While having a door-wall put in the bedroom, it seemed wise to add wood floors and a new coat of paint. 2 out of 3 being hired out, we appointed ourselves the painters. My aspirations were high – paint the bedroom in a weekend, and make each and every brush stroke a meditation, an invitation to be in the here-and-now of the color and the brush and the wall.
At the end of the weekend, I plead the 2nd Buddhist Nobel Truth – Attachments cause suffering. I was attached to a clean paint job with straight lines and no drips. In reality, I 
got some nice colored walls, some edges and creases and lines needing touch ups, a whole lotta pulled muscles and way more work yet to do than we had planned for.
I’m getting my first glimpse of how we’ll age together. It’s sweet. I make us our morning coffee and bring ibuprofen, Kyle makes our evening cocktail and brings ibuprofen. We agree on when to stop painting and start stretching, our moans and groans making each other laugh. We take turns being the wise Pooh and the hopeless Eeyore. Pretty much like we always face things, as a team with mostly complimentary neuroses.
Oh wait. I was supposed to be meditating. Forgot about that, oops! There were a few strokes every now and then, smooth and obedient… they were fun… The painting wasn’t really the meditation after all. The meditation was me and Kyle covered in paint, sore and stiff, tired and goofy, doing the next required task to eventually end up with a temple of a bedroom. The meditation was love.