She took a long, slow drag off one of her favorite cigarettes as he caressed her hand, both of them lost forever in the moment now fading into their past. They’d waited for this day as if it had been 100 years. Made the arrangements. Devised excuses for skipping out on work. They’d picked a location far from their hometown, where nobody would recognize them in the band of darkness that some would say straddles a thin line, but to them it would be plenty wide to satisfy their curiosity. She had wondered whether she’d feel bliss—or regret—after the rendezvous. And now she knew. It was over. She was already thinking about the next one. It was, as they say, nothing short of spectacular.
Not all cowboys are born in the West, but its wildness whirls as deep in his soul as the great eddies of the Colorado. Dreams as wide as the high prairies. Ideas grand as the Rockies. His common sense, like a crystal stream, cuts through life’s cumbersome valleys and ravines.
Dusty, dirty, weathered and leathered, the cowboy is not perfect. He is, however, a good man.
I had to take a little time off from blogging the past few weeks to make extra time for life. We have to do that sometimes—take time off, from activities we’d like to be doing for those commitments we need to be doing (and those can be one and the same). But that’s not a bad thing. When we’re feeling wound up (or wound down), it’s an invitation. Not to live less, but more.
I’m writing this from the San Diego International Airport as I’m nearing the end of several strenuous weeks. High school graduation parties. Youth baseball games. College application work for our oldest son. My daughter’s dance recital. A full work schedule including a week of travel. Writing a book. And then some.
Life at digital speed. But the problem is we are not wired to run like computers. This past week in San Diego reminded me of that. It had nothing to do with the location, but it had everything to do with a break in my routine.
Edging outward on a sturdy limb I lost my balance right away but caught myself. I looked down at the ground some 15 feet below, my own limbs quivering after the espresso shot of adrenaline. What am I doing up here, I thought.
As a child I would climb trees over 50 feet tall, my 65-pound body clinging to the spindliest top branch on the windiest of days short of a thunderstorm, though my favorite time of day to climb was at dusk.
Division. It’s a word that leaves a bitter taste either because of those blasted speed drills in math class or bad memories of torn friendships and war. Most of us prefer addition and multiplication, right? Positive outcomes over the negative. United we stand, divided we fall, so we were taught.
From up here, at roughly 13,000 feet, I’m stretched out in the snow above the famous Dwight D. Eisenhower tunnel in Colorado — and division is a beautiful thing.