Right now, I am sitting on my back porch listening to the crickets. I've been outside all weekend. On Saturday, Aaron and I put the top down on my Jeep and drove all over a new-to-us part of Georgia. We found an unknown hiking trail and took a spontaneous little hike. We looked at houses; I looked at plants; and we just caught up.
Sometimes there is so much going on in our lives that we forget to just be together, doing nothing. We are always watching movies or playing games or going to stores or festivals or friends' houses. It was so great, so connecting, to just go. Nowhere in particular, so there was nothing to focus on but us and our reactions to the sights. But away from our house where we have routines of speech and touch, just as we have routines in what we do. We threw ourselves out of the usual but not into anything else. We just threw ourselves into limbo.
Limbo is a wonderful place to be with Aaron because that's when we end up telling each other all the things we have thought about or felt or seen when we were apart that we forget to tell when we are eating dinner or watching a movie or going somewhere with Livy. We remember our reactions to the interesting everyday things, and these things, when told, are the fundamental, tiny, atomic pieces of intimacy.
Tonight, we lay on a blanket and looked at stars. Sort of. There is a lot of light in Marietta, and not too many stars are visible. But stars aren't the important part of stargazing for lovers. We ended the weekend with that feeling of being reconnected, cemented together by a weekend filled with nothing but love.
