road“It’s like the road less traveled for me,” he said. ”You know, the whole verbalizing thing…”

He looked pained. His face was flushed a little, and he was squinting as if he was looking directly at the noonday sun.

It was barely 8 o’ clock in the morning, however, and we were still in the hotel room. The blinds were down and the heater was going full blast, protecting us in our t-shirts from the snowy tundra outside.

“Well, you’re verbalizing right now,” I said, trying hard not to be a smart ass.

“Yeah, and it is like walking into the wind.”

He looked dumbfounded. But sincere. Kindly. Gentle even, if I dare use the word.

I suddenly wanted to throw myself on him right there on that little hotel room couch. It was the vulnerability, the willingness to open up just a little bit about the situation at hand, that turned me on faster than a horned toad squirts blood out her eyes in the desert.

We just hit Utah and all those southwestern similes are coming back to me.stone heart

And without knowing it, he was throwing some serious truth bombs my way with his honesty, his plunging into the unknown regions of his own tumultuous heart.

Do guys even know this about us girls? That it only takes the hardest thing they can do….express their feelings…to make us hotter than a chili pepper rosta hanging on an abode wall?

That was the last sappy sagebrush metaphor I will pen in this post. I swear.

But hey, this I know for sure (and I know it mostly from my own avoidance of it throughout my life):

The highway that curves its way from the heart to the throat through the tunnel of the vocal chords and out the mouth (I think there is a detour passed the brain somewhere) is full of potholes.

On this two-lane,  “the forecast is “high-wind advisory, inclement weather, slippery slopes and patches of ice” the whole way.

Not many folks are up for the journey.

Most men? Forget it.

Bu he was absolutely right.

Love…expressing it, experiencing it moment by moment…is the road less traveled.

And by love, I don’t mean romance. I don’t mean one night stands. I don’t mean cute puppy and kitty love neither.

snowI mean the kind of love that has at its front door a crooked sign that reads FORGIVENESS and at its back door, a patchwork painting that says, plain as day: FAITH.

I am describing the kind of love that is recalibrated with every breath. It needs reassurance because, well, its been through the mill recently.

But it is hopeful because, after all,

Here we are.  Still talking.