Breathe

     My beer, a chocolate colored ale with banana bread notes, was perfectly chilled.  The bright midday sun streamed through what amounted to a large glass-paneled garage door warming my back and lulling me almost into a dreamy haze.  My wife sat across from me at the tall cocktail table whose top was littered with syrupy glass rings surrounding a stack of obviously unused paperboard coasters, sipping her frosty Kolsch.  Hillman Beer, one of so very many brew pubs in and around Asheville proved to be the perfect spot to break this spell that's been haunting me for so long now.  Our conversation began as a couple took a table across from us, their half German Shepherd/half gray wolf nudging us at the end of her leash for attention.  London was her name, the man told us, and she ate up the attention of strangers.  

     "We'll stay where we are for the time being as long as you're happy with your job," my wife said.  

     "Are you sure you'll be okay continuing to handle the insurance side of the job?"  I asked. 

    "We'll make it work," she answered, taking a long slow sip.    

     Until this moment our life had been so uncomfortably tentative and ulcer-inducing.  I'd been spending what time I'd ordinarily be writing, reading and blogging poring over job postings, looking at apartment & real estate listings in two very distinctly different locations and generally stressing more than I can describe here about what I was going to do, where we would live and how this portion of our life would even end up.  It felt good to talk about it, let it out of my head where it'd been held captive for so long.  

     "Talk to me," she said.  "Don't hold this shit in.  How can I help if I don't know what you're thinking?"  Reminding me firmly that we were a team, she picked up the oversized stained paper menu to consider which sandwich she'd like cozied into a pile of crispy, salty fries.  I breathed deeply for the first time in a long time.  Our home, tied to my job, would remain our home for the forseeable future.  I could relax a bit and not worry about what would come next.  I could refocus my attention on my work and give the 110% I generally prefer to give, whatever the task.  I can resume my writing, even if only a blog post.  It's a start, right?  I'm thankful that things just might settle down.  Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.