The WRH dreams of Sunday mornings of sleeping in and coffee and newspapers and calm. Perhaps some neighbors stop by, perhaps the family rallies for a late morning tramp through nearby woods and meadows. In fact, the WRH is forced into the Great Sleeping Fake-Off to see who will get up first with the kids. Who is more asleep? Who got up earlier yesterday? Who is more tired? Who is more deserving. Ooohhhh…that’s an ugly question and no good can come from answering it. TWGH and I are not known for our slavish adherence to routine. Controlled chaos is more our thing. And we would sell our souls to sleep in. We are known for our love of sleep.
We are trying, despite our very natures, to institute a Sunday morning routine that works. And by “works,” I mean ”works for us and doesn’t represent the kind of child neglect that could get us into any trouble with the neighbors, the grannies, or the law.” So we try to get the kids to entertain themselves and each other while we watch CBS Sunday Morning. Great show, learn lots, entertaining too, yada yada.
One of the segments this week was an interview with the mysterious, handsome, talented, and totally weird Daniel Day Lewis. Describing the choices he makes about how often to work and not work, he said, “I live in a landscape, which every single day of my life is enriching.” TWGH and I looked at each other, and then sighed. Big, long, sad, sighs.
We live in a terrific place. Hey, Money Magazine ranked our town as the ninth best place to live in America (just ask anyone around here, they’ll tell you). We grew up in the next town over – yes, both of us, nauseating, but true. Our families are close by, mostly. And we work here. But in the years between high school and college, we both lived in different places on the map. I lived in California and Montana, and he lived in Colorado, Louisiana, and Rhode Island. And we’ve been around. We’ve traveled enough, together and apart, to have caught the gist of what it might be like to live somewhere else. We’re not moving. Our roots go deep here and they seem to be grabbing hold more tightly every day. Our life is enriched by all the people, places, and events that those roots are curling around, but not by the landscape we live in. My feelings about Missoula, Montana, and his feelings about Providence and about the Colorado Rockies and how we each felt about ourselves in those places cannot be recreated where we are. This is not a deal-breaker; neither of us, I think, feels that we have made a geographical sacrifice. But we will, I’ll bet, continue to work this bruise, though to what end I do not know.