We were together. I forget the rest. ~Walt Whitman
I am a gist person. A sensor of essence. A smeller of feels. A feeler of auras. Ask me to recount a movie and you will be lucky to hear more than a few words. To recount an entire paragraph is an anomaly as rare as the percent of us gingers born into this world. It is 1% to 2% in case you were wondering.
The minutiae so interesting to some is, to me, a dull knife failing to hack away a chunk of cold, fetid meat. They bore me to the point I will find some way to bury my head in meaningless drivel just to keep the minutiae at bay.
I have been married since 2015 during which time we have engaged in many out of country adventures. Were it not for my journals come blogs, the details of our travels would be little more than a sentence or two in conversation failing to capture the magnificence we experienced. Were it not for my pictures come screensaver, the brilliance of Chand Baori stepwell would be a memory slinking up to consciousness at inopportune moments to be quickly lost in the annals of my imperfect memory.
What I do recollect with astonishing clarity is the feels of being with my wife on our trips. I remember the joy of walking hand in hand through lands we are both seeing for the first and possibly only time. I remember a tinge of sadness because of her absence when I snorkled with sharks in Belize while she opted to stay at our casita. I can still feel the rapture of sitting quietly with her at Double-O Arch in Arches National Park halfway into a five-mile hike.
I know the joy of two hearts dwelling in the same nest. And that is enough for me.