Interruptions, leaves and music

Interruptions, Leaves and Music. (An intimate moment that still gives me tingles, long after the relationship has ended.)


I am being beckoned. I fail to block out the loud muffled yells penetrating the thin cottage walls.

I yell back frustrated, “Yeah,” hoping he will not hear me.

We agreed, remember, not to call from another room? One of our many ‘agreements’ we insisted for our new relationship, to secure longevity this time round. A better than average life we wanted. We’d both done average. We were going for the heavens now.

But I do not want to be wanted anywhere else. The cozy upstairs office loves taunting me. “Sit,” it whispers, “Get lost in time, play on the computer, disappear from your hectic life, for just a few moments of solitude.”

“Five minutes. Just a lousy five minutes,” I mutter to myself. It’s a busy little piece of heaven we live in. A farm, a cottage, work, a child, animals, parents, on and on the list goes. I can barely justify being in here whiling away writing friends and old lovers. My life, like most women, is a series of bidding and demands. I haven’t been within a bleep of my email in 5 days. Who knows how much junk mail I have that cries to be deleted? I admit I’m not too popular with my cyber pals due to my lacking devotion. Still, “four” in the in-box demand some attention.

My gentleness manages to nudge past my annoyance. I sigh, pushing in the keyboard tray. Despondently squeaking down the basement stairs, I make my way toward the persistent prompting from the family room.

“I am outside.” I grasp the words of a partial sentence, just under the swishing of the shutting patio door.

I step around last night’s backgammon game. It’s still laid out on the low checkerboard patterned table Michael made so many years ago. A young man filled with hopes and dreams. He had flown to Greece on a whim to buy that game, he told me last night. How fun and silly. The sparkly candleholders screwed into the sides of the board, still holding the remnants of melted wax, reveal such a romantic spirit. He continues to surprise me. How I wish I had known him then. We wasted so many years before finding each other. I smile to myself as I remember how I got slaughtered every game. Hmm, I guess I will have to brush up on my strategy. When I can find the time.

The passion of last night’s fire has long departed, with only its chilled ashes left to heat the air. Puddles of dust and remnants of tiny sticks remind me, vacuum today. Already I feel myself shiver as I poise myself stubbornly in front of the glass.

“ Ok I am here, but I am not coming out.” I pout only to myself.

Michael is standing amidst the frosty tipped blades of grass, hanging his tee shirts. I hope I never lose that tingly feeling I always get when I see him. Tall, with luscious wild brown hair and crisp blue eyes that sense my every emotion. He can undress my moods like others undress your clothes. He is such a boy at heart it emanates from his soul. Mischievous, always full of secrets and games. I just shake my head. He is the only one I know who would hang laundry in minus degree temperatures.

Me, I am still just getting adjusted to all this country life. Moving up during the summer from my downtown big city apartment has come with its own acclimatization. I have diligently been hanging my clothes outside in the view of neighbours and canoers and other boats passing by, should they care. I admit I soon grew to love the sweet crunchiness of clothes after the summer sun has tickled them.

The sun shining today, although brilliant, almost stinging to the eyes, withholds its warmth from us now like punished children. I reverted back to the good old dryer, days ago. I can just as easily enjoy the convenience of dropping everything wily nilly into a dryer and pushing a button. I am not that dedicated to the outdoor life yet.

I can get used to sleeping with the windows wide open and waking with frost on my nose. I can get used to driving 20 minutes to the closest store. I can muck out a chicken barn, smelly creatures that they are. A Llama has kicked me. An Emu has pecked me. A mad father-to-be duck has chased me. I have even reluctantly given up any sort of fashion sense. The garb I have been seen in by the livestock must give them a chuckle. Four layers covered over by a giant man’s pair of blue overalls would make quite a picture to share over the boardroom table at my old job as a corporate banker. I have even driven a tractor (ok maybe the real farmer was perched precariously at my side as the driving instructor, it still counts). However, freeze my buns off to hang laundry in fall, which to me feels already like winter? I don’t know. But I think, without a shadow of guilt, I can allow that to be beyond my currently expanding limits.

The crisp air stabs like pine needles into my nose as I slide open the door and step out gingerly. My daughter’s little dollar store green plastic sandals I have slipped on do little to protect my socks against the moistness of the grass and leaves already fallen. I shiver slightly as Michael continues to wave me over. The dam is closed. The calmness of the river standing behind him is like a backdrop of glass wavering slightly, reflecting a dazzling rainbow of silent oranges, blaring reds, muted yellows and forgotten greens.

He is comfortable in only a gray sweatshirt, oblivious to the numbing air.

“This better be good,” I demand, half-joking, half-serious. My instant thought as he steps farther away holding out his hand, is he wants me to move the canoe. I am hardly dressed for that, I mutter to myself. I slip and slide down the hill previously tormented by an adventurous mole. Although perhaps whimsically decorative, the little puddles of dirt and holes he designs for his home, make walking down the hill very precarious. As I approach, Michael’s arms gently pull me towards him wrapping around me like a big, soft fuzzy blanket. I quickly snuggle gratefully deep into his chest.

For a moment we stand there.

“Just close your eyes for a moment and listen.” he prompts. “Listen to the leaves falling.”

I surrender.
I stand quietly and clear my mind.
For an instant there is nothing else.
No children, no work, no computers, no laundry, no worries, no demands, no phone calls.

Just leaves.

Soft. Crunchy. Crackly.

I try to put into words what my ears are feeling. “Like someone walking on snow. No. Hmmm. Like a fire.”

“But softer.” he whispers. “There are no words. It is like trying to describe the taste of an orange. Sweet like a peach but more sour.”

I pull into his chest closer, ignoring the dampness calling from my toes.

“Turn your head, so both your ears are free. Stereo.”

I press my nose into his warmth and abandon myself to leaves.

They fall continuously. Sometimes louder, sometimes quieter. The frostiness makes them brittle and they snap off their branches with a pop. I giggle as some wind their way like ballerinas kissing my hair and arms. My eyes close, I allow the musical sounds to play with my thoughts. A swirl of wind sends an avalanche around us. Dancing like feathers it is wondrous there is any sound as they land on their quilted creation of golden green, yellow and brown. We want to stay in our haven until the last has escaped its tree top house covering us with their multi-coloured afghan.

A horn blaring. A dog barking. Our private symphony is interrupted.

I smile up at this new miracle who has entered my life and replaced all I knew. What extraordinary new gifts I have. Laughter, peace, joy, surprises and leaves.

“Thanks for the sound experience,” I murmur. I feel warmed right down to my soul and blessed as I reluctantly pull myself away to send that email.

I am glad I was beckoned.