No Warmth Without Cold

We sit elbow to elbow in the plane on the way to our son in California. We spend our six-hour flight reading, watching movies we will only watch on planes, leaning into the aisle watching for the snack service and talking about details of things to be done on the farm. I drag my backpack out from under the seat and pull out a notebook to keep track of the things we are discussing.

I struggle with time away. It isn’t that I don’t want to go, I just don’t want the disruption of the going. As we are mashing clothes into our carry-on Paul reminds me that I say this every trip, and he is correct, although I shake my head as he says it.

The screen with our farm/house lists for Josh remains up until the last door is shut. For emphasis, important details get a small star beside them. I stack extra shavings and sacks of chicken feed in the barn, fill all water tubs and make sure that Bronte’s dog-food bin overflows. Not Armageddon: just four days away.

The laundry hamper is emptied and I make a grocery run. I put two pints of ice cream in the freezer, guacamole in the fridge, bananas for smoothies and Josh’s favorite coffee. Done and done.

I’m tired, I’m looking forward to seeing our son and having a break from work and routine but, as we pull out of the driveway, I look backward toward the sheep at the fence and feel uneasy.

When we leave Boston it is below 20 degrees, snowy and dark. We step out of the airport in LA and it is sunny, seventy six degrees, palm trees swaying above our heads.

I pull sunglasses on, sweater off and squeal at the sight of Ethan waiting in his car.

I love a good hotel; the crisp white of the sheets tinged with the light smell of bleach, a ten dollar bottle of Evian on the counter (which we will covet but never drink), a big television. All feel luxurious. Here there are no beds to make, hens to let out, sheep to feed, cellos to fix, or lessons to teach. I soak in the tub when we return in the evening, Paul sits in the corner, arms crossed over his knees, and we talk.

Friday morning we all stroll to a bakery that has recently won a Michelin star. We stand in a long line before ordering too many pastries and Mexican hot chocolate. Sitting in the sunshine, laughing, I feel my stomach relax.

Afternoon finds us touring the historic Queen Mary, watching passengers climb the gang plank to a nearby cruise ship that is so immense that they look like ants running up a stick. We sit on high benches and eat double cheeseburgers at a favorite haunt in Long Beach, laughing at a blob of ketchup that drops into Paul’s lap. Later that evening we sit around a fire in chairs that tilt back so far I struggle to balance on the front edge just to see everyone. It’s one of Ethan’s favorite breweries so we let him do the ordering. We talk about life, about becoming parents. I try to sneak glimpses of our third son without mom-staring.

Near our hotel, Paul and I walk along the ocean, find a Tamale place where we eat out of folded wax paper. Tall masts of sailing boats in the marina near us bob. People walk their dogs on the sand toward the ocean and families pedal covered metal cars along the boardwalk. We sit quietly, the scenery so completely different from snow covered mountains.

Monday morning arrives too quickly. We cross to a small breakfast place where the person behind the counter says “good morning” and recognizes us by name.

I mash clothes back into my carry-on, check for passports and wheel suitcases outside into the sunshine to wait for an Uber. Ethan arrives on foot, slightly out of breath as our driver appears. I wrap him up and try to make my crying inconspicuous. We climb into the car and I turn, watching him wave as we drive out of sight. I feel uneasy.

West coast in the morning, east coast that evening. The shuttle takes us to our cold truck and we rush back into our winter selves, feeling all our gears shift.

When you work for yourselves there is no free time-off. We get home and Bronte greets us in a very un-Border-Collie-like way by standing on her back feet, front paws on our shoulders. There are ninety-two phone calls to answer, sheets to wash and replace, animals and people to feed, emails to answer and a recital to plan. One might regret this payment for a brief time away, but we don’t.

A conductor once told me that there can be no forte without piano.

There also cannot be:

Pleasure without pain

Joy without sorrow

Light without darkness

Sunshine without rain.

We love our lives and where we live. The time we spend away reminds us that, perhaps we cannot truly appreciate our cold without the chance to enjoy the warmth.