The thrill came slowly like a boom

21 September 2010 07:39 PM Categories: Quotidian existence

Things that thrill:

* Walking the dog at dusk, our street empty, the horizon a heady mix of pinks, oranges, and frosty blues, fogless, Venus (or is it Mars?) a pinpoint of light. Sometimes the fog is low. It's like we're walking in a cloud. Sometimes it muffles the tops of the hills while leaving the flats clear. No matter the actual month, it almost always feels like late October, the wind blowing damp and cold, me in jeans and wool socks and a heavy sweater, bulked up against misty gusts. The grey twilight thrills in a melancholy way, my heart aches. The clear evenings remind me of a time when anything could happen in the dark.

*Cleaning alone on a sun-streamed Saturday, Led Zeppelin blaring loud enough for me to hear it over the vacuum cleaner. I swipe and toss and straighten until the chaos -- in the house, in my head -- is dusted and contained. Sure, my nightly task of kitchen cleanup, scrubbing off smeared plates, encrusted pans, and constellations of counter crumbs, feels good, too. It's like shelving books in alphabetical order by author or returning my grocery cart neatly to the stack. The real thrill, however, is in loud rock-n-roll, sunlight, and solitariness, the air saturated with furniture polish, my hand on the vacuum cleaner hose.

*Reaching an understanding with an animal: the tender glance of a cat, his paw gently touching my hand, the look Nora dog gives me when she wants to take the walk in a different direction. It’s the gulp of recognition that these animals are sentient, emotional and independent beings, with their own thoughts and preferences, choosing to be with me even when I don't have food in my hand.

*Being in the moment with my son, playing a game, cuddling, reading, walking hand in hand and making jokes. This isn't as easy as it sounds, quieting my worries about my parenting and how he is doing, leaving my household tasks -- dinner prep, laundry, cleaning, gardening, taking care of the animals -- unattended. I am not a perfect mother. I am easily distracted and often quick to anger. I yell, sometimes unreasonably. On occasion, I am scary.

Our moments of connection redeem me, the game where he is a fierce monster or a dragon, growling centimeters from my face, gnashing his terrible teeth and rolling his terrible eyes. He may pause to ask, “Did that scare you?” or say “I’m pretty scary, aren’t I?” He can be a little scary, perhaps like I am when I am angry. He growls until he collapses in my arms. If I am especially lucky, he tells me that he loves me. A small thrill, at the game, at our mutual trust.

*My husband making a joke or saying something funny thing right before I was going to say the same thing. We're goofy. Sometimes our jokes are scatological. We laugh a lot and we often think the same way. It's connecting, it keeps us going, and I am grateful for it and for those moments when I recognize it and feel the thrill.

Perhaps I am boring. I feel nothing but fear when the car accelerates past 65. Heights make me nervous. I have no desire to take on real danger. But give me twilight and a brisk breeze, a sunny Saturday against chaos, a true moment with an animal or my son, or a laugh with my husband, and my heart beats faster.