I admitted this is the thing I don't know how to do: Live with someone. I am not sure how it happened before. As we figure it out, it is also the process of learning each other. We have our histories and I don't allow myself to get particularly hung up on them. I have decided not to get not allow myself to get in over my head. I don't know if that's a function of not completely giving myself over like before, but I think it's better this way. I am not afraid of anything because what I have to lose isn't going to wreck me so completely as before. It's like Manny told me, You always need to have an exit plan. You always need to look out for yourself. I didn't do that before. I gave myself up. So when it comes to trust, I wonder, does it matter if I trust or not? If I am willing to lose what I've offered up, then what is there to trust? It's more of a professional agreement, right? I have learned not to give anything with the expectation that I'll get something back.

So I find myself ticking off the process elements of it, of living together. Things I should put on the to-do list: Do the Laundry. Plan a date night. Hug three times a day. Make her lunch. Do the dishes. Ask how her day went. Send a text message at mid-morning. There is a layer on my mind wishing that simply doing these things will make it work, because it seems that the last women I've known needed just these small things. They didn't demand anymore. They didn't want to eat me completely. If I am considerate and honest and dependable then it will work, right? Then it won't fail, right?

It can still fail. That's why you have to be ready to lose. Enjoy what is in front of you. Stop over analyzing. We are here as long as we choose to be. Everyday there is the decision.

What do I want?

I want to raise my son well and to know him.

I want to love someone and be loved in return. I want to be known.

I want to know my friends and in turn have them know me. I want to be who I am at all times.

I want to be financially secure and to take care of my family. I want my children to have more opportunities than I did.

I want to create things that last.

I want to prepare for the future while thoroughly enjoying the present.

I want to get the most of the time I have.

I want to be good.

One side effect of having learned to plan things in the army is that I often find myself wondering what will happen to something or someone should I get whacked. I don't plan on dying, but the possibility of it happening without my consent, and thereby leaving all these things I've been working on out in limbo, is something I think about probably once a day.

I know I'm finished because I just consciously downloaded and burned The Postal Service - Give Up so I can listen in the car. Put a fork in me, baby.

Last night I finished a run of 7 miles in 45 minutes, and as I walked up and down a street near the college, looking up into cherry blossoms and green trees with my hands on my head, breathing deeply the evening air, I thought of how fortunate I am. I found myself saying: This is happiness.

Even if it doesn't last, if these moments with her don't last, right now it is the best feeling, and I'll do my best to remember.

Her daughter came into the bedroom this morning as we lay tumbled in each other, and she didn't freak out about it. In fact her littler girl climbed right into the bed and we laughed and joked until it was time to get moving and make breakfast. She had Cheerios while we made breakfast bagels together. I made the eggs and she toasted the bagels.

It was so easy. I don't know when I've been allowed to be part of something that felt so easy.

A ceramics teacher announced on opening day that he was dividing the class into two groups. All those on the left side of the studio, he said, would be graded solely on the quantity of the work they produced. All those on the right would be graded solely on their works’ quality.

His procedure was simple: On the final day of class he would bring in his bathroom scales and weigh the work of the quantity group; 50 pounds of pots rated an A, 40 pounds a B, and so on. Those being graded on quality, however, needed to produce only one pot — albeit a perfect one — to get an A.

At grading time, the works with the highest quality were all produced by the group being graded for quantity.

It seems that while the quantity group was busily churning out piles of work — and learning from their mistakes — the quality group had sat theorizing about perfection, and in the end had little more to show for their efforts than grandiose theories and a pile of clay.

We woke sometime early this morning and lay in the covers, our first night together. After a while she said, "It's so strange. I was looking at your arm lying across mine. It seems the older I get, the more I notice contrasts. The difference between masculine and feminine. "

"I think it's the same as an artist seeing shape and color," I said. "Masculine and feminine is probably the strongest energy that runs the world. It makes sense that you would notice it."

After leaving her house I went on a bird walk, invited randomly by a friend. The guide explained how first he listens for the birds, because so often they're heard and not seen. Then he searches the distance for color, shape and movement. Then, when watching a flock feeding or flying by, he looks for the differences that separate one from another. Some species are easily apparent. Others have appeared only once in a hundred years.

Five hours later, I thought of the words: The collage of you and I.