Today my daughter looked up and said, "Mama, no matter how fast we drive, we never reach that cloud. Do we all see the same sky?"

And I said, "Yes. There's only one sun. One moon. We all see it."

This month, I am happy and sad for us.

I am happy that same-sex couples can now be recognized as spouses anywhere in the U. S.

I am sad that we laid to rest yet more black humans who did no harm. All they did was be black.

Again.

And I think, we all see the same moon. We all see the same sun. We all have bones beneath our different-colored skin. We all love and seek love in return.

We all live under the same sky.

I am happy and sad for us.

A month and a half ago, Beloved and I began merrily ripping apart the deck on the back of Chateau Travolta. It's a big deck, around the size of my first Kansas City apartment, and it had railings and a rickety pergola, as well.

Since then, we've braved torrential rains and searing heat to tear the deck down to the joists and begin building it back. (If you like home improvement posts, I'll be blogging this when it's done.)

Nothing has been as entertaining as the search for the elusive Cabot Australian Timber Oil in Honey Teak.

The elusive Cabot. Goddamn it, you will not break me.

There is no evidence I can find that this color is discontinued. However, I have only been able to track its movements one gallon at a time across Ace Hardware store websites that claim a gallon is at this store or that store, but when you buy it online and then drive to said store, the Cabot has already moved on. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Arens, we don't have two gallons. We only have one. Our inventory system was just joking.

Sometimes, I'll drive to a store and it will be there. Sometimes the cashier will stare dumbly at me while waving for another employee to hurry up and come deal with this woman who has a coupon that I have never seen before did she print it at home is she a felon I don't know so I'll just stare.

Why don't I buy more than one gallon at a time? See above.

And the price! It varies wildly. I have paid $59, $44 and $10.95 for identical gallons of the elusive Cabot, the latter after a request for a twenty-mile, across-metro, in-store transfer that ended with, "Bobby says why don't you just drive over there?"

I have never seen a product so wily or so variable in its price and availability. I think it has something to do with the actual color "honey teak," because I can find its brethren in Home Depot and Lowe's .. but when I ask for honey teak, they need to call Brad in customer service because they have never heard of such a color.

Yet, it exists.

At this point, we have used two gallons on the rails and pergola and still need to sand and stain the actual deck floor.

God help us all if we need another gallon.

When I lived in Chicago, my grandparents died in very close proximity. Collapsed by grief on the airplane home for their funerals, I remember feeling, really feeling, the texture of the seat and being surprised by it. Being comforted by it, by doing just this one thing, feeling the material.

Only in times of extreme grief did I give myself permission to live in the moment, back then.

I have a bad habit of cataloging all the tasks in every area of my life when my body is engaged in manual activities and my mind starts to wander. I've done it since the idea of homework was introduced in elementary school and I was shocked to learn I'd be responsible for something that needed to be done in the future of my own volition. I find it difficult to put off tasks that I know need to be done.

This summer, I'm focusing on feeling the texture of every piece of material. The sound of the wind rattling the leaves and the 17-year cicadas hissing in the treetops. Sunshine on my shoulders and the instant sweat evaporates when the wind picks up on my runs.

When I wake up in the morning (sometimes now drenched in sweat, thanks, perimenopause), I'm taking a least five minutes by my alarm clock to listen to the sounds of the house and find that floating place between sleep and wakefulness one last time.

Instead of listing in my head the tasks I need to accomplish each day, I'm trying to float, to prepare myself to be resilient to whatever might come my way instead of trying to head it off before it even happens.

I've always wanted to be that one zen guy in every trapped-on-a-desert-island movie who lies on the beach while everyone around him is freaking out even though they are all in the exact same situation. Now in my forties I'm realizing there is absolutely no reason why I can't be him.

I just have to make it so.