Twenty

Late yesterday afternoon the brilliant blue sky of Colorado autumn turned to gray, and we were warned by both nature and man that the temperatures were going to drop.

Sure enough, this morning, there is not a hint of anything but cloud - if the dense, low covering can be called that. Snow lies on the ground and it is continuing to snow, albeit not with much determination. "I don't foresee much additional accumulation," the weatherman might say.

I, for one, am glad for the change. Fall has, indeed, been beautiful, but I'm ready for cold days when I can embed in my house, sew or cook, and enjoy the quiet of winter. For those of you who dread the cold, my sympathies are with you. :)

Last night Tim and I went to a screening of Pearl Jam Twenty a documentary by Cameron Crowe (see Jerry Maguire, Almost Famous) who began his career as a music journalist in Seattle. He chronicled the band's beginnings, their rise to the heights of the music industry, and their continued journey as seasoned musicians and mature adults. It was wonderful - moving, informative, entertaining, with great timing and an amazing soundtrack.

On the drive home, Tim expressed that it had transported him back to his early college and grad school days in a much more visceral way than he'd anticipated. He had been absolutely engrossed in the film and was almost giddy with joy and memories. I, on the other hand, felt rather low, even though I'd enjoyed the movie intensely. It was leaving the movie that got me down. And listening to him reminisce. After all, those were golden years for him. But not for me.

I arrived home feeling old. I was reminded of the season in my life when Pearl Jam was at the height of their popularity. Those were hard years - between marriage and death, I thought to myself when Tim said, "...between undergrad and grad school." I didn't have a place where I felt I really belonged, my mom died, I had a terribly difficult work situation. Tough years.

So I told Tim that. I said, "The movie made me feel old." I snuggled my head against his shoulder. "I guess we're not young anymore."

He stroked my hair and gently smiled. "You're still my sweetie."

Aahhh. Those words were like salve on a wound. This man I love, this marriage in which I live, my high school sweetheart who still sees me that way - but with the benefit of 20 years of life shared together, and all that means.

It made me think of the Browning poem that ends, "God's in his heaven - all's right with the world."

Amen.