Saturday was a lovely day. My sweetie and I went to the Farmer's Market in the morning; it was sunny, we bought flowers and beautiful food, we talked and laughed with people we like. Lots of cute children stopped to pet our dog.
Later in the day we went for a long delicious walk in the forest, then we went out for supper at the Bistro; salmon with tarragon butter on a bed of local organic greens, plus a glass of lovely Okanagen white. We got home fairly early, and went in separate yet companionable directions - he to putter outside, I to edit flower photos on the computer.
One thing led to another and it was getting towards dusk. I was absorbed in finding a poem for this week's newsletter, (yes, you should subscribe; who else is going to send you a poem once a week?) and was immersed in a volume of Alice Walker that I hadn't looked at for awhile. Little by little a repetitive noise began to intrude on my consciousness. Like someone trying to get their car unstuck from the mud or snow (on this very dry September evening.) What the heck?
I looked out the window, and Lo and Behold, my sweetie had The Old White Truck attached to the end of a chain and was pulling it out of it's stuck place with his van. Glory Hallelujah.
So, some background. Eight years ago, a few weeks after we moved on to this property, my sweetie's Old White Truck died, and he parked it in front of the woodshed. In a spot where it just happens to be the first thing I see when I open my bedroom curtains every morning. In the course of eight years The Old White Truck has gotten older and more disreputable looking. It has listed to one side. It has developed a haze of rust and dust. It has been embraced by bramble berry vines and invaded by mice. And it has continued to be the first thing I see when I open my bedroom curtains in the morning.
And in case you haven't picked up on this yet, I have a fairly refined aesthetic sense. Which doesn't include an appreciation of old dead trucks in my garden.
The Old White Truck nonetheless became a Permanent Object on our property. It's actually the only way you can identify our property on Google Earth - you can't see the house, or the studio, or the garden, but you can see The Old White Truck.
I leave it to you to imagine the potential for marital discord inherent in this situation, or the number of conversations that might have centered around it.
For me, The Old White Truck became a sort of symbol of stuckness. (Isn't it so much easier to let somebody else's thing become this kind of symbol in your mind?)
The thing is, when it moved, it seemed to happen fairly quickly and easily. It was there, and then, after a brief struggle, it wasn't. I think I still need to mull this over a bit; I think there's a good, juicy lesson here. I think the lesson has to do with not being discouraged. And with the wisdom of right timing. And with the futility of struggling to force your will on others. And with the importance of not always focusing on the blot on the landscape, but seeing the beauty of the garden anyway. And probably with trusting that those you love, (and you yourself,) will be able to move past stuckness and let go. And that liberation from stuckness will often come suddenly, surprisingly, in the middle of doing other things.
Do you have any thought about getting unstuck? I'd love to hear.