Rooted, I used to think.

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Love from Japan - Thursday, Feb. 27, 2020
Jet Lag - Saturday, Feb. 22, 2020
The Day Before Japan - Monday, Feb. 17, 2020
In the Alpine - Wednesday, Feb. 12, 2020
Zoa - Monday, Feb. 10, 2020

Monday, Feb. 03, 2020 @ 12:36 pm
Nine Months

Time passes. It’s been nine months since we first met, since we first made love. I wake up next to him and our bodies pressed together, and I have a hard time understanding where I end and where he begins. We finish each other’s sentences. We automatically break granola bars in half to share with one another. His arm around my shoulders, my hand on his thigh. We dance together in the living room and he does something that makes me laugh so hard that I collapse onto the floor into a fetal ball. There is nothing missing, nothing to want for.

The seasons change, and we only find more things in common, more adventures on which to embark. I make a list of all of the things that we do together: walk, run, hike, paddle, swim, camp, climb indoors, climb outdoors, mountain bike, road bike, travel, read, play board games, cross country ski, skate ski, downhill ski, backcountry ski, snowshoe, ice skate, yoga, dance, cook. And, of course, make love.

We go into the backcountry and ascend snowy mountain ridges on skis. At times, snow falls heavily around us. And then later, the clouds part to reveal one of the most dramatic and beautiful landscapes in the world. Jagged peaks, glaciers with cracked, blue tongues, and swaths of snow and clouds, punctuated with evergreens.

We descend from the ridges one at a time, our skis planing on top of an ocean of pristine powder. The silence of the wilderness; I am dancing with nature.

In the evening, in the lodge, the fireplace flickering and our lodge room filled with cozy warmth. Our bodies tired from skiing; our hearts happy from adventure.

I come out from the bathroom and walk past him.

He looks at me and then his head turns sharply to focus on my body, an obvious double take. I’m wearing the lace and satin slip that he gave me for Christmas. I watch him look at me. He reaches out to touch me, my shoulder, my collarbones, tracing down my sternum. He takes my shoulders and gently turns me around, runs his hand down over my hips, never taking his eyes off of me.

His appreciation of me, his desire for me. I have not felt this before. I have never felt this sure of myself, of my body. The version of me that he sees is beautiful.

We dance and climb and lay beside each other in darkened yoga studios. We eat meals together and get a bit drunk together and some days he packs me a lunch and drives me to work. We talk about the future and having a garden and a dog together.

One night, we sit together on the couch, the sliding door ajar so that we can hear the ocean waves breaking on the beach.

“Here,” he says, passing me his laptop, “Press the ‘confirm purchase’ button.”

My heart races. I look at him and smile with wide eyes.

I click the button.

We are going to Japan.

Roots | Shoots