Being married, so much of the way I think becomes about "us." Our house; we had a lot of fun at the party; would you like to come to dinner with us? That thinking is important, for sure, it underscores the oneness our marriage created, and for me and Conrad, I feel like it helps us get through the often-overwhelming to-do lists of living: He picks up the veggies from the CSA while I go by the insurance office, we rendezvous at the house to make dinner and do the laundry. So much of our interaction revolves around an agenda: clean the house, fulfill the social obligation, manage the money. We glide by each other gracefully in the dance of daily life; we're a well-oiled machine. It feels good, having such a capable partner, getting things done together, accruing achievements and experiences for our team.

So much of our attention is focused outward; we're taking on the world together. It's a great feeling: I know I'll succeed, thanks in no small part to the strength of the team I'm playing on. But sometimes I feel like the partnership of marriage can get in the way of really connecting: sometimes it lulls me into thinking that because we are one, we are the same.

Just below the surface, there's discontent: I have a nagging feeling that there's not enough time. We get everything done, but what about the things I can't check off a list? It's hard to really express what the problem is, when I try to explain it--we eat dinner together, nice dinners at the table with the candles lit, every time; and watch movies, sitting on the loveseat together so I can hold his hand if it gets scary; and talk, about the afterlife and deep space, and family and the future, a lot. It's all there, but not quite.

When you're always in "team" mode, it's easy to forget your partner has parts of his inner life that might not have anything to do with your shared goals and objectives. Easy to assume that you know the person you sleep beside every night. Sometimes, it's not until we stop fighting the world outside and start fighting with each other that I realize how much I take for granted.

There's something to be said for the moments when I look at Conrad, angry and defensive, and realize we don't agree. To see hurt in his eyes and the tender, volatile person he can be. To know, in the heat of an argument or the silence that follows, that even though Conrad is my husband and our love is constant, he is more, and beyond, what I know.

I appreciate the reminder that there are parts of this man I don't yet, and may never, understand. At those moments, I am overwhelmed with the desire to come closer to the mystery, the unknown, of him. And I'm so thankful for how much he has shown me.

You beautiful, wonderful man. Thanks for being one half of "us." I love us. But more than that, I love YOU with all of my heart.

Friday night I went over to Canopy for an acrobalancing workshop with Serenity and Bill, who are married former Cirque du Soliel performers. Everything was going fine; I was partnering with Lindy, and we were doing some simple balances and stunts and things. We were having a little frustration with Lindy as the base, but overall, things were OK. Then I decided I wanted to repeat a sequence with her as the flyer and perhaps pushed myself too far. I'm not sure whose fault it was. Maybe my legs were getting too tired, maybe Lindy was off-balance, but either way, Lindy ended up sitting right on top of my head, and we crumpled to the ground. I felt like my head was a Popomatic Trouble Bubble: it got punched down into my spine and everything inside bounced around.

It took about 20 minutes to start feeling the pain, but boy howdy, was it painful, and it kept getting worse. I woke up yesterday morning and really thought I might scream. I mean, it was stabbing, shooting, I-can't-sit-up-on-my-own kind of pain. By 10 a.m. yesterday, Conrad and I were in line at the urgent care clinic, waiting to be seen by a doctor. The urgent care clinic, while not a place I would choose to go to again, is great for people watching. Sitting across from us in the waiting room was the Pollyanna Sunshine family, who talked at great volumes about how happy they were. Really. Mom, Dad and Baby Daughter had some weird need to announce to one another how FUN! it all was, to be in the waiting room! and how COMFORTABLE! these chairs were, aren't they so COMFORTABLE, hon? and how LUCKY! they were to be together in this urgent care clinic! None of them looked sick or injured at all. I couldn't figure it out. I started to think they were planted there by the clinic to psych everyone up about urgent care. Then there was Sherri, a fat, quiet Piggly Wiggley employee (she was wearing her badge), who played a game on her cell phone while her son walked slow laps around the room. Of course, there had to be one meth head, who complained of "just not feeling good" when he checked in. I wanted to suggest to him that smoking lye and acetone might be part of the problem, but watching him scratch at himself like he had fleas and slurp down a 20-ounce Mountain Dew in about as many seconds, I'm not sure he would have understood.

When I finally saw a doctor (a surprisingly awesome, thorough doctor) and got x-rays, I was very relieved to hear that I didn't have any fractures. Doc said there's a slight chance I may have a disc injury, because I'm having pain down my arm, but probably not.

Even so, I have to wear this thing (for the second time this year) and although it's sort of irritating, it actually helps with the pain a great deal:

Yes, that is a blueberry syrup stain on my shirt. What of it? You try eating with this thing on.

The major consequence of this is that I can't really do very much. We were supposed to go over to Achim and Angela's house last night for dinner with them and Ken and Laura, but I slept most of the day and just didn't feel up to it. I tried to work on a painting I've got going, but it hurt too much, so I was resigned to completely passive activities. It's unbelievably frustrating to be injured like this. The weirdest thing that happened, though, is how I responded to the ordeal on Friday night after I got home from the workshop: I just broke down and absolutely bawled.

It wasn't that the pain was so bad; I can handle a lot of pain. It was just that I was so overwhelmingly frustrated about the situation. And it wasn't about who injured me; it was about who didn't.

See, noticeably absent from Friday night's workshop was Julia, my best friend. For the past four years, she's been my default partner on the ground and in the air, my closest confidante (besides Conrad). And she's leaving. Starting in a couple of weeks, she'll be doing an internship in Warm Springs, which is 3 hours away; she doesn't know if she'll be coming back for trapeze classes. It's really far. And even if she does get to come back during the fall semester sometimes, it won't last long. After she graduates from her masters program in December, she's moving. Permanently. To the west coast. Like, 3,000 miles away. She's wanted this for a long time, and I'm so happy for her, but I'm so sad for me. Jace is in New Orleans, now Julia is going to California (or Oregon)--my favorites seem to go away. I'm going to miss her so much.

I called her and told her how upset I was and we talked about it for a while. I know it will be hard on her too, but I think it is harder for the person who is being left behind. The person leaving is so busy, making preparations, planning, running around trying to get everything taken care of. But the person who stays--there's nothing to do. So I sit, unable to do anything, frustrated that my circumstances have so effectively bound me in stillness.

Conrad showed this to me tonight after Jace showed him: Garfield Minus Garfield. Like it sounds, it's the cat comic without the cat. Cry with Jon Arbuckle as he goes totally crazy, all alone. It's hilarious.

The smell of peaches always reminds me of my grandparents' old farmhouse in Oglethorpe County. Not the fakey-Bath-and-Body-Works peach scent of the mid-90s, but the perfume of a paper bag on the kitchen counter, full of sweet ripe fruit.

Last night I went with my parents to my grandparents' house here in town, the place they moved after they sold the farm. They don't even live there, now. They stay at a old-folks home in Jefferson, which is nice enough, for an old-folks home. The night I went they had peanut butter cookies and barbecue.

Now Grandma and Granddaddy's children are getting ready to sell the house--a sprawling 70s ranch that had carpet in the bathrooms and, get this, kitchen. Grandma knew the only way she was going to convince Granddaddy to move into town was to do something easy, so they bought the house from some friends, wood paneling and all. It's filled with most of the things that were in the house on the farm, with a few of my favorites notably missing (I think they gave away the marble tower maze--the kind you assembled in different configurations and then raced marbles through--when the last grandkid reached high school). Going through it last night, without them there, was very strange. The house is so quiet--with all that carpet, sound is muffled, unnaturally so. Mom wanted me to look at what was there, so I could speak for the things I wanted. My sister will be inheriting the beautiful old mantle clock--a real treasure. Grandma has asked me before what I want. I'm not really sure. I could tell you a few things--the old farm cart, the aforementioned marble maze tower, the hammock, some of their kitschy 60s Christmas ornaments--but those all went when the farm was sold, more than ten years ago. I do have my eye on a gorgeously intricate crocheted tablecloth that was made by one of my ancestors. I unfolded it and just stared, mezmerized by the mandalas and crosses and tesseracts unfolding across it.

As we were leaving, I picked up an ice cream scoop out of Grandma's old countertop spinner, filled with all manner of whisks and peelers and mashers and wirey, weird implements. I don't own one, and it's the perfect piece: the wooden handle is weathered and stripped; there's an extra screw put in to keep the handle from wobbling (no doubt the handiwork of my tinkering and famously frugal Granddaddy); and Grandma was using it before I was born. It's a keeper.

Tonight, I unfolded the flap on a paper bag full of peaches, and the smell reminded me of so many summers out on the farm. If I could have anything, I think I'd ask Grandma to make me a leaf crown (she had a special way to weave them together) like she used to when I was a kid. I think it's the perfect thing to wear while eating a peach.

I made this simple recipe from Martha Stewart's web site: Peaches with Honey Syrup. We ate them with ice cream (served from Grandma's scoop), which is an ultimate combination but next time, I would slice the peaches before serving them. We ended up just picking them up with our fingers and muching into them.

You will need:

For the past six months or so, I've felt incredibly busy. This is a problem, because I always feel like, Oh, things will be better in a few weeks, I'll have some free time then, etc. But then the free time never comes. Which makes me very frustrated.

On the other hand, I really enjoy everything I'm doing that keeps me busy right now. For instance, me and Conrad went on vacation, and three hours after we got back I jumped on a plane to Chicago for an impromptu trip. Or like the day after my birthday, which ended in a wonderful late night of surprise partying and dancing, we ripped up the carpet in the office and the stairs and replaced them and spent the whole weekend painting and laying floor. Or last week, Conrad left on a three-day fishing trip, and I spent the weekend out of the house at all-day parties with friends. I loved all those things; they were so awesome; but I am in dire need of some veg time. My fantasy is to have the house "finished" (complete all our projects--have I told you we're in the middle of the Apartment Therapy Cure?) and just sit, for several days, in it: reading books, looking out the window, making dinner.

Oh, I'm so wishy-washy. I'm not sure that if that situation presented itself, I wouldn't be itching for more action. What I can say for my life right now is that it is very interesting. I am intrigued by it. I don't know how anyone could possibly be bored, ever, because there are always a thousand things I want to do. Like tonight--I'm thinking about going to an adult beginner gymnastics class (in an effort to move closer to my life list goal of doing a back handspring). Oh, I'm too fascinated by the world for my own good.

 Pish. Off to grab a burrito before I have to be in the office.