little nooks full of flowing fabric and luxuriously draped textures. Sitting down, I had the eerie feeling that we were on display, each visitor a showpiece in an ever-changing work of art. In my everyday world of sweatpants and kidstuff, I was unable to relax with this spotlight kind of feeling.
Our waiter arrived and I asked for a recommendation regarding a Riesling sedative. I was given many good choices in a bottle, but I only wanted a glass. One glass. And with that information exchange, he crinkled his nose (really) and told me the available “one glass” choices were merely “okay.” I looked at the wine snob dressed as our waiter, crinkled my nose back at him and then ordered on my own, throwing caution to the wind. I enjoyed the wine, even if it was, just okay.
After “wine snob” was added to his resume, our waiter proved to be a shameless actor as well, playing it up for some and toning it down for others (us). After a while, I realized we were sitting between two very lucrative catches, at least from all appearances. The couple to the right were dressed in Soho chic, the couple to the left, Retirement chic. Both tables effervesced with the smell of money.
It was after this revelation that I came to believe we were becoming the victims of income profiling. Flitting back and forth between these two potentially high tippers, we had a front row seat to the debauchery. He would occasionally stop to take our plates, no words exchanged, merely sustaining our place. And then he was back to wining and dining, smile aglow, answering questions and chatting amicably. I would be lying if I said that didn’t bother us a little.
To assuage the annoyance, I continued my scrutiny of the interior. The high pendant lights were suspended from a cavernous ceiling, creating a stark effect. Echoes overlapped, but even there in the loft, it was very easy to hear other conversations. One couple in the corner was enjoying a discussion/fight and Retirement Couple talked of their evening. We tried to keep our voices low!
The physical menu was a gorgeous little thing, heavy in weight and beautifully designed. Food choices proved to be extensive, especially with the daily specials included, but abhorring seafood as we do, we were dismayed to discover that a very large portion of the fare incorporated it. Nevertheless, we were offered a few good choices.
Beautifully presented, we were served bread on a simple, square white plate garnished with 3 fancy dollops of flavored butter. I would love to tell you just how they were flavored, but we were not enlightened with this info. Though, even with my naïve senses, I believe that one might have been seasoned with chili powder. The bread’s flavor was different and very good, especially warm as it was. It was eaten quickly and we were left wanting more!
The salads were impressive and appreciatively displayed. Mike ordered the Grilled Romaine and it was large enough for a main course. The taste combinations were complex and very satisfying; a gorgonzola cream dressing with smoky bacon, apples and long, thick leaves of romaine. I requested the Field Green Salad with Warm Goat Cheese Fritters with toasted pecan vinaigrette. Wow. The dressing was unique and oh so flavorful and complimented the delicately fried cheese fritters perfectly. Truly, one of the best salads I have ever eaten. Another best was comprised of the little bites I could sneak from Mike’s plate. These were also served on large, square, white plates. Noticing a theme and looking around, every dish had this simplicity of display. Same plate, same color, different sizes.
Huh. White pendant lamps, over tables dressed in crisp white linens and food delivered on plain square white plates. Black walls. This is not at all what I expected in combination, certainly not the theme I would expect with the name.
At first, I enjoyed the simplicity of these zen plates, emphasizing the beautiful dishes arriving from the kitchen, but then I realized that because of the sparse décor, the plates begged to be exotic and gorgeous vessels in which to pump up the volume of Scarlet’s name.
Finally clicking, what was bothering me was that the depth was missing here.
Scarlet the color implies certain richness, intensity for the senses. Scarlet the restaurant, in décor and presentation together, was boring. Black walls, white tablecloths and white plates, darkness save for spots of white lights. Trendy, hip and chic, but lacking a rich atmosphere, this restaurant would have been better called something like, “Minima,” or “Bare.” And that is the exact opposite of Scarlet in my book!
As innovative and refreshing as I thought the appearance of chili powder in the butter was, I found it hiding in the homemade ketchup as well. That seemed like too much in one meal. It was good, but overused and killed the unique factor.
We ordered sandwiches for our entrees, a regular beef burger and a trendier chicken burger. The beef burger was excellent and left Mike very happy. I was unimpressed with the Chicken Feta Burger, mostly because it was logistically difficult to eat since all of its garnishes were slippery. It was a mess! And the flavor was disappointing. But, that is always a possibility when you order adventurously! I don’t regret my choice, but would never order it again. At this point, we even discussed the old truism that “there are no bad experiences if you are trying something new.” The homemade chips were good, salty and right at that sweet spot between crisp and chewy.
A few little side notes – upon walking in, we noticed a “fish tank,” really an ambient DVD projected on a screen over the bar, at our height. The choice of what was projected was somewhat weird and out of place. We thought, for the old brick and dark atmosphere, it might be better to use a crackling fire or something…sexier or romantic. A bright display of the erratic followings of a saltwater fish tank was distracting to me and seemed unbefitting of the character in the old building.
Also, either dead or dormant vines trailed up the brick wall all the way from the bar to the high ceiling. Dramatically lit, it was a very cool touch. Upon leaving, I noticed the décor downstairs was a little more striking for the bar crowd, possibly their more lucrative endeavor. The vine, splayed out at this level, “held” separate glass shelves full of liquor and appeared to be strategically placed to allow the mind to imagine they were fruits of the dramatic plant. Apparently, doing some research at home, this is known as their “Vodka Tree” and it is blooming with; you guessed it – all kinds of flavored vodka.
More expensive than we would normally choose, Scarlet proved to be a player in the downtown fine dining scene. Even though I had my imagination in overdrive, the décor works if you forget the name; simple and intimate. I was disappointed with the lack of “food for the senses”, but the actual food certainly wins some points.
Next time we might just go for the salads. They were that good, and why I would still recommend this restaurant to a friend, even though they might be so unfortunate as to meet the “wine snob.” We did tip him well, by the way, just in case you were wondering.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Looking up, she sees the tree, the lights and now her eyelids blinking, one bringing on and the other holding back the tears that are threatening to spill over. She brushes one escapee away from her cheek and continues to glare at the memory jogger. The grief is finally hitting her full force. So much loss; the people, the memories, the past, the parts of her family that will never be again.
She is seated at the foot of the ridiculously wide Christmas decoration, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Her hands hold a picture of a beloved dog, his fur so much like a lion’s mane. The picture was there only because he could not be, and she missed him terribly. At times like these, when nostalgia and bitterness got the best of her, he was her only refuge, his calm nature washing over her as she teetered over the emotional abyss. But he was not here this year, having left them a few months prior to play in the fields of Heaven. His absence was an acute presence in her life, she could never have known how greatly she would long for his large frame to be resting against her hip, his comforting warmth radiating to her very core, touching her soul.
She thinks of the people in her life that she would eventually lose, one by one, falling away from this world; their radiance extinguished and stolen by God as if they became merely a burnt out bulb in a string of twinkling lights. These were people she was not sure she could ever live without – her parents, her siblings, her aunts and uncles, her friends…her spouse. Overcoming past grievances, feeling as though she were emotionally solid, solid enough, she was dismayed to discover another side of herself in waiting.
Losing her first dog was a blow to the core of what she was made of, and she was ashamed to admit that she had changed, and it was not for the better. He was a family member, almost as a son would have been to her, and no less of a loss than a human would be, but it was expected, in time, that he would leave her. His loss was a thought she never dared ponder, and in denial of that natural order came a response so bitter, so overwhelming, that she feared what would happen the day she lost more.
Until this day, she worried, agonized over his absence at the holiday. Yet, Christmas was surprisingly easy to ignore, more than she would have ever thought possible, loving it as she did – the glitter, the glamour, the gloss of the commercialization effort; all of it so easy to disregard, to go through the motions, to not really feel it, it was saddening. Even the music and family company that used to get her in the mood for the season were painless to keep out, never really sinking in, just let it pass her by. She vowed not to let it all in, keep it at arm’s length and not enjoy the holiday because she felt so angry over the world continuing its journey without her baby. Despite even knowing, how could they?
She wonders; How do others who have lost their sons, daughters, husbands, wives - their parents - truly enjoy the season without the bitter aftertaste?
How does it become the innocent celebration once again, pure and without regret?
Most of her suspects that it never does, only changes, settling into something more complex – and right now she wanted no part of it. She missed blissfully enjoying Christmas…she missed him.
Sitting in the quiet glow of the tree, dark in the house but for her glistening tears, her sensitive nature got the best of her, the spill coming faster, her slow hands unable to keep time. She was wrong to be sitting here.
This part of her Christmas routine usually rewarded her need to grasp the basic meaning of the season, letting the heady, optimistic mix of feelings - love, peace, joy and happiness – as cliché as that sounds, wash over her. It served as the seal on the bottle, the top-off that made her feel complete; breathe in quiet, exhale peace. The alone time needed to signal the end of hectic efforts, instead delighting in the enjoyment of her labors. Time to let it all sink in and have peace settle over, soothing and caressing, creating a clean slate on which to eat, drink and be merry. This was her mistake this year, she should have opted to skip this part, knowing how she would be, for it is now the chink in her armor that let it all in. This first season without him that heralded all the future seasons without them.
Feeling more like an adult than she ever has, she sobs over her losses; past, present and future.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
I believe that it possesses magical powers; step inside and you are instantly relaxed. All tension ebbs away with the lapping waves at the shore below, tugged down into the depths, the lake assuming your burden for the week. Imagine a lake that could do all that; submerge the stress of visitors below the calm surface, letting each one become at ease with life again, every ripple a reminder of the troubled currents it holds temporarily contained in its depths.
This place…it is just a room, a plain one in fact; a box of a room really. Old and distressed, the top half dressed in screens with only bare boards for skivvies, it leaves much to be desired in décor. Scattered remains of a few ill-fated creepy-crawlies litter the corners and sand crunches underfoot. Three pieces of old furniture you would not want in your own home occupy the space. Thankfully, it’s not the inside of the room I am here to see. It is merely a placeholder, a vessel of sorts, in which to experience the magnificent.
Cold description aside, even with the obvious brusque nature of the room, an ambiance exists. It is cozy, yet pleasantly airy, with an expanse of beautiful lake set out before you as a feast for the eyes to gorge upon. Inside, mystery and depth perfume the air with their intense aroma, signifying the presence of so many that have come before you to savor the comfort this portal has to offer. Just as a kiss is not just merely the pressing of lips to lips, this room holds the meaning and promise of so much more.
Standing at the threshold of this gateway, I breathe, and deeply, savoring the pleasantly astringent air. I have heard that one inhalation of this superior cocktail has the effect of a dozen massages; and I am feeling that now. I rest my hands against the timber door frame, feeling the rough hewn wood beneath my fingers and palms. It is a pleasant textural sensation that only adds more character to the rustic room. Another sensation, though this one strange; I feel as though I can sense the two worlds juxtaposed beyond both sides of this threshold. Behind me exists all the stress, anxiety and worry of the world, pulsing as if it had a heartbeat of its own, trying to pull me back in with every palpitation. Before me, the soothing bliss of a world where time stands still or maybe just moves slower than life can detect. The promise of troubles abated, apprehension quieted and broken souls mended; and me as the bridge between both powerfully drawing dimensions, the opportunity to choose which way to go.
Surveying the familiar, I look to the right. Swaying slowly and reverently, in tempo with the sonorous chimes, at times lilting and then deep, the modest bed swing allows for either quiet contemplation or a lulling dream state. It beckons with each arc toward my place at the door. Suspended from four slender chains, so as to not obstruct the gorgeous panorama, it is covered by a thin bedspread which is in turn covered in a smothering Victorian pattern. No matter, it takes nothing away. The curious formula of this screen porch is; that which is added only adds to the ambiance and character. Everything here works in pleasing visual harmony.
The breeze flows as freely through the room as the water down below, smoothing and contouring my state of mind into something beautiful and worthy of collecting.
Turning my gaze to the center of the room, a sturdy pine table hunkers in my vision. On it rests an unfinished puzzle of yet another gorgeous, though anonymous, vista. I am tempted to finish where the last occupant left off, but my psyche craves the current scene available to me, just beyond the framed screen. I need to concentrate on savoring this short-term sedative because its effects will vanish all too soon.
Scanning left, the answer to my need lies in the form of a humble rocking chair, its unintended shabby chic expression the perfect fit for my weary frame. It is in perfect position to accept the best angle of view to the viewer. At once crossing over the invisible line between worlds, I surge into its arms and it welcomes me as an old friend might after several years. Instantly comforted, I rest my gaze to the line of sight before me, letting in the sight of the golden sun glimmering on the rolling and rippling waves. The rocking and the lapping and the viewing all in chorus, I issue a sigh of contentment. The convergence of stress and relaxation in this place always concludes with the latter victorious.
My day is now set; rock, puzzle, sleep… in no particular order.