Rooted, I used to think.

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Tuesday, Nov. 27, 2018 @ 8:40 am
The Lamp

We walk through Ikea together. We choose a chair. I am vacant and disconnected through the process: Yes, I like this one. OK, yeah, the tan leather colour is nice. I don't know why we are buying a chair after last week's blow out. Maybe, for him, it's easier to focus on relatively simple problems - like the living room furniture arrangement - than our relational problems.

Days later, I sit down in the new chair. Bring my legs up cross legged beneath me, happy finally to have a chair to curl into by the window. The lamp is behind me, and I have a magazine spread on my lap. I can't read. I reach behind me and pull the lamp around from behind me, to the side of the chair, so that it illuminates my lap.

"NO!!!" He yells. Leaps up. Grabs the lamp from my hand. Shoves me to the side. "I had that positioned perfectly, why did you have to move it? You messed it all up."

I stand there, confused, magazine in one hand, bowl of ice cream melting in the other. He's completely over reacting. It's a fucking lamp.

He tells me that I was intentionally sitting in a position to block the light and that I could have easily moved my body to solve the problem.

I stand there watching him, wondering why I'm doing this. Why I'm here, with someone who treats me like this.

I go through my mental processing. By moving the lamp, he felt like I was assaulting him and that I don't love him. What's needed is to tend his feelings about this trespass. Don't react. Don't defend. Don't blame. Stay present.

"I'm sorry that I moved the lamp. I'll try to think about what I'm doing next time. I understand that you care about where the lamp is located and that you spent time carefully arranging the room."


It's no wonder that I want to spend time with Chris.

Roots | Shoots