... the last of the flowers

My overnight guest this time around was a little more demanding of my attention than my previous one! Dinner last night was late, we watched our favorites on TV even later, and eventually went to sleep, way past midnight. Up around 6, because Ed does not live by the clock, but by an internal mechanism that allows him to pick and choose at any moment whatever task pulls at him then and there. He is a person that aligns well with the premise of the book I am currently reading -- Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals by Oliver Burkeman. In case you've never heard of Burkeman, he currently writes for the Guardian and he says this about himself: "Twice monthly I publish The Imperfectionist, an email on productivity, mortality, the power of limits, and building a meaningful life in an age of bewilderment." If that still leaves you somewhat mystified, just scroll down the list of his recent posts. They bear such titles as "The three or four hours rule for getting creative work done" and "What if you never sort your life out?" and "Treat your to-read pile like a river not a bucket." That last one would be apt for me, as I am currently in the middle of three books and counting. 

 

The morning is sunny and beautiful. We eat breakfast sort of together.

I tell him he doesn't have to pull up a chair next to me, given that he is just a few feet away anyway (lately he hasn't been especially hungry in the mornings), but eventually he does join me, because he thinks (correctly) that this would please me.

We are somewhat limited in what we can do together today as he has the animals waiting for him to shake some food out into their various dishes, but he does readily agree to come along to the Westside Community Farmers Market -- about a ten minute drive from the Edge.

This is pure nostalgia for me. When Ed and I first came together to form this most imperfect and yet perfectly sublime union, I had just moved to an apartment in downtown Madison, having abandoned the suburbs for good (so I thought). But I didn't like my chosen place nor its location and besides, I thought I should invest in property that would carry me through my retirement, so I purchased a condo on the west side of town. Ed famously hated that condo. High rise, and steps away from a mall, and surrounded by concrete. Still, he dutifully traveled to it every day after work and spent the evening, night and morning there with me until it was time for us to go to our respective jobs. On Saturdays, we would cross the street and shop at the Westside Community Farmers Market, which had and still has a bit of a cult following in Madison. Eventually the market got kicked out of its parking lot, and in any case I moved in with Ed at the farmhouse, and the trips to the market were wiped from out weekend repertoire.

And now here we are, me in an apartment again, with the Westside Community Farmers Market in a new parking lot, still on the west side, and Ed has come up to spend time with me in a place that isn't his cup of tea, and on Saturday morning we are at the market. We are nothing but caricatures of our old selves.

The market is even bigger and better now, but in fact, I'm not a total fan of late fall markets. Fresh produce is slowly replaced by root vegetables -- the kind you'd store in your cellar if you had a cellar. And though Ed always finds cheeses and apples to purchase, I'm just as happy with the ones I pick up at the grocery store. Nonetheless, I am delighted to see that Madison Sourdough has a stand here! Ed purchase a pain au chocolat for me, while I look for flowers. And I find some! The last week for these:

And believe it or not, there is still corn to be found. We get that as well.

After we cart the stuff home, well, to my home, he stuffs his share in a backpack and I give him half of the leftover chili and he rides his motorbike to his home and I seriously think I need a nap.

 

Lunch? I sheepishly eat the pain au chocolat. And I look at this last bouquet of flowers that will, of course, remind me of this morning's outing all week long.

Later, in the afternoon, I meet up with my daughter and the kids and Goose for a walk to downtown Middleton. 

The dog is so affectionate and kind with humans that we all want a piece of him, his heart, his indiscriminate love. (He spent his first night sprawled out on the bed with my daughter and her husband, which, considering his size, must have been interesting.)

So far, only Sandpiper was (initially) scared of this big animal that likes to get very close to his humans. As one parent says -- it is the first and only animal that hasn't run like mad away from the little boy. (All the other pets have been rightly terrified of Sandpiper's rather fast movements and tugs and unpredictable tumbles.)

(pause for a treat for the kids at Hubbard Avenue Diner; Goose and I wait outside)

 

 

 (he is so happy to see them, and they him)

 

 

I'm back at the Edge now, reading and thinking. I let go of two novels (for the time being) to pursue some of the themes pulled out by Burkeman. They are so obviously ones that were written with me in mind! Me, the one who thinks resolutions for self-improvement in all of life's domains are a good thing, even as they are impossible to really implement. Me, who just the other day bemoaned here on Ocean, the fact that I suddenly am left without the safety (held onto for 14 farmette years) of having "tons to do" in and around the farmhouse, feeling now naked and exposed to my own choices and priorities (what are they, anyway?). Me, who thinks the end result is enough to justify devoting a life to achieving it, even if you dont much like the tasks required to get there. I click on his essay titled No Such Thing as a Fresh Start (!!) and follow his link from there to Joan Tollifson's book with the engaging title of Death: the End of Self-Improvement, from which he pulled out the Zen quote "What makes it unbearable is your mistaken belief that it can be cured."

And yet, here I am, at the Edge, away from my life at the farmhouse with Ed, thinking just that: it can be cured, improved, a fresh start is possible. 

Evening: a quiet one, with my music, my books, my leftover chili, my bits of chocolate, my thoughts.

with lots of love...