A week into the new year

I am sipping coffee from a french press, a strong, dark roast whose beans, when ground, scented two rooms. When brewed, the smell wafted up the stairs. I could smell it while I was showering. I showered late, partly out of laziness, and partly out of reluctance to wash away the reminders of last night's lovemaking. The morning light is filtering through the ornately-carved teak screen in the living room. The day is clear and bright, deceptively so. It is cold outside.

Things are slowly coming together as I unpack my old life and fit it into my new one like pieces to a jigsaw puzzle. His stuff and mine, commingling in this townhouse like our fluids in my body. Artwork hung, furniture moved around, oriental carpets laid like lines in the sand, and so far, no conflict, and very little criticism.

"This is a big change for you," he said yesterday. "How are you doing? Are you happy here?"

It is for his capacity to ask questions like these that I love him. I know him to be caring and playful, in addition to the intensity for which he is well-known. His forceful personality and self-confidence are intimidating to some, but not to me. They are simply aspects of who he is. After dating for 3 years, I know him well enough that he finds it scary. Yet I rarely put the depth of my understanding into words. A wise woman knows how greatly men treasure the mysteries of the feminine -- and allows men the illusion of their own mysteries. It is one thing to penetrate another's mysteries. It is another to reveal them.

It is now a week into the New Year, and I can honestly say that I have begun the year as I would like it to continue. It has been full and rich already.