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Show Moon - 21 to this. These women talk about things that come to them, too, in the darkness, and we conclude this: the deep wiring that electrifies our dreams insists on our attention sooner or later, and if we ignore it, something inside us begins to go out. I am also a wife to Josh. A woman is lucky if she finds a man like him who lives in the sunlight. A man like that sees the silver threads at your temple and doesn't reel away from you. Josh seems to have no terror, no dark lake inside himself to tiptoe around, doesn't need to see me as a witch or an angel to save himself from drowning. His is uncomplicated love-at least for the me he knows. If I told him everything, I wonder if a forgotten angry darkness would rise up within him, rise up against me, cast me away. He coaxes beautiful things out of wood and is happy here on our little Oregon farm that has a horse and a view of the Three Sisters. He is so much better than Mark, the man I almost married; is in a different universe than James, my stepfather; he is maybe the most wonderful man I could reasonably expect to know. And he has simple ideas about happiness, doesn't think them, lives them. His ideas are these: a house for someone, a barn for someone else, tables, cabinets, a fine horse for me to ride, a cool room for sleeping close, his hand stroking my hip as though it's sanded ash. I sit in front of my canvas on which I've sketched another take of the mountains, and it comes clear how I ought to carve the light onto the faces of the Sisters in sudden angles. This could solve the problem inherent in landscape art, which is the problem of unrelieved prettiness. Beauty needs to be undercut. Josh drinks his coffee in the silence he likes in the morning and smiles at me over his work with his sun-green eyes. The morning light makes his hair and |
