falling fruit & moments to redefine love

falling fruit & moments to redefine love

one weekend, a few weekends ago, i pretended to like being domestic. and then i stopped pretending to like it.

the night before, we strapped backpacks on each other, leashed the dogs, and scouted out a pear tree, flush with ripe fruit. like monkeys, we clambered about the branches, stooped to sift through the dropped pears like beachcombers in the moonlight, on someone else’s beach.

a branch shakes. thud. another branch shakes. thud thud thud. backpacks are full, we head home and talk about sexual attraction and lack of sexual attraction. is this our forbidden fruit? our relationship is as ideal as i can imagine it to be. we agree on things that matter. our core issues and values align, aside from the whole ‘kids’ things, but that’s an entirely different blog post in-of itself. we’re best friends. we value family. we have great families. we respect each others space. we have a similar sense of humor. we can be 100% ourselves in each other’s presence.

but sexual attraction wanes with time. this is not a new realization for me – it’s happened in every relationship i’ve ever been in. at first, it’s like high school romance: we just can’t taste enough of each other, insatiably. but over a few years, (two to be exact), you just don’t want to eat that meal again.

is this the part of marriage and long term relationships that people say “takes to much work?” are we really just working to make sure we can fuck each other with the same reckless abandon as we did in the back of our mom’s volvo station wagon on prom night? i think it’s the hardest part to maintain. over time, your friendship is strengthened, and as that bond tightens, romance is squeezed out, drop by drop until the river of lust has run dry and you’re left with nothing but watching ‘Indecent Proposal’ and ‘Love Actually’ with a heightened imagination.

i love my man more than ever. but i want to have sex with him less and less. i’d like to blame it on me, or him, or…something, but i think it’s what happens when your relationship shifts into best friend gear, and your need to procreate wanes.

we walked home and talked about all this relationship “physical attraction” crap, backs loaded with ripe fruit. and as i mashed the fruit over a hot stove stop, aromas of cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves floating about the kitchen, i thought of how we define ‘intimacy’. my man flicked a paintbrush up and down the wall, leaving trails of luminescent yellow. i tended our pear butter. we shared a kitchen space, improving a dwelling, putting away the harvest for the barren months ahead.

pear jam

like the pear tree, our relationship isn’t always full of fruit. but there is always potential. for a bountiful harvest. for sweet juices. for adventure and realization of primal urges.

the pear butter lies in 6 jars in the back of the pantry. the tree has dropped it’s last pear and my best friend and i will finish painting the kitchen someday soon. but we’ll be looking for the next harvest, until we find an intimate moment to redefine love.



waco, texas.

waco, texas.

it wasn’t as bad as everyone said it would be. it wasn’t bad at all.

we took a tour of Waco, the town where Alex and Conor grew up. where they rode their bikes in tandem along cracked sidewalks lined with writhing oaks, where they swam in neighborhood pools on scalding texas summer nights, where they looked into the sky and found stars and the moon, before heading inside to brush their teeth and say a prayer, and dream of cowboys and indians and the mountains of far-away.

or at least, this is what i would imagine they did. as the lives of those in Waco seem profusely innocent. the glass in Waco isn’t necessarily rose-colored, but it’s got one hell of a lovely hue.

and through this lovely lens, i see birds, cow birds, loud like the jungle perched on wires and scaffolding, a cacophony of beaks and bills and black feathers.

somewhere in the distance, a red neon sign glows from the top of the tallest building.


we walk across a vacant parking lot in a dismal downtown, lit too perfetly by streetlights. and an old bridge spans across a slow river and we gaze at the pinks and purples of the end of this day. stiff statues of longhorns line the river. we imagine what it must have been like when the longhorns were alive, heads swaying like a herd of drunken men, edging their way to the banks of the muddy river to wet their lips and wash away the grit and sand of the texas desert.

deep in (my) heart, of Texas

deep in (my) heart, of Texas

this weekend, i went to texas. for the first time ever.

my friends were getting married. they’d both found jesus, a city they loved, and an apparent cache of similar interests, so they put some rings on it. and they did it in texas, on a grassy knoll somewhere in hill country. and it was beautiful, y’all.texas

i hail from the west; where the skies are big, the mountains majestic and the air, well, arid. i miss the unwelcoming breeze of the desert. the sand whipping your face, the tumbleweeds, the twisted barbed wire and homely homeless horses. the bulging agave, pink sunsets, the drone of far-away prairie toads and the scream of coyote families perched atop faraway hells echoing that piercing cacophony brightening the stars. the clouds soar high. the darkness comforts.


the wedding, out there in the hill country, was lovely. they said their i-do’s, the little sister made a blubbering mess of herself. the cake was in gluten free cupcake form and i ate a lot of it.

after the bride and groom made their virginal passage into the marriage consummation. and as they ran through the human glow-stick tunnel, the rain came down like it does in the movies. and we ran in the rain to our car and across the brimming, surging prairie as the flood-waters rose and the skies opened and the lightning, well lit the sky like the 4th of july.


we went out that night. we ran through the flooded streets of austin in our high heels, our three piece suits, our bow ties and bobble earrings and half-smoked celebratory cigars.

i was drenched. my mascara ran down my face, my hair curled, my beau’s long, dark hair hung over his soft brown eyes and for a moment i was lost in the tempestuousness of our relationship, the storm floating above us, effortlessly.


it rained in texas for seven days straight. the streets began to flood. and we left for home, for arkansas. we piled 5 people in a gas-guzzling automobile. and we thought about the rain, and the prairie and the towering buildings of austin and the live, twisting oaks.

and the branches reached out and twisted their way about my hair, my face, my heart. somewhere in texas, it pulses as the rains come and go.