You know you're living a quiet life when you can hear the wind chimes from two yards down.

As of Valentine's day I'm settled into my new apartment. I don't remember if I posted that or not because it's been so long since I felt the urge to write. I love it. If you sit in my living room you can actually see how the house and settled, leaving the middle of my living room an inch or so below the edges. The perfectly wood floors have had time to settle in too. Usually on days like today I turn on some music, only sometimes quietly, and make sure that my house really is clean. Or I read--lots. I used to wonder how Gwen could read so many books in a month, now I know. I bought a perfect painting from a friend/artist here called "Ebon" and other than a couch, it will be the final large purchase for my apartment. I'm not moving until I leave this area. If I never leave Missoula the pack of wild dogs you'll discover eating me will have to breach my beautiful little gate and run through my becoming-manicured Manhattan-sized yard, up my outside stairs peppered with built-in planters, past the view over the rest of the city and through my dog door. And if they make it that far, don't deny them the meal.

Other than the quiet I'm coming to adore and appreciate in my own life, I want to make sure Amber knows I support her. She said she feels like she's standing alone, stunned, in a crowd in motion--everyone moving on unaware. While I know it's impossible me to stop, impossible for me to feel her pain, I want her to feel my virtual fingers intertwined with hers so she can remember that someone knows she's there, cares that she's hurting.

I was thinking about pain this morning, about words that we use--these kinds of thoughts are what happens when I spend too much time without the blaring music, you see--and I was hesitant to write. I feel so much like I imagine a husband does during a difficult birth. Standing aside, watching pain and effort, helpless to alleviate any of it directly. All you can do is stand to the side, hold the hand and remind your loved one to breathe. Because you're there, unclouded, you can focus more on the result of the pain--the miracle of a new life on the other side.

Boo, I know it was a bad day. I'm sorry that I'm an oaf. I'm so glad that you love me anyway and I never doubt it--even when you're proverbially screaming at me to shut off the camera and never touch you again. You'll pull through this, I know you will. All I can tell you is that somewhere, on the other side, is a new, a different life--one that you can't even imagine right now. I have faith aplenty in the good things to come. Just feel my hand and hear my voice and we'll make it through this together, even if it was a bad analogy. *grin*