And in the end, perhaps love comes down to what we know and what we don't. About each other. The mystery and the knowledge. It's Day 100 and I've just now discovered that these days are not about learning something new about love, but about relearning what I've always known. What I've been taught.
That love is patient. It doesn't demand a baby or a house. It waits, knowing that good parts are ahead, even if they can't be seen. Even if there's nothing to get up to but an grumpy dog and a line of dishes in a house that's nearly sixty degrees.
That love is kind. A generous compassion that gives warm banana bread to strangers. And real love, between partners pulls this kindness from each other, challenging each to give more, to love more, to share each piece with everyone. Because we're all undeserving, and we all desperately need real love.
That love isn't jealous; even when he's lost five pounds in four days and had ice cream every night. Love doesn't sabatoge his success by hiding his running shoes. No, love encourages him and praises him and runs alongside him at five in the morning. Because his triumph is mine. Just like my struggle is his. We're together.
Love isn't arrogant either. When another marriage goes sour, love doesn't act like we've got it all together. Because wel fall so short of what we should be- of who we should be. Love knows the struggle, and so we get quiet when our friends get divorced. Because we know the grace that keeps us holding hands.
Love does not seek it's own. With love, his dreams become my dreams. And though the life that I thought I would have is not the one I do, I know this day to be better than any other I've imagined. Because with love, real love, we change. We become what the other needs. He reads to me. I dream in food. Both pieces of each other that have become our own identities. Because love cannot be selfish if it is to last. If it is to be more than a match that burns itself to ashes.
Love is not irritable or resentful. When the house is chilly and my nose is cold. When he wants to go to the gym and I just want to go home and crash. When he spends 62 dollars on two days worth of groceries. Love doesn't freak out. Because it knows that there's growth and blessing in letting it go. In submitting to each other. And no, that doesn't mean I agree with him getting a four wheeler, but it means I won't yell at him if he does.
Love seeks the truth. Like a missile aimed for heat, love searches out the truth in each other, splitting away the facade and the pieces that don't matter until the heart of each other is known. Love longs for something real, something solid and true to sink into and grow. And so I look at my husband and tell him what I know. That he is kind and strong. That he is brave. Love speaks these words aloud, because these truths are the ones that remain when the other pieces of our union start to shake.
Love bears all things. Including the doctor's office. And unemployment. Including a womb that feels empty and a bank account that really is. Love says it's going to be alright, even when neither of you know if that's true.
Love hopes all things. Love holds onto the promise that tomorrow could be better. It doesn't curl up in the fetal position and cry all night long. No, love uncurls itself and wraps its arms around him. Love accepts the cruelty of hope dissapointed, just to wait another day. Just to see what may be.
Love believes all things. That the passion will stay. That the future is worth fighting for. That forever is a very long time. Love believes all things because love wants to stay alive. And it's believing in each other that keeps it so.
Love never fails. It doesn't. Love is stronger than my husbands coffee. It is deeper than the dark night sky that twirls above our heads. Love is faster than the seconds of our lives that tick away, even now, more potent than a clove of my father's homegrown garlic. Love is life. And it doesn't not fail. It cannot.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Day 99: Evolution or Creation?
So the question remains; is there a perfect match for each of us, or is a happy marriage about finding someone compatible enough to stay with for a lifetime?
I've been asking this question every since I understood the concept of marriage and it's totality. And in the end it comes down to a matter of belief. That we evolved. Or that we were created. Because if we're a product of evolution, then our choice of mate might simply be characterized as a selection based on compatible qualities. Race, Religion, Wealth, Education. And the search for a spouse becomes formulaic as we latch onto the cloest match we can find. But if we are created beings with a specific destiny, then perhaps love is what happens when two souls realize that they were created for each other. Each being a lesser half, together they make up the whole. When you're part of someone in a way that goes beyond your self and your own survival, there is staying power. There's a reason to push through the duldrums and routine. Through the dissapointment. Because you were created to be together. And so you don't even think about quitting. At least not in a serious sort of way. You don't allow yourself to "what-if." You don't wonder if you'd already be a mother by now. Because you have your other. In a world where half of all marriages turn false, you've been blessed with something true.
I don't know if there's one man or woman created for each of us. But there is one thing I know; deep in the place where only truth resides, past all emotion, past all formulas. I know that my heart has found the one it longed for. That I am my beloved's and he is mine.
I've been asking this question every since I understood the concept of marriage and it's totality. And in the end it comes down to a matter of belief. That we evolved. Or that we were created. Because if we're a product of evolution, then our choice of mate might simply be characterized as a selection based on compatible qualities. Race, Religion, Wealth, Education. And the search for a spouse becomes formulaic as we latch onto the cloest match we can find. But if we are created beings with a specific destiny, then perhaps love is what happens when two souls realize that they were created for each other. Each being a lesser half, together they make up the whole. When you're part of someone in a way that goes beyond your self and your own survival, there is staying power. There's a reason to push through the duldrums and routine. Through the dissapointment. Because you were created to be together. And so you don't even think about quitting. At least not in a serious sort of way. You don't allow yourself to "what-if." You don't wonder if you'd already be a mother by now. Because you have your other. In a world where half of all marriages turn false, you've been blessed with something true.
I don't know if there's one man or woman created for each of us. But there is one thing I know; deep in the place where only truth resides, past all emotion, past all formulas. I know that my heart has found the one it longed for. That I am my beloved's and he is mine.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Day 98: The Next Step
We're in contract. After months of looking, we've made an offer, then accepted a counteroffer and now we're in contract. I should be excited. Instead, I say "Rich, can we just sit in the quiet for a minute." But he wants to vacumn and clean and move around our little rental on the beach. Says he can't sit still. The vacumn slides swiftly under my feet, followed by Micky; barking and snarling all kinds of unmentionable things. Without a word I get up and walk out the door. I walk toward the water, where there's space to think about why I feel so dissapointed.
The house is perfect. A small cape with over six acres of beautiful land, just down from a lake. Cathedral ceilings and a tiny garden house with Robins that come back every year. And on June 1st, it will be ours. We'll settle in.
But Rich and I were never the settling type. Our entire relationship has been defined by these crazy impulsive moments. A marriage proposal ten days after our first campfire. An elopement two months later. Resigning from meaningful (and good-paying) jobs to travel across the country and live in a pickup, ending up in Southern Oregon. Resigning again to move back east just ten months later. We fit together because we're the same soul. Wanderers. Seekers. And now we're going to buy a house. And when we buy this house, we're going to have to stay. And I'm afraid that we'll lose that same soul. I'm afraid we'll settle.
And so I'm marching across the beach trying to understand this sadness. Like a woman on her wedding day. I know I'm blessed and lucky and surrounded by love. But there's a little less to dream about. And I'm a little bit closer to being the person I never thought I would be. The one who stays. I turn in the wind and see my husband chasing after me. He grabs me and we stand there, still in our work clothes, holding onto each other. His wheezing breath is louder than the waves and I'm overwhelmed with my reality. A man who loves me. A home of our own. And then it doesn't feel like settling anymore. It feels like the next step.
The house is perfect. A small cape with over six acres of beautiful land, just down from a lake. Cathedral ceilings and a tiny garden house with Robins that come back every year. And on June 1st, it will be ours. We'll settle in.
But Rich and I were never the settling type. Our entire relationship has been defined by these crazy impulsive moments. A marriage proposal ten days after our first campfire. An elopement two months later. Resigning from meaningful (and good-paying) jobs to travel across the country and live in a pickup, ending up in Southern Oregon. Resigning again to move back east just ten months later. We fit together because we're the same soul. Wanderers. Seekers. And now we're going to buy a house. And when we buy this house, we're going to have to stay. And I'm afraid that we'll lose that same soul. I'm afraid we'll settle.
And so I'm marching across the beach trying to understand this sadness. Like a woman on her wedding day. I know I'm blessed and lucky and surrounded by love. But there's a little less to dream about. And I'm a little bit closer to being the person I never thought I would be. The one who stays. I turn in the wind and see my husband chasing after me. He grabs me and we stand there, still in our work clothes, holding onto each other. His wheezing breath is louder than the waves and I'm overwhelmed with my reality. A man who loves me. A home of our own. And then it doesn't feel like settling anymore. It feels like the next step.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Day 97: Putting in for a baby
"So I say we just put in for a baby and take whatever we get." We're in Target, in the baseball aisle, and I turn quickly knocking down three wiffle bats. Are we finally having this conversation?
"But if it's a boy, at least I know we can play catch. If it's a girl, she might get hit in the head.You know how girls catch." I make a mental note to be angry at this comment, but not right now. Because he's finally talking about adopting. Not in a casual maybe-someday kind of way. But not in a cozy come-here-and-let's-snuggle-while-we-talk kind of way either. I'll take what I can get.
We're close to buying a house. This is a big deal. Rich never had a house growing up- it was one rental after another. His family moved almost every year. He said he never put down roots. He never hung onto friendships. Because it hurt to much to move again and start over. And when we raise a family, he wants to do it right. So all this avoidance that I've thought to be reluctance is really just him wanting to be the kind of man who can give a child a home. And for the 97th time, I look at him in a new way. I see a part of this man that I didn't see yesterday.
So, yes, we'll be putting in for a baby. And we'll take whatever we get.
"But if it's a boy, at least I know we can play catch. If it's a girl, she might get hit in the head.You know how girls catch." I make a mental note to be angry at this comment, but not right now. Because he's finally talking about adopting. Not in a casual maybe-someday kind of way. But not in a cozy come-here-and-let's-snuggle-while-we-talk kind of way either. I'll take what I can get.
We're close to buying a house. This is a big deal. Rich never had a house growing up- it was one rental after another. His family moved almost every year. He said he never put down roots. He never hung onto friendships. Because it hurt to much to move again and start over. And when we raise a family, he wants to do it right. So all this avoidance that I've thought to be reluctance is really just him wanting to be the kind of man who can give a child a home. And for the 97th time, I look at him in a new way. I see a part of this man that I didn't see yesterday.
So, yes, we'll be putting in for a baby. And we'll take whatever we get.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Day 96: Foreclosures and such
We're hunting for a home and I keep falling for these houses that I know nothing about. A tiny cape in dark green, nestled in the forest. A modern house with wooden twisty stairs and a wood stove. An ancient farm house from Colonial Times painted bright red and tucked on 17 acres with original rock walls and a tiny pond. Over and over these perfect little places get me excited. I can picture us in each one. Wheeling barrows full of mulch and planting fruit trees. Walking the property like my parents do on Sunday afternoons.
But the dark green cape was already occupied- with ghosts perhaps, but also with garbage. The kind that piled out of the shed and hung in the corners of the loft. A strange unkempt feeling and the charm was lost. The modern house with twisty stairs was sold the day before we asked to see it. And the rustic Colonial was jammed with a lifetime of antique junk. They saved everything, including the house, pulling it back off the market a week after it's debut.
So much hope. So many expectations. And I can't helping thinking how similar this whole house hunting game is to finding a mate. At some point each of us is in the market for a partner. We meet all kinds of people. There are those we diregard immediately; we're just not attracted. There are others who catch our eyes, but they're looking for deeper packets. And there are people we meet who seem to be just what we're looking for. A perfect match. But eventually we see the garbage in their corners. The junk they have piled away comes spilling out of the shed, an avalanche of baggage and we run from their ghosts. It's just not worth the hassle. Then there are the ones we lose. The partners that would never be, as they were snatched up by some other buyer. Already taken. These would-be partnerships can drive a single girl (or guy, perhaps) crazy with what-ifs and could-bes until eventually the reality of being alone is impossible to ignore.
And then last weekend we saw a home. A two hundred year old house stapled up in vinyl siding and my heart just broke. A foreclosure, the occupants pulled apart the kitchen- tearing out cabinents, leaving empty scars on the tile. A sandy circle next to a busted deck showed where the pool once was. But the driveway is long with grassy hills on either side. Standing in front of this home, that I wouldn't have glanced at twice, I'm wondering if this could be the one. Because with people and houses, the outside is only the beginning. It's not until you get past the veneer that you see the value of a home- or a person. Perhaps it's better to choose the one that you can grow with. Whose imperfections you find charming. Even if the rest of the would doesn't see the value. I mean this house is going to take alot of work, but there's an appeal to falling in love with a fixer upper. Whether it's a house or a person, there is value in seeing each other at our worse. To know and be known.
And so I find myself wanting this house. Against all logic, I'm falling for it. I know it's torn apart inside, it's edges are rough and a little bit ugly. But I'm standing on the gravel wanting this place, even as I know it to be broken. And this is what love is. To see one another in our brokenness. Our rough edges and torn apart innards. To look and to know and to love, as is. Because there's a bit of a foreclosure in each of us. So we go ahead and choose each other and we work together until the shape of our union because the dream we've been looking for. A house. A marriage. Our home.
But the dark green cape was already occupied- with ghosts perhaps, but also with garbage. The kind that piled out of the shed and hung in the corners of the loft. A strange unkempt feeling and the charm was lost. The modern house with twisty stairs was sold the day before we asked to see it. And the rustic Colonial was jammed with a lifetime of antique junk. They saved everything, including the house, pulling it back off the market a week after it's debut.
So much hope. So many expectations. And I can't helping thinking how similar this whole house hunting game is to finding a mate. At some point each of us is in the market for a partner. We meet all kinds of people. There are those we diregard immediately; we're just not attracted. There are others who catch our eyes, but they're looking for deeper packets. And there are people we meet who seem to be just what we're looking for. A perfect match. But eventually we see the garbage in their corners. The junk they have piled away comes spilling out of the shed, an avalanche of baggage and we run from their ghosts. It's just not worth the hassle. Then there are the ones we lose. The partners that would never be, as they were snatched up by some other buyer. Already taken. These would-be partnerships can drive a single girl (or guy, perhaps) crazy with what-ifs and could-bes until eventually the reality of being alone is impossible to ignore.
And then last weekend we saw a home. A two hundred year old house stapled up in vinyl siding and my heart just broke. A foreclosure, the occupants pulled apart the kitchen- tearing out cabinents, leaving empty scars on the tile. A sandy circle next to a busted deck showed where the pool once was. But the driveway is long with grassy hills on either side. Standing in front of this home, that I wouldn't have glanced at twice, I'm wondering if this could be the one. Because with people and houses, the outside is only the beginning. It's not until you get past the veneer that you see the value of a home- or a person. Perhaps it's better to choose the one that you can grow with. Whose imperfections you find charming. Even if the rest of the would doesn't see the value. I mean this house is going to take alot of work, but there's an appeal to falling in love with a fixer upper. Whether it's a house or a person, there is value in seeing each other at our worse. To know and be known.
And so I find myself wanting this house. Against all logic, I'm falling for it. I know it's torn apart inside, it's edges are rough and a little bit ugly. But I'm standing on the gravel wanting this place, even as I know it to be broken. And this is what love is. To see one another in our brokenness. Our rough edges and torn apart innards. To look and to know and to love, as is. Because there's a bit of a foreclosure in each of us. So we go ahead and choose each other and we work together until the shape of our union because the dream we've been looking for. A house. A marriage. Our home.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Day 95: Sleeping Together
Seriously, I will punch you if you pull the covers off me. Just so you know. My voice is muffled from under the down comforter where I am cozily tucked and getting drowsy. And of course I would never sock him one. But sometimes when I'm drifting off to sleep, I'll reach the place where everything is warm. The drifting place, moments from sleep. My husband will turn to set the alarm clock and he'll take the entire down comforter with him as he turns leaving me cold and exposed and in a panic. It's a big deal. It's an ice-water in the face kind of big deal. So every night I threaten physical harm. And every night I stay warm.
Bedtime wasn't always this way. For the first few months, we tried to sleep romantically. My head on his chest. Spooning. Whatever. But you can's actually sleep with your head propped at a sixty degree angle and your shoulder wedged into his rib cage. It's romantic, but in the morning everyone is stiff and grumpy. Eventually we gave it up and deferred to our own sides, moving to opposite corners of the bed. Like boxers in the ring, we protected our space. More room. Better sleep. But I've just noticed now that we've changed.
I woke up last night with his elbow in my ear. I was dreaming that a hammer kept dropping on my head and I opened my eyes to this giant elbow against my skull. And it wasn't until I was nearly asleep, last week, that I realized his arm (not my own) was flung across my eyes, as if to block the sun. Instead of pushing him away, I tucked a little closer. I did a sort of half-shrug in my half-foggy mind and settled to find sleep anyway.
You can tell alot about a couple by how they sleep. From us, I can see that we started in a place determined by what we thought everyone did. We assumed that happy married couples slept in snuggly positions. And if we could only sleep this way, then we would stay happy. We would always be in love. When we realized this was ridiculous, we went the other way, defending our own space and clinging to our pillows instead of each other. But now we've found a sort of middle ground. A floppy elbow-in-your-head kind of sleeping place that says we're comfortable with each other. It says that we don't need to pretend to be romantic, but we still want to touch. I don't know where we'll be or how we'll sleep in another three years. But I know it will be together. And I know that I'll threaten to punch him if the covers come off. Just so you know.
Bedtime wasn't always this way. For the first few months, we tried to sleep romantically. My head on his chest. Spooning. Whatever. But you can's actually sleep with your head propped at a sixty degree angle and your shoulder wedged into his rib cage. It's romantic, but in the morning everyone is stiff and grumpy. Eventually we gave it up and deferred to our own sides, moving to opposite corners of the bed. Like boxers in the ring, we protected our space. More room. Better sleep. But I've just noticed now that we've changed.
I woke up last night with his elbow in my ear. I was dreaming that a hammer kept dropping on my head and I opened my eyes to this giant elbow against my skull. And it wasn't until I was nearly asleep, last week, that I realized his arm (not my own) was flung across my eyes, as if to block the sun. Instead of pushing him away, I tucked a little closer. I did a sort of half-shrug in my half-foggy mind and settled to find sleep anyway.
You can tell alot about a couple by how they sleep. From us, I can see that we started in a place determined by what we thought everyone did. We assumed that happy married couples slept in snuggly positions. And if we could only sleep this way, then we would stay happy. We would always be in love. When we realized this was ridiculous, we went the other way, defending our own space and clinging to our pillows instead of each other. But now we've found a sort of middle ground. A floppy elbow-in-your-head kind of sleeping place that says we're comfortable with each other. It says that we don't need to pretend to be romantic, but we still want to touch. I don't know where we'll be or how we'll sleep in another three years. But I know it will be together. And I know that I'll threaten to punch him if the covers come off. Just so you know.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Day 94: Jillian
He said; “Just get it, we can do it together.”
I said; “I dunno…” in a mumbly sort of way. I’m thumbing through workout DVDs at Target, trying to think of a reason to spend the twenty bucks in my pocket on Pringles and Soda. Something believable, so he’ll agree and I won’t feel like a work-out loser who hasn’t been to the gym in over a month. But I have nothing to say and so I cave to the pressure and buy this piece of disk and plastic that promises huge results in 30 days. Whatever.
Jillian Michaels is the stuff of nightmares. We’ve been at this for ten days now. Each morning, after a dozen greedy gulps of coffee, we’re working out. Things like walk-out pushups and military presses with leg extensions. And I don’t have hand weights and I don’t want any, so I’ve got a can of diced tomatoes (family size) in one hand and Old Fashioned Oats in the other. I grunt my way through this routine and collapse at the end, where even the cool down stretching feels like work.
Isn't marriage just like that dreaded work out? A lifetime of military presses and going through the routine of living together. Sometimes a little bit dull. Sometimes so honest and brutal you ask the bedroom walls what was I thinking? But just like the shadow of definition I can see on my forearms and the beginnings of a quadracep, marriage - and love- is about repetition and sticking with it. Today I am picking up the pace. I am compromising like never before and I'm toning up our marriage- diced tomatoes and all.
I said; “I dunno…” in a mumbly sort of way. I’m thumbing through workout DVDs at Target, trying to think of a reason to spend the twenty bucks in my pocket on Pringles and Soda. Something believable, so he’ll agree and I won’t feel like a work-out loser who hasn’t been to the gym in over a month. But I have nothing to say and so I cave to the pressure and buy this piece of disk and plastic that promises huge results in 30 days. Whatever.
Jillian Michaels is the stuff of nightmares. We’ve been at this for ten days now. Each morning, after a dozen greedy gulps of coffee, we’re working out. Things like walk-out pushups and military presses with leg extensions. And I don’t have hand weights and I don’t want any, so I’ve got a can of diced tomatoes (family size) in one hand and Old Fashioned Oats in the other. I grunt my way through this routine and collapse at the end, where even the cool down stretching feels like work.
Isn't marriage just like that dreaded work out? A lifetime of military presses and going through the routine of living together. Sometimes a little bit dull. Sometimes so honest and brutal you ask the bedroom walls what was I thinking? But just like the shadow of definition I can see on my forearms and the beginnings of a quadracep, marriage - and love- is about repetition and sticking with it. Today I am picking up the pace. I am compromising like never before and I'm toning up our marriage- diced tomatoes and all.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Day 93: Love and Seaglass
It's the first brilliant day of Spring and it feels like summer. Nearly seventy degrees on the coast and families just pile onto the beaches. A mass of winter-white bodies in capris and burmuda shorts. And dogs, lots of dogs. We strolled the beach together, sans Micky (his hey-you-forgot-me barks can be heard even after our feet hit the sand). And because we can, we walk the five mile stretch at a crawl; Rich poking at any shelled creature he can get his hands on, me hunting for sea glass. I love sea glass. Not the manufactured packets of tumbled sea glass that you can find in any craft store. I much prefer the natural sea glass- even as I realize what a complete contradiction this is. A wave on another shore catches a bottle and carries it away. The elements rough house against the glass, tossing it, smashing it, and grinding it against rocks and cliffs until it is spit up on the Maine shore, completely beat-up and soft around the edges. Sea glass may be the one bit of beauty that evolves from litter. I have a handful by the end of our walk. Browns and greens, milky white pieces and one chip of blue. I tuck them into my jeans pockets and they push against the fabric making me feel like a kid who's pockets are filled with things their mother will toss when she does the wash.
But I know that we're all like these pieces of glass, so I stop again to pull out my treasures and examine them closely. We're all products of our environment. We're scratched and we're broken. In fact, our original innocence and texture is not even recognizable anymore. And to the rest of the world we may be just another piece of litter that has washed up on some public beach. But to someone, to one person, we are a treasure. We are a take-me-home-and-keep-me-always kind of treasure. Not because of the bottle that we once were, but because of the sea gem that we are today. And I know that's what love is about. It's loving the people- the person- that we have, not for who they once were, but for who they are today. Soft edges and all.
But I know that we're all like these pieces of glass, so I stop again to pull out my treasures and examine them closely. We're all products of our environment. We're scratched and we're broken. In fact, our original innocence and texture is not even recognizable anymore. And to the rest of the world we may be just another piece of litter that has washed up on some public beach. But to someone, to one person, we are a treasure. We are a take-me-home-and-keep-me-always kind of treasure. Not because of the bottle that we once were, but because of the sea gem that we are today. And I know that's what love is about. It's loving the people- the person- that we have, not for who they once were, but for who they are today. Soft edges and all.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Day 92: To Love, always to love
Last night we sat on the beach on a blanket with a cheap bottle of wine between us. Passing it back and forth we toasted everything. To finding love, I said. He saluted the bottle and I took a sip. To the Ocean, he said. Oh yes, I agreed. To the Ocean- it never changes, never judges, and listens without ever saying a word. To the Ocean.
We're feeling pretty miserable after waiting ten days for a mortgage loan officer to return with a preapproval. She e-mailed twice, said she would call, definitely tomorrow. But like a lousy date, she doesn't call. And we're feeling bummed and a little bit rejected.
So we continued on for an hour or so, toasting everything we could think of. To Jillian Michaels (who's workouts I can feel all day long). To the Dream and never letting go. To Personal Legends. To Beringer White Zinfandel. To the stars. To Old Orchard Beach and the lights that still flicker in the off-season. To Spring. To the Portland Jet Port as we watch the lights of a plane that takes off and then vears high above us. To Love, always to love.
And then, there's nothing more to toast. The bottle has somehow emptied and we lie, half on the blanket, half on the damp sand and stare up at the bright pinpoints of light. We make up names and pretend like we know each constellation. We see about seven little dippers and half a dozen planets. Then it's cold and I remember we have fresh baked sugar cookies at home. We gather up the wet blanket. Rich corks the bottle and sends it sailing into the surf, some kind of momento of the night. But the tide is low and we both hear it hit the edge of the sand with a thud. The Tide will pull it away in the morning, I say. More seaglass. So we shrug our shoulders and wander home feeling a little bit loopy and silly, but holding hands. And even through the fog, I know that I'm happy. That this is love, and love is good.
We're feeling pretty miserable after waiting ten days for a mortgage loan officer to return with a preapproval. She e-mailed twice, said she would call, definitely tomorrow. But like a lousy date, she doesn't call. And we're feeling bummed and a little bit rejected.
So we continued on for an hour or so, toasting everything we could think of. To Jillian Michaels (who's workouts I can feel all day long). To the Dream and never letting go. To Personal Legends. To Beringer White Zinfandel. To the stars. To Old Orchard Beach and the lights that still flicker in the off-season. To Spring. To the Portland Jet Port as we watch the lights of a plane that takes off and then vears high above us. To Love, always to love.
And then, there's nothing more to toast. The bottle has somehow emptied and we lie, half on the blanket, half on the damp sand and stare up at the bright pinpoints of light. We make up names and pretend like we know each constellation. We see about seven little dippers and half a dozen planets. Then it's cold and I remember we have fresh baked sugar cookies at home. We gather up the wet blanket. Rich corks the bottle and sends it sailing into the surf, some kind of momento of the night. But the tide is low and we both hear it hit the edge of the sand with a thud. The Tide will pull it away in the morning, I say. More seaglass. So we shrug our shoulders and wander home feeling a little bit loopy and silly, but holding hands. And even through the fog, I know that I'm happy. That this is love, and love is good.
Day 91: Daydreaming Conversations
Here's the thing: I'm ready to adopt. Or at least begin the process. I'm ready to accept that reality; I'm even a little bit excited about it. I think about all the possibilities. Sometimes I daydream about talking to a child. And when they ask about their biological parents, I say that God made them special for us. That he put so much love in our hearts and we needed someone to give all that love to. And so God created a special little person, to be loved by us. To be part of our family. I imagine wide eyes and a curly mop of hair as I tell some little boy or girl how completely they are loved. How we've waited for them.
But the reality in our marriage is that Rich isn't ready to adopt. He's not ready to start the process or even look online. When we knew that it was genetics and that chances of conception were nil, I purposed in my heart to give him time. I said I would wait until he was ready. I wouldn't push this on us because I don't want this to about me and what I want. It's supposed to be about us, together. It's supposed to be about love. And hearts that want to give themselves away. But he hasn't said a word. When I bring up the topic in a casual sort of "one-day" kind of way, he gets quiet and vague, saying things like we'll see, and we'll have to talk more about that. The same answers my mother used to give when I wanted to borrow the family minivan on a Saturday afternoon. Answers that mean I-don't-think-so, but-good-luck-persuading-me-to-change-my-mind.
And so I'm waiting. I'm fighting off the itchy-finger urge to search out all the information. To be rocket-ready when he says go for it. But that feels like cheating. So for now, I'll stick to daydreaming about someday, knowing it'll be a good one.
But the reality in our marriage is that Rich isn't ready to adopt. He's not ready to start the process or even look online. When we knew that it was genetics and that chances of conception were nil, I purposed in my heart to give him time. I said I would wait until he was ready. I wouldn't push this on us because I don't want this to about me and what I want. It's supposed to be about us, together. It's supposed to be about love. And hearts that want to give themselves away. But he hasn't said a word. When I bring up the topic in a casual sort of "one-day" kind of way, he gets quiet and vague, saying things like we'll see, and we'll have to talk more about that. The same answers my mother used to give when I wanted to borrow the family minivan on a Saturday afternoon. Answers that mean I-don't-think-so, but-good-luck-persuading-me-to-change-my-mind.
And so I'm waiting. I'm fighting off the itchy-finger urge to search out all the information. To be rocket-ready when he says go for it. But that feels like cheating. So for now, I'll stick to daydreaming about someday, knowing it'll be a good one.
Day 90: Love and the Saco River
The Saco River is brown today, a muddy murky tone that's dense. You can't see past the surface. We're walking a pier that runs beside the river to the jetty-where the muddy waters absorb into the Atlantic. The Saco is not usually so Hudson-River brown. Rich says they've been dredging. Giant claws on big boats scoop into the river dig up sand and silt and all kinds of pollutants that the Ocean has slammed upstream. And over time the Atlantic has pushed so much sand up the river that the boats can barely get by. Until there's nothing left to do except watch as the very base of the river is pulled apart; sent out on barges and dumped into the deep.
It makes me sad to think of pieces of the river clawed apart by a rusty old machine.
Sometimes I think the human heart is like a river. Perhaps the experiences of our lives are the currents that push on us- slowsly filling us with bitterness or love. With memories and hurt. As independent people we protect our hearts, even after they're so filled they're barely of any use to us. We protect what has washed ashore- holding onto muddy sand and pollutants that are mixed with gems and gold pieces.
And then we meet someone. We meet someone but our hearts are already so full of stuff that in order to let them in, we must dredge. Take a claw to our insides and pull out all these old pieces of ourselves. The hurt. The protective layers. Until there is room for another person- not to sail by, but to stay. To drop anchor. My heart feels a little stirred up these days. A little bit dredged. But I'm making room for another. Always, making room.
It makes me sad to think of pieces of the river clawed apart by a rusty old machine.
Sometimes I think the human heart is like a river. Perhaps the experiences of our lives are the currents that push on us- slowsly filling us with bitterness or love. With memories and hurt. As independent people we protect our hearts, even after they're so filled they're barely of any use to us. We protect what has washed ashore- holding onto muddy sand and pollutants that are mixed with gems and gold pieces.
And then we meet someone. We meet someone but our hearts are already so full of stuff that in order to let them in, we must dredge. Take a claw to our insides and pull out all these old pieces of ourselves. The hurt. The protective layers. Until there is room for another person- not to sail by, but to stay. To drop anchor. My heart feels a little stirred up these days. A little bit dredged. But I'm making room for another. Always, making room.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Day 89: Why we fight for love
I've just watched Revolutionary Road, an unsettling film about marriage and selfishness. When a particular scene from a film strikes me, it snaps- like a picture in my mind-and holds as a still image. And so I have this frame of a husband and wife fighting. His face is literally bulging, the veins popping out the sides of his head with hands clenched and knuckled. Her hair is everywhere- just a crazy blond mess and she's got a smoldering cigarette in one hand with wide crazy eyes as she yells at him to just shut up for five minutes.
I wonder what in the world are they fighting for. Can this be love?
I always thought that fighting for a marriage was a sort of boxing match that couple's squared off in. I imagined raised voices and flying dishclothes. This conflict, I thought, was a sign of life. And for the first year of our marriage I tried to mimick this sort of full-contact love. I remember the first time I whipped a dishtowel at Rich. We were fighting and yelling and I was getting so worked up, I don't even remember what it was about. I grabbed the closet soft object, a dish towel and balled it up and hurled it at my husband. It's not really possible to hurl a dishcloth, so it rather landed with a soft thunk on his shoulder. I expected him to laugh at me or throw it back or come over and kiss me good. But he just looked at me like I was some kind of stranger, then turned and walked away.
I know now that I've got it all wrong. Fighting for your marriage isn't a fight against your partner, it's a fight against your own self. It's the conflict of my own desires against the truth of what we need, together. Fighting for love is sacrifice. It doesn't have to be loud or angry. But it has to be real, and I think it has to be a bit uncomfortable. Fighting for love is a risky battle, as we allow pieces of ourselves to fall away- to matter less and less. But we fight for our marriages, we fight for love, because it's the only fight where everyone wins. And because in losing ourselves we find so much more in each other.
I wonder what in the world are they fighting for. Can this be love?
I always thought that fighting for a marriage was a sort of boxing match that couple's squared off in. I imagined raised voices and flying dishclothes. This conflict, I thought, was a sign of life. And for the first year of our marriage I tried to mimick this sort of full-contact love. I remember the first time I whipped a dishtowel at Rich. We were fighting and yelling and I was getting so worked up, I don't even remember what it was about. I grabbed the closet soft object, a dish towel and balled it up and hurled it at my husband. It's not really possible to hurl a dishcloth, so it rather landed with a soft thunk on his shoulder. I expected him to laugh at me or throw it back or come over and kiss me good. But he just looked at me like I was some kind of stranger, then turned and walked away.
I know now that I've got it all wrong. Fighting for your marriage isn't a fight against your partner, it's a fight against your own self. It's the conflict of my own desires against the truth of what we need, together. Fighting for love is sacrifice. It doesn't have to be loud or angry. But it has to be real, and I think it has to be a bit uncomfortable. Fighting for love is a risky battle, as we allow pieces of ourselves to fall away- to matter less and less. But we fight for our marriages, we fight for love, because it's the only fight where everyone wins. And because in losing ourselves we find so much more in each other.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Day 88: Doubts and Questions
We promised alot of things. We promised back rubs. We promised to spend less money on clothes. But we never promised easy days. We never promised that we would feel like waltzing through sunsets. The promise was that we would be there. We wouldn't bail.
I thought that by now things would go easy. As if 100 days of intentional loving would set us up for five decades of romance. If I've learned anything, it's that the working doesn't end. And I'm hanging onto these 100 days, dragging out the last ten entries because I'm afraid that when it's over, it's over. What if I didn't learn anything? What if I don't know how to be a better wife? What if I end up at the place where we started?
It's not about just coexisting, I want to be spectactular. I want this brilliant flawless partnership, like the paddling of a kayak or the flying v of migrating birds. What if there isn't anything great about us?
I can't stand hiking anymore, you already know that by now. But I realized today that I don't like to hike because it's so much work. Too much. And the view at the top may be incredible, but all that sweat just isn't worth it to me. What if it's the same way with my marriage? What if one day I realize that the work doesn't pay off. And I won't have children as evidence of this partnership of ours. So if it all gets to be too much, what will stop me from giving up? I don't want to give up, I want to know how to keep love alive. And I'm afraid that if I don't learn something huge in the next ten days, I'll sign off the same as I always have been. Selfish. Single-minded. Unwilling to wash dishes.
We haven't seen each all week. He leaves for work at 5 am and we're both crashed before primetime even starts. And in the few moments we're together, we're going over houses to look at and bills to pay and how much can we put in saving this week and it all feels like a business. I'm aware of how whiny I sound, but like a kid who can't stop complaining these fears and bits of anxiety bubble out, even as I tell myself to stop it this instant. 100 Days of Love and the work doesn't end. I guess the good news is that the love doesn't end either.
I thought that by now things would go easy. As if 100 days of intentional loving would set us up for five decades of romance. If I've learned anything, it's that the working doesn't end. And I'm hanging onto these 100 days, dragging out the last ten entries because I'm afraid that when it's over, it's over. What if I didn't learn anything? What if I don't know how to be a better wife? What if I end up at the place where we started?
It's not about just coexisting, I want to be spectactular. I want this brilliant flawless partnership, like the paddling of a kayak or the flying v of migrating birds. What if there isn't anything great about us?
I can't stand hiking anymore, you already know that by now. But I realized today that I don't like to hike because it's so much work. Too much. And the view at the top may be incredible, but all that sweat just isn't worth it to me. What if it's the same way with my marriage? What if one day I realize that the work doesn't pay off. And I won't have children as evidence of this partnership of ours. So if it all gets to be too much, what will stop me from giving up? I don't want to give up, I want to know how to keep love alive. And I'm afraid that if I don't learn something huge in the next ten days, I'll sign off the same as I always have been. Selfish. Single-minded. Unwilling to wash dishes.
We haven't seen each all week. He leaves for work at 5 am and we're both crashed before primetime even starts. And in the few moments we're together, we're going over houses to look at and bills to pay and how much can we put in saving this week and it all feels like a business. I'm aware of how whiny I sound, but like a kid who can't stop complaining these fears and bits of anxiety bubble out, even as I tell myself to stop it this instant. 100 Days of Love and the work doesn't end. I guess the good news is that the love doesn't end either.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Day 87: Wild Crocuses
Today I saw the first crocus of the year. A little purple guy poking up through the mud on the side of a dirt path, walking on my way to work. I'm not a big flower girl, but crocuses do to me what a hundred roses never will. They give a little bit of hope during a time when the world is bare. We're in the homestretch of the cold season, dangling in this place between winter and spring where it's all frozen winds and gray skies and mud.
When I was a kid I would run up our (long) driveway after school and everyday to check behind a certain rock. I was waiting for the crocuses to bloom. It started with just a sprout or two behind this old boulder, but by the time I was in middle school (and had to act like I didn't care about anything anyway) the wild flowers had spread around the rock. A little flock of wild hope that pushed through a still frozen ground while the rest of the world was still hidden.
Wild Crocuses remind me that some things are worth fighting for.
They tell me not to be afraid to bloom in winter. That sometimes love is muddy and sometimes it's cold. Lately I've wanted to just keep to myself and wait for another sunny day, a day when I feel like loving him better. But the crocus rejects this sort of hibernation, declaring that there must be a flower brave enough to bear the cold. So that others may walk by and see this bit of beauty and find hope.
I want to pick this wild crocus and tuck it behind my ear. But I'm late for a meeting and my days are moving fast, so I leave the bloom for another to see and smile my way down the path. Because it's almost spring and because I have someone to hope with. A love worth fighting for.
When I was a kid I would run up our (long) driveway after school and everyday to check behind a certain rock. I was waiting for the crocuses to bloom. It started with just a sprout or two behind this old boulder, but by the time I was in middle school (and had to act like I didn't care about anything anyway) the wild flowers had spread around the rock. A little flock of wild hope that pushed through a still frozen ground while the rest of the world was still hidden.
Wild Crocuses remind me that some things are worth fighting for.
They tell me not to be afraid to bloom in winter. That sometimes love is muddy and sometimes it's cold. Lately I've wanted to just keep to myself and wait for another sunny day, a day when I feel like loving him better. But the crocus rejects this sort of hibernation, declaring that there must be a flower brave enough to bear the cold. So that others may walk by and see this bit of beauty and find hope.
I want to pick this wild crocus and tuck it behind my ear. But I'm late for a meeting and my days are moving fast, so I leave the bloom for another to see and smile my way down the path. Because it's almost spring and because I have someone to hope with. A love worth fighting for.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Day 86: Love and Hiking
It's hiking season and I don't like to hike. I mean, I would rather do almost anything else on a warm Spring day. I would rather clean the window sills with a toothbrush. I would rather vacumn all the crevices in our small automobile and sift through the contents for lost earrings and coins. Gross. But Rich loves hiking with a fascination that is growing at a rapid speed, so today I find myself crisscrossing down the back of a New Hampshire trail. We've lost the path but have found a dirt road and are headed in what we hope is the right direction. Seriously, I don't like to hike.
What I should do is just tell him I'm not into mountains. That my legs scream and my face is puffy and red and I can't catch enough air to do more than grunt. It's torture, and I'm swearing up a storm in my head everytime we're faked out by a false summit. But the outdoors is part of who we are together. Rich and I met in the Adirondacks. Our dates were long drives by still lakes and campfires. We fell in love to the sound of loons and the smell of pines. If I tell him I don't like to hike, I'm telling him that I've changed. That I'm not the same person that he chose four summers ago. It's risky. Like the private property that we've wandered into- an empty house with a confederate flag and a dozen keep-out signs.
I know that everyone changes. Change is energy and energy is life. And my hope is that when you're with someone you love- with them so tightly that you are bound together, the change that happens is a reflection of growing together. Maybe change can be a healthy shedding of the parts of us that have died, so that our new parts can grow. It's spring and I want to grow. I want to watch the mountains out the back window of a house that is our own. I want to walk along the sands, next to the sea. I don't want to spend my every Saturday on a trail that became a road that became a backyard and is now a state route- four (uphill) miles from where we've parked the car. I'm not a hiker anymore and it's time I say so.
What I should do is just tell him I'm not into mountains. That my legs scream and my face is puffy and red and I can't catch enough air to do more than grunt. It's torture, and I'm swearing up a storm in my head everytime we're faked out by a false summit. But the outdoors is part of who we are together. Rich and I met in the Adirondacks. Our dates were long drives by still lakes and campfires. We fell in love to the sound of loons and the smell of pines. If I tell him I don't like to hike, I'm telling him that I've changed. That I'm not the same person that he chose four summers ago. It's risky. Like the private property that we've wandered into- an empty house with a confederate flag and a dozen keep-out signs.
I know that everyone changes. Change is energy and energy is life. And my hope is that when you're with someone you love- with them so tightly that you are bound together, the change that happens is a reflection of growing together. Maybe change can be a healthy shedding of the parts of us that have died, so that our new parts can grow. It's spring and I want to grow. I want to watch the mountains out the back window of a house that is our own. I want to walk along the sands, next to the sea. I don't want to spend my every Saturday on a trail that became a road that became a backyard and is now a state route- four (uphill) miles from where we've parked the car. I'm not a hiker anymore and it's time I say so.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Day 85: Cherry Cordials
It's 4 pm on a Monday afternoon and I've left work early to stand in the chocolate aisle of Wal Mart, flipping through Russell Stovers Assorted chocolates. Not for me. Oh, most definitely not for me.
It all started yesterday. I was 24 ounces lighter when Rich's mother left a message on our phone. Said she bought a computer. Said she was online now, so we could chat. And didn't we even care about her at all? Rich doesn't seem phased in the least as he adds her name online. But I know where this is going, and the truth is, I'm still mad about the smoking.
He says, "Come on, honey, it's no big deal."
I say, "It is a big deal. She represents the opposite of love. She never even asks how you're doing. She only cares about herself and she hurt you and she eliminated our future generations. So, no, I won't add her as my Facebook friend." Even as I speak the words aloud I am hit with how silly they sound. But I am crazy angry, all this blame that I thought was gone has been hiding and it's back.
I need to do something, and so I rifle through her birthday presents that have sat by the front door for over a month, waiting to be mailed. I know what I'm looking for. I tear the wrapping paper off her box of assorted chocolates and within seven minutes I've polished off a pound and a half of truffles and raspberry cordials and delicate lemon cremes enrobed in 70% cocoa. I'm not proud of this, but it's what I did. A nonviolent protest of sorts.
And this morning I woke up nearly two pounds heavier. I can feel the sugar in my gut; an uncomfortable tightness in my pants that reminds me of my own selfishness and hard heart.
I understand that to love my husband, I must make peace with his family. I can't change the past, but I can let it go and find a new freedom in our future together. A future where we're not just a set of DNA. Where our children will have all sorts of family history, but what will matter most is the family that we become together.
So, for the tenth time, I'm letting it go. And I'm standing here, in the Chocolate aisle, to make good on my chocolate disaster. Cherry cordials, I eventually decide. Because I remember her saying she liked them... and I know for a fact that I don't.
It all started yesterday. I was 24 ounces lighter when Rich's mother left a message on our phone. Said she bought a computer. Said she was online now, so we could chat. And didn't we even care about her at all? Rich doesn't seem phased in the least as he adds her name online. But I know where this is going, and the truth is, I'm still mad about the smoking.
He says, "Come on, honey, it's no big deal."
I say, "It is a big deal. She represents the opposite of love. She never even asks how you're doing. She only cares about herself and she hurt you and she eliminated our future generations. So, no, I won't add her as my Facebook friend." Even as I speak the words aloud I am hit with how silly they sound. But I am crazy angry, all this blame that I thought was gone has been hiding and it's back.
I need to do something, and so I rifle through her birthday presents that have sat by the front door for over a month, waiting to be mailed. I know what I'm looking for. I tear the wrapping paper off her box of assorted chocolates and within seven minutes I've polished off a pound and a half of truffles and raspberry cordials and delicate lemon cremes enrobed in 70% cocoa. I'm not proud of this, but it's what I did. A nonviolent protest of sorts.
And this morning I woke up nearly two pounds heavier. I can feel the sugar in my gut; an uncomfortable tightness in my pants that reminds me of my own selfishness and hard heart.
I understand that to love my husband, I must make peace with his family. I can't change the past, but I can let it go and find a new freedom in our future together. A future where we're not just a set of DNA. Where our children will have all sorts of family history, but what will matter most is the family that we become together.
So, for the tenth time, I'm letting it go. And I'm standing here, in the Chocolate aisle, to make good on my chocolate disaster. Cherry cordials, I eventually decide. Because I remember her saying she liked them... and I know for a fact that I don't.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Day 84: Storms
While the rest of the Northeast was covered with snow, it rained in Maine. Nearly 6 inches of rain and winds that gusted up to seventy miles per hour. The house shook last night, the way my kitchen aid shakes when it's on the high setting. An outside rumble that makes you wonder if the whole thing is going to come off it's hinges. There was lightning and rain and high tides and when Micky climbed onto the bed I didn't kick him off. We instantly noticed the tree lying across our backyard. The kind of tree that takes over the backyard with it's fall. A few weeks of firewood, I thought. If we had a stove... or a chainsaw. We didn't notice the roofing until we left for work. The passenger side of the car was riddled with shingles, the scratch stretching deep from front door to bumper.
Storms are incredible things. Some are predictable and some are not. They tear at the foundations that our homes are resting on. They shake us to see if we're stable or if we just might tip over, with all our guts and possessions exposed. And today the roofer will come and lay a tarp over the roof. He'll gather the shingles and start the patching process. Next week the handyman will show up to bust apart the fallen tree. And soon we'll be back to where we started, minus one tree and two dozen shingles.
Sometimes it feels like love is just one long string of bracing for the storm and rebuilding when it's over. And these storms are more likely to come without warning. Sometimes they lead right into each other. Even now, as I'm writing, I'm asking (telling) Rich to (please) stop talking to me. And he isn't. He's going on about some website he saw and then something he heard on the radio at work. And I can't think and I can't write. Now I'm raising my voice, to just please let me finish this. Just ten minutes. But his feelings are hurt and he's walking away.
One storm after another. And so we rebuild in the moments of peace. We peer through the missing shingles of each other, seeing glimpses of our guts. Then we patch and hold together and somehow end up a stronger unit rather than a mismatch of glue and staples.
Storms are incredible things. Some are predictable and some are not. They tear at the foundations that our homes are resting on. They shake us to see if we're stable or if we just might tip over, with all our guts and possessions exposed. And today the roofer will come and lay a tarp over the roof. He'll gather the shingles and start the patching process. Next week the handyman will show up to bust apart the fallen tree. And soon we'll be back to where we started, minus one tree and two dozen shingles.
Sometimes it feels like love is just one long string of bracing for the storm and rebuilding when it's over. And these storms are more likely to come without warning. Sometimes they lead right into each other. Even now, as I'm writing, I'm asking (telling) Rich to (please) stop talking to me. And he isn't. He's going on about some website he saw and then something he heard on the radio at work. And I can't think and I can't write. Now I'm raising my voice, to just please let me finish this. Just ten minutes. But his feelings are hurt and he's walking away.
One storm after another. And so we rebuild in the moments of peace. We peer through the missing shingles of each other, seeing glimpses of our guts. Then we patch and hold together and somehow end up a stronger unit rather than a mismatch of glue and staples.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Day 83: All I Can Manage
It's cold in our house. The wind outside is whistling a thousand sailor tunes of stormy days at sea and the drafts move through the window cracks and slide under the doors. I'm freezing, but the coldest part by far is the black hole that has taken over where my heart used to be. Day 83 and I thought we'd be past these distant days. Days when there's not much to feel, and I'm no good at faking. Last night I slept with my knees curled up against his chest in what I realize now is a completely defensive position. And I threatened to punch him when he accidentally yanked the covers off me. A serious do that again and see what happens kind of threaten. He chuckled nervously, but this is not who I want to be.
Lately it seems like so many of our sentences start with "remember when..." Or "I can't wait until." Little clauses that indicate how much we're into the past and the future, completely ignoring today. Like we're trying to just make it through the moment in order to get to a better tomorrow. That's no way to live and it's certainly no way to build a marriage.
And so I turn to him and physically force my own knees down. And without feeling, I speak. I say, I love you I love you I love you because I do. Because I want it to be more than just words. I'm trying to say that I'm sorry for being selfish and distant. I'm sorry for spending my hours worrying about finding the perfect home. Projecting what kind of mortage payment we can manage and how long it will be until I can get a stackable washer and dryer. I'm trying to say that I'm still the girl who fell for you over thirty gallons of mashed potatoes that you were mixing with what looked like a mini chainsaw. And right now I don't feel so full of love. I feel tired and anxious. But I don't say all these things, all I say is I love you. Sometimes those words are all I can manage. And I force my knees down until we're face to face. Just being together. In the now.
Lately it seems like so many of our sentences start with "remember when..." Or "I can't wait until." Little clauses that indicate how much we're into the past and the future, completely ignoring today. Like we're trying to just make it through the moment in order to get to a better tomorrow. That's no way to live and it's certainly no way to build a marriage.
And so I turn to him and physically force my own knees down. And without feeling, I speak. I say, I love you I love you I love you because I do. Because I want it to be more than just words. I'm trying to say that I'm sorry for being selfish and distant. I'm sorry for spending my hours worrying about finding the perfect home. Projecting what kind of mortage payment we can manage and how long it will be until I can get a stackable washer and dryer. I'm trying to say that I'm still the girl who fell for you over thirty gallons of mashed potatoes that you were mixing with what looked like a mini chainsaw. And right now I don't feel so full of love. I feel tired and anxious. But I don't say all these things, all I say is I love you. Sometimes those words are all I can manage. And I force my knees down until we're face to face. Just being together. In the now.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Day 82: Love and the Olympics
Lindsey Vonn rockets to the left and slides around another gate. It's the slalom event and I am hooked. Hooked like the tip of her ski that catches a gate eventually sending her tumbling and out of the race. On the edge of the couch I bob and twist with the skiers; excited by both the fantastic crashes and speedy finishes. It's the Olympics and I am wearing the red, white and blue. I almost bought a "Team USA" t-shirt from Target this weekend, but it seemed a little too commercialized for even me. Instead, I pulled our old flag out of storage and tacked it on the front door so that when these sea breezes pick up, the stripes billow out like a parachute. It's an old classroom flag that is stained and looks falsely antiqued, with tears on the edges. The flag is worn down and so are we, so it seems appropriate.
I think marriage is alot like an Olympic event. So many people give it a try. Some make it and some don't. There are those who seem to have this natural ability, like they are made for this person. Two lives in sync and they glide across a perfectly conditioned marriage as if it takes no effort at all. And then there are the rest of us. Couples who struggle everyday through every turn. The ones who have to practice love, who know that a crash could be just around the corner. Love and the Olympics.
And just like there's no guarantee of gold in Vancouver, there course out here is littered with hopefuls who dropped out along the way. Olympians will confirm that sucess is not determined by the luck of the course or the diseasters of the competitors who have gone before. Success is determined by hard work and long hours and a committment to this sport- this person, above all else.
Soon, the Olympics will end with a podium and a fist raised in victory. But love- and marraige will go on. Hands linked together, podiums stacked away. Because the race never ends for those of us who are in it for life.
I think marriage is alot like an Olympic event. So many people give it a try. Some make it and some don't. There are those who seem to have this natural ability, like they are made for this person. Two lives in sync and they glide across a perfectly conditioned marriage as if it takes no effort at all. And then there are the rest of us. Couples who struggle everyday through every turn. The ones who have to practice love, who know that a crash could be just around the corner. Love and the Olympics.
And just like there's no guarantee of gold in Vancouver, there course out here is littered with hopefuls who dropped out along the way. Olympians will confirm that sucess is not determined by the luck of the course or the diseasters of the competitors who have gone before. Success is determined by hard work and long hours and a committment to this sport- this person, above all else.
Soon, the Olympics will end with a podium and a fist raised in victory. But love- and marraige will go on. Hands linked together, podiums stacked away. Because the race never ends for those of us who are in it for life.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Day 81: Lent
It's Lent and I'm not Catholic. But I like liturgy, and I like the idea of giving up something for someone else. This year I gave up sugar. And it lasted about three days. The truth is, as much as I say I'm giving up something for someone else, I'm giving it up for me. And Lent becomes the excuse.
This year the Church of Scotland is suggesting that people give instead of give-up for Lent. Forty days of giving. I love it. When we give up something - like swearing or sugar or homework (as my students used to say) the benefit is ours alone. We lose five pounds, we discover new vocubulary words. Whatever. But when we give- a loaf of bread or a handshake, the effect goes further than ourselves.
So this year I'm giving for Lent. Yesterday I gave a second chance to someone who probably didn't deserve it. Today I gave the last slice of pizza to my husband. I was trying to think up some great distraction so he would leave the room and I could grab the slice of pepperoni before he came back in. Then I remembered Lent. And I knew this was my thing to give. So I said, "You go ahead, I'm full," Micky and me watching as he ate the last bites.
It's hard to give the things we really want. The last slices. But in the end this is love. It sounds ridiculous that love might be found in a slice of pizza, but love is in the giving of pieces of our hearts. Love is giving the hours in our days. Love is giving the money in our wallets. Love is giving every bit that makes up who we are. Bits that we want to keep for ourself.
Lent is the preparation of our hearts for the presence of the Divine. For the death of Christ, which is perhaps the greatest single act of love known to mankind. So Lent must be about love. And love, I say, is about giving.
This year the Church of Scotland is suggesting that people give instead of give-up for Lent. Forty days of giving. I love it. When we give up something - like swearing or sugar or homework (as my students used to say) the benefit is ours alone. We lose five pounds, we discover new vocubulary words. Whatever. But when we give- a loaf of bread or a handshake, the effect goes further than ourselves.
So this year I'm giving for Lent. Yesterday I gave a second chance to someone who probably didn't deserve it. Today I gave the last slice of pizza to my husband. I was trying to think up some great distraction so he would leave the room and I could grab the slice of pepperoni before he came back in. Then I remembered Lent. And I knew this was my thing to give. So I said, "You go ahead, I'm full," Micky and me watching as he ate the last bites.
It's hard to give the things we really want. The last slices. But in the end this is love. It sounds ridiculous that love might be found in a slice of pizza, but love is in the giving of pieces of our hearts. Love is giving the hours in our days. Love is giving the money in our wallets. Love is giving every bit that makes up who we are. Bits that we want to keep for ourself.
Lent is the preparation of our hearts for the presence of the Divine. For the death of Christ, which is perhaps the greatest single act of love known to mankind. So Lent must be about love. And love, I say, is about giving.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Day 80: January Allergies
I said; "You are strong and you are brave."
He said; "Why do I always have to be the brave one. Why can't you brave sometimes?"
And in those moments I broke into a hundred pieces. We're driving home from the awful phlebotomist experience, both hurting in different ways.
It's not easy getting jabbed a dozen times, but it's hard to be the person in the waiting room. To be the one who's on the side.
A nurse called last week. She wanted to cofirm more appointments with different specialsts. I told her we were done for now. That the insurance wouldn't cover much more, and we didn't feel comfortable with hormone therapy anyway. She said she would just wait to hear back from Rich himself, she said maybe he would like to be the one to make this decision. As if I had claimed some sort of executive veto power. She rattled off a phone number that I never took down and we both hung up rather shortly.
I've always thought that the brave ones were the fighters. The front-liners who fought disease and travelled to hard-to-pronounce places. But now I see that it takes a different kind of bravery to sit beside someone who is broken, even while you can't change a thing. To wait. I think of my father who will stay home as my mother travels to the border of Haiti. Thirty years together and he will put her on a plane. I understand that it takes guts not only to let your loved one go do something incredible, but to step back while they do it. To be at home, making sure the pipes don't freeze. Keeping the driveway clear. To read every magazine in the waiting room. I want to be brave.
And so when my husband turns to me and says that I am not, it kicks the air right out of me. But he's been through alot these past few months, so I push away the tears until later. He's worn out and feeling pricked and manhandled, so I don't snap back. Instead I link my hand through his and try to be what he says I'm not. And no, I'm not crying, I say. It's just allergies. January allergies.
He said; "Why do I always have to be the brave one. Why can't you brave sometimes?"
And in those moments I broke into a hundred pieces. We're driving home from the awful phlebotomist experience, both hurting in different ways.
It's not easy getting jabbed a dozen times, but it's hard to be the person in the waiting room. To be the one who's on the side.
A nurse called last week. She wanted to cofirm more appointments with different specialsts. I told her we were done for now. That the insurance wouldn't cover much more, and we didn't feel comfortable with hormone therapy anyway. She said she would just wait to hear back from Rich himself, she said maybe he would like to be the one to make this decision. As if I had claimed some sort of executive veto power. She rattled off a phone number that I never took down and we both hung up rather shortly.
I've always thought that the brave ones were the fighters. The front-liners who fought disease and travelled to hard-to-pronounce places. But now I see that it takes a different kind of bravery to sit beside someone who is broken, even while you can't change a thing. To wait. I think of my father who will stay home as my mother travels to the border of Haiti. Thirty years together and he will put her on a plane. I understand that it takes guts not only to let your loved one go do something incredible, but to step back while they do it. To be at home, making sure the pipes don't freeze. Keeping the driveway clear. To read every magazine in the waiting room. I want to be brave.
And so when my husband turns to me and says that I am not, it kicks the air right out of me. But he's been through alot these past few months, so I push away the tears until later. He's worn out and feeling pricked and manhandled, so I don't snap back. Instead I link my hand through his and try to be what he says I'm not. And no, I'm not crying, I say. It's just allergies. January allergies.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Day 79: Asthma
My husband was a sort of forgotten child. Just a few months old, they would forget him at home. And it is rumored that he cried so softly (on account of poor lungs) that noone would know he was awake, or hungry or anything at all.
When he was a kid, Rich spent weeks in the hospital. He was the last child and his mother just didn't have it in her to give up smoking for a third time. It was 1977; things were different. And so my husband was born with lungs that couldn't breath the air without wheezing like a deflating air mattress. They would keep him in the hospital, zipped up in a clear bag of breathable air. He says he liked the bag, that it was quiet and safe. I say this is where his loner ways began. Rich's severe asthma eventually weakened until a constant inhaler was enough. And today he ran four miles in clear cold air. Who could know that a boy in a bag in a hospital would one day forget he ever had an inhaler? Who would guess that he would hike a dozen mountains, that his wife would tell him to just calm down a little with the outdoor activities.
I think that growing, like loving, is constant tension between who you are and who you want to be.
This afternoon I searched the genetic disorder the doctor's claim has made my husband infertile. They say it's caused by smoking mothers. A rare side effect for the unborn baby, but present for one in ten thousand. I wonder, do any of us really know how deeply one decision can affect the generations? There are damages that cannot be undone. And there are miracles. The miracle here is that she kept him. She chose life. A welfare family who couldn't feed the kids and stepkids that they already had. She kept him.
Somewhere out there, another mother will choose to keep a baby that she cannot raise. And we will be here with all this love that is just storing up in our hearts. It feels right. It feels like justice.
When he was a kid, Rich spent weeks in the hospital. He was the last child and his mother just didn't have it in her to give up smoking for a third time. It was 1977; things were different. And so my husband was born with lungs that couldn't breath the air without wheezing like a deflating air mattress. They would keep him in the hospital, zipped up in a clear bag of breathable air. He says he liked the bag, that it was quiet and safe. I say this is where his loner ways began. Rich's severe asthma eventually weakened until a constant inhaler was enough. And today he ran four miles in clear cold air. Who could know that a boy in a bag in a hospital would one day forget he ever had an inhaler? Who would guess that he would hike a dozen mountains, that his wife would tell him to just calm down a little with the outdoor activities.
I think that growing, like loving, is constant tension between who you are and who you want to be.
This afternoon I searched the genetic disorder the doctor's claim has made my husband infertile. They say it's caused by smoking mothers. A rare side effect for the unborn baby, but present for one in ten thousand. I wonder, do any of us really know how deeply one decision can affect the generations? There are damages that cannot be undone. And there are miracles. The miracle here is that she kept him. She chose life. A welfare family who couldn't feed the kids and stepkids that they already had. She kept him.
Somewhere out there, another mother will choose to keep a baby that she cannot raise. And we will be here with all this love that is just storing up in our hearts. It feels right. It feels like justice.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Day 78: Love and Outlets
I said, "What's your happiest "us" moment this year?"
He groans and mutters "Here we go again- you always make me think!" And it's true, my mind is composed of ten thousand writing prompts and with no students to teach, my poor husband ends up having to answer each one.
We're eating sandwiches in the car. Fueling up for an afternoon of Outlet (window) shopping. And I want his answer to be some incredible single moment that I've forgotten. Between bites of chicken salad he tells me his happiest "us" moment is when he completed his first full semester of college with just under a 3.5 GPA.
But that's not really a single moment, is it? I'm not supposed to judge his responses, but my answers are all red ink and corrections.
"Your best "us" moment has nothing to do with me," I say, which isn't fair but it just comes out.
"What this means," I continue, "is that you see me as nothing more than a way to improve your own self. Why does everything have to come back to you?" Even as I'm speaking, I understand that these words should stay in my head, but the ink is bleeding out and I've managed to mark up and grade his moment, as well as crush his ego, in a matter of seconds.
He looks at me then at his sandwich as if something in the chicken salad started all of this. And the Naphtali that I know would have run this guilt for all it's worth. She would have used his feeling bad to capitalize on a dozen honey, I love you, you're the best thing that ever happened to me's. But I'm not the same as I was. Instead, I put the car in park. I turn to him and tell him that I am intensely proud of him for finishing his first semester of school, while working and managing to snag a promotion. I tell him that he is brilliant and that he is kind. I tell him all the things that stay inside my head when I look at him. The things that hang behind the criticism. I tell him how much I like to hear him say he loves me, and maybe that's insecurity and maybe that's love. But one thing's for sure. He's here beside me, on a Saturday, fueling up for a day of Outlet Shopping, when I know he'd rather be anywhere else.
He groans and mutters "Here we go again- you always make me think!" And it's true, my mind is composed of ten thousand writing prompts and with no students to teach, my poor husband ends up having to answer each one.
We're eating sandwiches in the car. Fueling up for an afternoon of Outlet (window) shopping. And I want his answer to be some incredible single moment that I've forgotten. Between bites of chicken salad he tells me his happiest "us" moment is when he completed his first full semester of college with just under a 3.5 GPA.
But that's not really a single moment, is it? I'm not supposed to judge his responses, but my answers are all red ink and corrections.
"Your best "us" moment has nothing to do with me," I say, which isn't fair but it just comes out.
"What this means," I continue, "is that you see me as nothing more than a way to improve your own self. Why does everything have to come back to you?" Even as I'm speaking, I understand that these words should stay in my head, but the ink is bleeding out and I've managed to mark up and grade his moment, as well as crush his ego, in a matter of seconds.
He looks at me then at his sandwich as if something in the chicken salad started all of this. And the Naphtali that I know would have run this guilt for all it's worth. She would have used his feeling bad to capitalize on a dozen honey, I love you, you're the best thing that ever happened to me's. But I'm not the same as I was. Instead, I put the car in park. I turn to him and tell him that I am intensely proud of him for finishing his first semester of school, while working and managing to snag a promotion. I tell him that he is brilliant and that he is kind. I tell him all the things that stay inside my head when I look at him. The things that hang behind the criticism. I tell him how much I like to hear him say he loves me, and maybe that's insecurity and maybe that's love. But one thing's for sure. He's here beside me, on a Saturday, fueling up for a day of Outlet Shopping, when I know he'd rather be anywhere else.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Day 77: Valentines Day
It's Valentines Day and I'm scurrying through the house lighting candles with a mini-blow torch made for creme bruleeing. That's how it's done when you're married to a man who cooks for a living. The blue torch melts horizontal slices in the candles before the wicks have time to catch, but they do catch and we have melty candles setting a mood.
I spent the better part of my Sunday shopping the mall for something special to wear for my own valentine. I realize that this is a lot of information, but part of marriage is trying to keep your love life fresh, and there's a lot of pressure on Valentines Day. After trying on various outfits without any luck and a feeling depressed and over-sized, Rich calls me from work. He says that if I'm going to spend money on Valentines day, why don't I buy the pair of winter boots he's been eyeing at LL Bean. Says he's a size nine. A year ago the knowledge that he wants boots more than lingerie would have set me off into fighting mode Where I'm mad because I think that he thinks that I'm not attractive anymore. Believe me, we have had that fight a dozen times. But today, standing outside of Victoria's Secret, I am relieved and laughing. Because we've made it to the place where we can say what we really want, where we don't have to act like society says we must act on Valentines Day. So I bought the boots and on the way home I stopped into a Jeweler and picked up a wedding band, size eight. This will be his third wedding band so I bought the cheapest one they had.
We drank cheap pink champagne and ate a dinner of chocolates and grapes and hunks of Tuscan bread dipped in brie until we couldn't move.
Now the candles are lit and we're snuggled on the couch listening to the latest podcast of the Vinyl Cafe. I can hear his heart beating against my ear and his breathing has found that sleepytime rhythm. I want to shake him awake to hear the end of the story, but he looks so peaceful so I keep still and hold onto this exact moment. I remember it into my mind so that tomorrow, when it's Monday and not Valentines Day, I can still feel as full of love as I do right now.
I spent the better part of my Sunday shopping the mall for something special to wear for my own valentine. I realize that this is a lot of information, but part of marriage is trying to keep your love life fresh, and there's a lot of pressure on Valentines Day. After trying on various outfits without any luck and a feeling depressed and over-sized, Rich calls me from work. He says that if I'm going to spend money on Valentines day, why don't I buy the pair of winter boots he's been eyeing at LL Bean. Says he's a size nine. A year ago the knowledge that he wants boots more than lingerie would have set me off into fighting mode Where I'm mad because I think that he thinks that I'm not attractive anymore. Believe me, we have had that fight a dozen times. But today, standing outside of Victoria's Secret, I am relieved and laughing. Because we've made it to the place where we can say what we really want, where we don't have to act like society says we must act on Valentines Day. So I bought the boots and on the way home I stopped into a Jeweler and picked up a wedding band, size eight. This will be his third wedding band so I bought the cheapest one they had.
We drank cheap pink champagne and ate a dinner of chocolates and grapes and hunks of Tuscan bread dipped in brie until we couldn't move.
Now the candles are lit and we're snuggled on the couch listening to the latest podcast of the Vinyl Cafe. I can hear his heart beating against my ear and his breathing has found that sleepytime rhythm. I want to shake him awake to hear the end of the story, but he looks so peaceful so I keep still and hold onto this exact moment. I remember it into my mind so that tomorrow, when it's Monday and not Valentines Day, I can still feel as full of love as I do right now.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Day 76: That's a Line
I said; "Baby, what's wrong with your breathing?"
He said; "It's you, you just take the breath right out of me."
I groaned and said; "That's a line..."
He's wheezing and searching the glove compartment for his inhaler while I stand there watching. We've just run up a smallish hill and while it is well into the minuses outside, I don't understand the asthma attack. But it's the winter of 2007 and we've only been married for a handful of months; we've only known each other since July. And in the knowing process, I've learned he's full of lines and I can see them coming from a short distance away. As it turns out, my eyes are like stars and my hands are like magic. Apparently I have the ability to rise the sun and spin the earth, with just a glance. Oh, you didn't know? Yeah...
For the first year, every compliment was a line and it used to make me crazy. Just don't say anything at all, I would say. I'm from the school where silence is better than a cliche any day of the week. Three years later, I'm not so sure.
Today I'm wondering, what are the lines that we use? And what does an honest heart look like? Maybe love isn't about saying exactly what you feel and not saying what you don't feel. Maybe love is saying what your partner needs to hear, even if it's not a complete reflection of reality.
This morning he woke me early with coffee. I'm buried in the down comforter with my wild morning-hair head poking out of the feathers. There's no doubt that I'm quite a terrifying sight. But this morning he called me his winter crocus- the first to bloom in spring- sometimes sticking it's head out of the snow. He said I was his brave flower. And three years ago I would have rolled my eyes and said, "Really? that's the best line you can come up with?!" But not today. Today I'm going to hold onto the line. Because it means he still loves me like be did in the beginning. And that's what I've been looking for. A reminder.
He said; "It's you, you just take the breath right out of me."
I groaned and said; "That's a line..."
He's wheezing and searching the glove compartment for his inhaler while I stand there watching. We've just run up a smallish hill and while it is well into the minuses outside, I don't understand the asthma attack. But it's the winter of 2007 and we've only been married for a handful of months; we've only known each other since July. And in the knowing process, I've learned he's full of lines and I can see them coming from a short distance away. As it turns out, my eyes are like stars and my hands are like magic. Apparently I have the ability to rise the sun and spin the earth, with just a glance. Oh, you didn't know? Yeah...
For the first year, every compliment was a line and it used to make me crazy. Just don't say anything at all, I would say. I'm from the school where silence is better than a cliche any day of the week. Three years later, I'm not so sure.
Today I'm wondering, what are the lines that we use? And what does an honest heart look like? Maybe love isn't about saying exactly what you feel and not saying what you don't feel. Maybe love is saying what your partner needs to hear, even if it's not a complete reflection of reality.
This morning he woke me early with coffee. I'm buried in the down comforter with my wild morning-hair head poking out of the feathers. There's no doubt that I'm quite a terrifying sight. But this morning he called me his winter crocus- the first to bloom in spring- sometimes sticking it's head out of the snow. He said I was his brave flower. And three years ago I would have rolled my eyes and said, "Really? that's the best line you can come up with?!" But not today. Today I'm going to hold onto the line. Because it means he still loves me like be did in the beginning. And that's what I've been looking for. A reminder.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Day 75: Love and Spatulas
My mother is going to the Dominican Republic this month. To the border of Haiti, where she'll spend over a week working in a hospital. For four years she's been a qualified nurse, but the truth is she's been taking care of people for nearly three decades. On the phone tonight, she tells me what she's bringing. Medicine and eyeglasses. Towels and kitchen utensils. Kitchen utensils? She's bringing a set of spoons and knives and spatulas, and I know she's just trying to be helpful and logical, but I can't help but smile because this shows her heart.
My mother is taking something she used to feed her family for (I don't know how many) years. But she's taking it and giving it to another mother in another part of the world. I don't care if it's old and she has a newer set at home, that's not the point. The point is, every wife wants to know her husband- her family is fed. The earthquake and all the chaos that ensued, took away many wives' ability to spoon out food onto plates and watch it dissapear into mouths and bellies. By giving her kitchen utensils, my mom is giving these wives a chance to serve their families again- to spoon out sustenance. To take care of them. She is giving away a set of love.
These spoons and knives and forks have fed a hungry family of six in upstate New York and now they will travel with her and they will feed a dozen families more. Families who need nutrition and hope. We give away food, we give away money, we give away clothes. But when my mother gives away her spoons, she is giving purpose to another wife. And if you know my mother, you know she doesn't look at it that way. She doesn't stop to analyze the symbolism behind her gift, or behind her trip to the Border. Because love to my mother is so engrained in who she is and how she sees the world, that there simply is no other way for her. This is what it means to live 100 Days of Love. It's to love without notice or intent, with generousity and truth. I see that in her, and I hope one day to see it in myself.
My mother is taking something she used to feed her family for (I don't know how many) years. But she's taking it and giving it to another mother in another part of the world. I don't care if it's old and she has a newer set at home, that's not the point. The point is, every wife wants to know her husband- her family is fed. The earthquake and all the chaos that ensued, took away many wives' ability to spoon out food onto plates and watch it dissapear into mouths and bellies. By giving her kitchen utensils, my mom is giving these wives a chance to serve their families again- to spoon out sustenance. To take care of them. She is giving away a set of love.
These spoons and knives and forks have fed a hungry family of six in upstate New York and now they will travel with her and they will feed a dozen families more. Families who need nutrition and hope. We give away food, we give away money, we give away clothes. But when my mother gives away her spoons, she is giving purpose to another wife. And if you know my mother, you know she doesn't look at it that way. She doesn't stop to analyze the symbolism behind her gift, or behind her trip to the Border. Because love to my mother is so engrained in who she is and how she sees the world, that there simply is no other way for her. This is what it means to live 100 Days of Love. It's to love without notice or intent, with generousity and truth. I see that in her, and I hope one day to see it in myself.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Day 74: Overtime Money and Tears
He wants to give money away. He wants to give it away to a single dad who's trying to do right by his kids. A guy who hasn't had a break. Rich wants to give our money away and I've been grumpy about it. Here's the thing- it's been a long week. A long week of overtime and late nights. A long week of early mornings and I've been waiting for the weekend to spend that overtime money on shoes. Or jeans. Or cashmere sweaters. And then Rich tells me that this guy has been on his mind. That he knows, deep down in his gut, that we're supposed to give this dad our overtime money. I'm sitting on edge of the bath tub crying while Rich shaves. Crying because I want the spending money and crying because I hate it that I'm the kind of person who wants the spending money and crying because now my husband knows that this is the kind of person I am. He sits down beside me and shares his coffee- which is more like 24 ounces of espresso- and tells me it's going to be ok. That this is the right thing to do and he's not exactly asking for permission. Then he kisses my forhead and goes to work, leaving me and my bad attitude to nuke his now-cold coffee and dilute it with creamer and sugar.
I want us to be a generous couple. I want us to be quick to bless the people around us. I want us to give. Just not this weekend. This weekend I want to shop. And so I go about my day feeling sorry for myself for having a generous husband. And then, in the midst of my attitude, I realize it's not about what I can get, it's about what I already have. And what I have is a man who cares about other people more than himself. A man of principle who will do the right thing, even when his wife makes him feel like a monster for doing it. What I have is better than anything I could find at an outlet store on a Saturday afternoon. I call him at work and I apologize. I tell him I want to be the kind of wife who encourages the good things in him. And after all, this is what 100 Days of Love is about- loving each other so much that it overflows to the people around us. The people who need love. So this weekend I'm not shopping. I'm writing, and this good. This weekend I am honoring my husband, and this is better.
I want us to be a generous couple. I want us to be quick to bless the people around us. I want us to give. Just not this weekend. This weekend I want to shop. And so I go about my day feeling sorry for myself for having a generous husband. And then, in the midst of my attitude, I realize it's not about what I can get, it's about what I already have. And what I have is a man who cares about other people more than himself. A man of principle who will do the right thing, even when his wife makes him feel like a monster for doing it. What I have is better than anything I could find at an outlet store on a Saturday afternoon. I call him at work and I apologize. I tell him I want to be the kind of wife who encourages the good things in him. And after all, this is what 100 Days of Love is about- loving each other so much that it overflows to the people around us. The people who need love. So this weekend I'm not shopping. I'm writing, and this good. This weekend I am honoring my husband, and this is better.
Day 73: When Bad Things Happen to Good Houses
I want to live in a world where people protect their property. Where bad things can't happen to good houses.
We've been spending much of our time together looking at real estate. Throughout the week we browse various realtor websites looking for new or lower priced homes. And then on days like Saturday, when we have a few hours to spare, we map a loop and check out different homes- many of which are abandoned. We peek in windows and scoot around the property and mostly end up dissapointed. But my heart just broke this Saturday. It was a smallish home on nearly two acres. We'd been glancing at it online for weeks now and decided to see in person why the house was unusually inexpensive and had no inside pictures.
At first I thought the shards of glass were ice. But every window was smashed and we crunched along the porch, kicking away the glass and snow. Inside I could see wide pine hardwood floors- bright wood now spotted with spray paint, the ceilings and walls decorated in bright pink graphitti. And odor, something metallic and sour permeated the air. Through the busted windows I saw the kitchen- exposed brick and dark wood. It didn't take much imagination to see this home as a cozy place. There was moulding around the door frames and a solid rack with an intricate carved pattern hung above an island. But the walls were splashed with nasty phrases and there was a hole the size of a soccer ball, straight through the back door. The stairs leading to the second floor were ripped apart. Solid wood lay in a heap where the skeleton of stairs lead up. Rich shook his head in disbelief as he picked his way through the glass back to the car. And for a moment I stood facing this destroyed beauitful home until I started to cry.
And of course it's ridiculous that I should feel so attached to a building that was never mine. But the home was violated, defaced and I felt embarrassed for how it was left so vulnerable. I wanted to know who cared so little about their property that they left it exposed to the elements and whoever happened to wander by with a crowbar and a can of spray paint. I suggested we buy it just to take care of it. But Rich is right, we can't purchase a home because we feel bad for it. We need to buy the place that is right for us. So we'll keep driving and looking and waiting. And just like love and children, we'll hold out for what's meant to be. And when we have a house of our own- a family of our own, we'll protect them. This I know.
We've been spending much of our time together looking at real estate. Throughout the week we browse various realtor websites looking for new or lower priced homes. And then on days like Saturday, when we have a few hours to spare, we map a loop and check out different homes- many of which are abandoned. We peek in windows and scoot around the property and mostly end up dissapointed. But my heart just broke this Saturday. It was a smallish home on nearly two acres. We'd been glancing at it online for weeks now and decided to see in person why the house was unusually inexpensive and had no inside pictures.
At first I thought the shards of glass were ice. But every window was smashed and we crunched along the porch, kicking away the glass and snow. Inside I could see wide pine hardwood floors- bright wood now spotted with spray paint, the ceilings and walls decorated in bright pink graphitti. And odor, something metallic and sour permeated the air. Through the busted windows I saw the kitchen- exposed brick and dark wood. It didn't take much imagination to see this home as a cozy place. There was moulding around the door frames and a solid rack with an intricate carved pattern hung above an island. But the walls were splashed with nasty phrases and there was a hole the size of a soccer ball, straight through the back door. The stairs leading to the second floor were ripped apart. Solid wood lay in a heap where the skeleton of stairs lead up. Rich shook his head in disbelief as he picked his way through the glass back to the car. And for a moment I stood facing this destroyed beauitful home until I started to cry.
And of course it's ridiculous that I should feel so attached to a building that was never mine. But the home was violated, defaced and I felt embarrassed for how it was left so vulnerable. I wanted to know who cared so little about their property that they left it exposed to the elements and whoever happened to wander by with a crowbar and a can of spray paint. I suggested we buy it just to take care of it. But Rich is right, we can't purchase a home because we feel bad for it. We need to buy the place that is right for us. So we'll keep driving and looking and waiting. And just like love and children, we'll hold out for what's meant to be. And when we have a house of our own- a family of our own, we'll protect them. This I know.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Day 72: Love and Annas
We drive to Boston for Burritos. This is true. We don't go to visit friends or shop or walk around the intelligent city feeling sophisticated. But every few months, one of us craves the "Mexican street food" that is Annas Taquerias and off we go. An entire day in the car, and it's worth every bite. You wouldn't think so to see it. Annas- in Brookline, is a hole in the wall. A smallish shop where they'd just assume you take your burrito find somewhere else to eat it. There's cured pork (is that pork... or chicken...?) hanging on the wall and the smell of freshly fried tortilla chips and shredded chicken bubbles in the air. I love Annas. Once, my burrito fell halfway into the garbage bin. The cook glanced up at me and I just shrugged whatever and ate it anyway. Because Annas is unlike any other taco joint you've walked into. I'm not sure exactly what it is, maybe the combination of cilantro and spiced meats. Or maybe it's the way they grill the tortillas until they are warm and soft and stretchy. The workers chatter in Spanish to each other and the only acknowledgement the customer will get is words like "Next!" and long spoons that point to different meat and bean options.
It's just over ninety nine miles from our driveway to Beacon St, with two hundred Mexican Restaurants in between. But we love Annas and so we keep on driving. Because when you find something incredible, whether it's a person or a burrito, you hold onto it. You clutch it and declare that this is the best you've ever had, the best there is. When there's love, distance and miles don't matter. I hope you have that kind of love in your life, even if it's in the form of a burrito. And if you're ever in Boston, go find Annas. Order a chicken quesadilla with everything they can fit in it, grab a fork and knife and multiple napkins. And love will certainly find you.
It's just over ninety nine miles from our driveway to Beacon St, with two hundred Mexican Restaurants in between. But we love Annas and so we keep on driving. Because when you find something incredible, whether it's a person or a burrito, you hold onto it. You clutch it and declare that this is the best you've ever had, the best there is. When there's love, distance and miles don't matter. I hope you have that kind of love in your life, even if it's in the form of a burrito. And if you're ever in Boston, go find Annas. Order a chicken quesadilla with everything they can fit in it, grab a fork and knife and multiple napkins. And love will certainly find you.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Day 71: Road Rage
He said; "Why are you being so mean to me?"
I said; "Because sometimes you just do stupid things. You just do stuff, and you're doing it now. You're just doing and not thinking."
We're stopped about five yards past the stop sign at a four way. Rich is waving on the car who had the right of way. But he's also blocking the vehicle's right of way, so no one is moving and everyone is waving and now I'm getting angry. When I say I don't know how he survives without me riding shotgun, it's not just a cliche, it's the terrifying truth. The man can't drive. He speeds on the highway. He doesn't use directionals. Despite his avid love of a standard transmission, he stalls out at least once a day and forgets about fifth gear. My husband has been written a ticket on a lonesome highway in Nebraska, for following another car too closely.
We spent the first year of our marriage fighting about his driving. We lived in Boston, a city defined by terrible driving and so Richard felt quite at home as he ran red lights and cut in front of traffic, rocking to a complete stop before accelerating to sixty five on a northshore higway. These were scary times. Times my heart would shoot between the pit of my stomach and my throat and I would close my eyes and press my face into my hands. And then I would cry, and then I would yell. And though we never did crash into a single thing, I spent a year braced for impact.
In Maine we've found a (somewhat) happy medium. I tell him where the stop signs are and where to turn and he mostly listens and pretends that I'm a nag. Though we both know he couldn't make it to the mall without me in the car. But as I'm sitting in the car watching a stranger wave his arms around in our direction, I can't help but think how foolish it is to get so worked up over a few feet of space, over one spot up at a red light. Which is exactly what I've done- not only today in this grocery store parking lot, but every day that I've sat in this seat. I've judged and criticized and have acted flat-out mean toward my husband over something as trivial as his style of driving.
This is not love, and I want to love. So I'm going to close my eyes, in a peaceful sort of way. I'm going to keep my mouth closed, and if he drives straight by our exit, I'm not going to be angry, I'm going to look forward to taking the backroads home. Because when you love someone, you let them drive. However it is they drive. And you remind yourself that it's not about what gear you're in, or how many u-turns it takes to get there. Love is about being in the car, about the trip you're taking together. Even if it's just to the grocery store for ice-cream on a Monday night.
I said; "Because sometimes you just do stupid things. You just do stuff, and you're doing it now. You're just doing and not thinking."
We're stopped about five yards past the stop sign at a four way. Rich is waving on the car who had the right of way. But he's also blocking the vehicle's right of way, so no one is moving and everyone is waving and now I'm getting angry. When I say I don't know how he survives without me riding shotgun, it's not just a cliche, it's the terrifying truth. The man can't drive. He speeds on the highway. He doesn't use directionals. Despite his avid love of a standard transmission, he stalls out at least once a day and forgets about fifth gear. My husband has been written a ticket on a lonesome highway in Nebraska, for following another car too closely.
We spent the first year of our marriage fighting about his driving. We lived in Boston, a city defined by terrible driving and so Richard felt quite at home as he ran red lights and cut in front of traffic, rocking to a complete stop before accelerating to sixty five on a northshore higway. These were scary times. Times my heart would shoot between the pit of my stomach and my throat and I would close my eyes and press my face into my hands. And then I would cry, and then I would yell. And though we never did crash into a single thing, I spent a year braced for impact.
In Maine we've found a (somewhat) happy medium. I tell him where the stop signs are and where to turn and he mostly listens and pretends that I'm a nag. Though we both know he couldn't make it to the mall without me in the car. But as I'm sitting in the car watching a stranger wave his arms around in our direction, I can't help but think how foolish it is to get so worked up over a few feet of space, over one spot up at a red light. Which is exactly what I've done- not only today in this grocery store parking lot, but every day that I've sat in this seat. I've judged and criticized and have acted flat-out mean toward my husband over something as trivial as his style of driving.
This is not love, and I want to love. So I'm going to close my eyes, in a peaceful sort of way. I'm going to keep my mouth closed, and if he drives straight by our exit, I'm not going to be angry, I'm going to look forward to taking the backroads home. Because when you love someone, you let them drive. However it is they drive. And you remind yourself that it's not about what gear you're in, or how many u-turns it takes to get there. Love is about being in the car, about the trip you're taking together. Even if it's just to the grocery store for ice-cream on a Monday night.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Day 70: Missing His Face
These are working days. Days when we don't see each other until later at night. Days when our weekends don't match. For the past year we've worked for the same company at the same location. We carpooled together and had lunch together. We weren't just husband and wife, we were lunch buddies and commuters. And now I wander around his old kitchen looking for that face I never see. Rich was promoted last week and now he has his own kitchen in another town in a bigger city twenty miles north. This is a good thing for him and for our savings account, but for us it's taking some adjustment. I know this is the norm for every other couple, but I hate it. We kiss each each other goodbye to drive in different directions and spend most of our waking hours with people we don't completely know. Our days begin and end together and it's as though everything in the middle is just stuff we do to pass the time until we can be together again.
Even as I wonder if it's worth it, I know that it is. I can't change the situation, I can't change anything, really, except my attitude. So I am going to be the wife who wants more than her husband's familiar face. I'm going to be the wife who wants to see him succeed, even if it means I feel a little left behind. I'm going to be the wife who isn't selfish and needy. A lemonade kind of wife. I am speaking speaking these sentences aloud, trying to feel motivated instead of lonely.
But if I've learned anything it all, it's that we're not normal people. And I'm not sure if we're a normal couple, because I'm not the same without him. He's my best friend, my only friend if you want the truth, and I miss his face. Enough said.
Even as I wonder if it's worth it, I know that it is. I can't change the situation, I can't change anything, really, except my attitude. So I am going to be the wife who wants more than her husband's familiar face. I'm going to be the wife who wants to see him succeed, even if it means I feel a little left behind. I'm going to be the wife who isn't selfish and needy. A lemonade kind of wife. I am speaking speaking these sentences aloud, trying to feel motivated instead of lonely.
But if I've learned anything it all, it's that we're not normal people. And I'm not sure if we're a normal couple, because I'm not the same without him. He's my best friend, my only friend if you want the truth, and I miss his face. Enough said.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Day 69: Truth or Love?
When I was a teacher, I used to ask my students what they valued more: love or truth. I explained to them that there are two types of world views- one dominated by love and one by truth. The one who values love will forgive a thousand sins to feel as though they matter. To make others feels valued. They will lie about bad haircuts and extra poundage. They will cheat and steal to save a hurting heart. I like these people, they are my friends. They make me good and kind, even when, perhaps, I am not. But the one who values truth is something altogether different. They are relentless. They will speak their mind regardless of the damage. They will tell you about jeans that really are too tight. They'll say that bangs just make your face look fat. I've never much cared for the truth-tellers of the world. And when asked what kind of person I am, I'll say it's love for me. Love til the end.
But here's the thing about love. Love isn't real unless it is paired with truth. True love- the love that goes past fuzzy feelings and pats on the back- is created and strengthened when we accept the truth of a person. When we're not afraid to want them the way that they are. And truth is nothing without a heart behind the voice. So today I am rethinking this concept of truth and beauty. I am saying that we're all a combination of the two and perhaps it's not how much you love, or how loud you can shout the truth - perhaps it's how completely you can marry truth and love. And just like any good marriage, pull out the best in each to strengthen to weak parts of the other.
But here's the thing about love. Love isn't real unless it is paired with truth. True love- the love that goes past fuzzy feelings and pats on the back- is created and strengthened when we accept the truth of a person. When we're not afraid to want them the way that they are. And truth is nothing without a heart behind the voice. So today I am rethinking this concept of truth and beauty. I am saying that we're all a combination of the two and perhaps it's not how much you love, or how loud you can shout the truth - perhaps it's how completely you can marry truth and love. And just like any good marriage, pull out the best in each to strengthen to weak parts of the other.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Day 68: The State of the Marriage
Tonight the president addresses Congress and the nation to tell us how we're doing. What we've accomplished, what we're working on and the struggles that lie ahead. This yearly tradition takes precedence and we wait to hear what we mostly already know.
But what if each of us decided to take a night and analyze our own relationships? To break down this past year and see where we are. It's a scary thing to look at yourself with the eyes of a critic and speak the truth. Tonight I address my marriage to declare it's state. To praise our victories and challenge our fallen nature. There's noone here to listen, but you and me and the dog. So let's begin.
This has been a year to remember. A year of hope and dissapointment. A year of growth. Our marriage stretched to the breaking point. First with the shock of five words spoken in the Spring in a muddy parking lot. He said, "my sperm count is zero." And there was no going back to the place we lived the moment before the words were spoken aloud. Instead, there was three months of silence and avoidance. And one particularly regretful afternoon when I told my mom I sometimes wondered what my life would be like without him. Dissapointment is hard to mask, especially when you're crying. We want to protect the ones we love. To keep them from feeling inadequate. And what man is not going to feel inadequate when the doctors tell him he's got nothing going on? So we avoided the issues and pulled into ourselves. But low points never last with us and we did manage to talk to out. One work weekend in Upstate NY, I was stacking wood with my father and he asked me how things were going, how we were dealing. I told him we were mostly avoiding the subject. Just saying those words aloud I realized how true they were. And I knew that if I didn't start speaking about the hard stuff, we might spend our lives in the quiet place. The place where avoidance is the only defense. So we talked. We talked about adoption. We talked about hormone treatment. We talked about living alone. We talked about all the possibilities and in the talking there was a bridge forged between us. The kind that's strengthed by hands that link together. And we went from being silent to being strong. So when the specialist confirmed everything we didn't want to hear, our marriage was still strong because we were already holding onto each other, rather than the idea of something that couldn't exist.
We may not be pregnant, but this year we have put down roots. Rich and I have always been a wandering couple. We've crossed the country twice in the same Chevy Pick Up Truck. Always searching for a community where we belonged, Rich and I have found it, not only in each other, but in the Southern Coast of Maine. And in our work. These kind faces that have come to be our family. They're our kind of people, these Mainiacs, and it feels good to know that this will be our home.
So the state of our marriage is strong. It's Day 68 and I'm thankful that we're here; in this country, on this coast, past the point of silence. We're here and we're going to be just fine. Better than fine, we're going to be incredible.
But what if each of us decided to take a night and analyze our own relationships? To break down this past year and see where we are. It's a scary thing to look at yourself with the eyes of a critic and speak the truth. Tonight I address my marriage to declare it's state. To praise our victories and challenge our fallen nature. There's noone here to listen, but you and me and the dog. So let's begin.
This has been a year to remember. A year of hope and dissapointment. A year of growth. Our marriage stretched to the breaking point. First with the shock of five words spoken in the Spring in a muddy parking lot. He said, "my sperm count is zero." And there was no going back to the place we lived the moment before the words were spoken aloud. Instead, there was three months of silence and avoidance. And one particularly regretful afternoon when I told my mom I sometimes wondered what my life would be like without him. Dissapointment is hard to mask, especially when you're crying. We want to protect the ones we love. To keep them from feeling inadequate. And what man is not going to feel inadequate when the doctors tell him he's got nothing going on? So we avoided the issues and pulled into ourselves. But low points never last with us and we did manage to talk to out. One work weekend in Upstate NY, I was stacking wood with my father and he asked me how things were going, how we were dealing. I told him we were mostly avoiding the subject. Just saying those words aloud I realized how true they were. And I knew that if I didn't start speaking about the hard stuff, we might spend our lives in the quiet place. The place where avoidance is the only defense. So we talked. We talked about adoption. We talked about hormone treatment. We talked about living alone. We talked about all the possibilities and in the talking there was a bridge forged between us. The kind that's strengthed by hands that link together. And we went from being silent to being strong. So when the specialist confirmed everything we didn't want to hear, our marriage was still strong because we were already holding onto each other, rather than the idea of something that couldn't exist.
We may not be pregnant, but this year we have put down roots. Rich and I have always been a wandering couple. We've crossed the country twice in the same Chevy Pick Up Truck. Always searching for a community where we belonged, Rich and I have found it, not only in each other, but in the Southern Coast of Maine. And in our work. These kind faces that have come to be our family. They're our kind of people, these Mainiacs, and it feels good to know that this will be our home.
So the state of our marriage is strong. It's Day 68 and I'm thankful that we're here; in this country, on this coast, past the point of silence. We're here and we're going to be just fine. Better than fine, we're going to be incredible.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Day 67: Losing Sense
The question is, if you had to let go one of your senses, which would you choose to lose? Your eyesight? Perhaps your hearing? What about smell? Would you let go of the ability to touch? Or maybe taste?
It's an assignment for Rich's psychology class and we're debating the different sides. He chooses to be deaf, says he couldn't really live without the others. He cooks for a living, so smell and taste are out of the question. To lose your eyes is to lose your independence, and even as he squints to clean his own spectacles, I know he thinks his eyes are as good as new. And touch, well touch is what gives harmony to our lives. It is the sense that adds rthymn, like his steady heart that bumps through his t-shirt when we're lying in the dark.
But I know the truth about his decision. It's the ear plugs all over again. To lose hearing is to lose the nagging voice beside you that says you're going seven miles over the speed limit. Not the voice inside your head, the voice that is your wife. The voice that corrects his english. The voice that challenges his anything. My husband would forsake his ears and in doing so allow himself a world of freedom.
What would you choose? If you had to lose some sense of yourself, of your five, what would you give up? I know these discussions are the stuff of philosophers and psychologists, but there's a truth behind each answer. His truth is my voice. And I'll try to pipe it down.
It's an assignment for Rich's psychology class and we're debating the different sides. He chooses to be deaf, says he couldn't really live without the others. He cooks for a living, so smell and taste are out of the question. To lose your eyes is to lose your independence, and even as he squints to clean his own spectacles, I know he thinks his eyes are as good as new. And touch, well touch is what gives harmony to our lives. It is the sense that adds rthymn, like his steady heart that bumps through his t-shirt when we're lying in the dark.
But I know the truth about his decision. It's the ear plugs all over again. To lose hearing is to lose the nagging voice beside you that says you're going seven miles over the speed limit. Not the voice inside your head, the voice that is your wife. The voice that corrects his english. The voice that challenges his anything. My husband would forsake his ears and in doing so allow himself a world of freedom.
What would you choose? If you had to lose some sense of yourself, of your five, what would you give up? I know these discussions are the stuff of philosophers and psychologists, but there's a truth behind each answer. His truth is my voice. And I'll try to pipe it down.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Day 66: Budgets and Marriage
Every prosperous organization must employ a wise accountant or two. Someone who oversees the books and pays the bills. The one who sets the budget and write the checks. In the Maynard's house, I am the accountant. Every month I erase our giant white board calendar and pencil in new bills and benchmarks for saving. And every month I am thrown these wild curve balls that threaten to derail my plan and our budget. Two thousand dollars for part on the ruck. The mechanic uses words like calipers and fuel tank. Shocks and drum brakes. But all I hear is the slow leak of our savings account and another monthly budget gone to pieces. The computer crashes. A certain husband downloaded a blinking advertisement that promised faster speeds in downloading and web browsing. It's a virus, of course. We could have bought a brand new system for what we paid to restore the old.
One of these months my budget will stick, I say to Rich. He says yeah, right and we both roll our eyes and laugh because we know that anything can happen. And usually does.
Sometimes I'm tempted to look at marriage like a budget. I want to plan out each step of our union, of our growth. A house within two years, a child within five. Then a business of our own. And it's so easy to get carried away planning for a tomorrow without living today. So it's the unexpected flips that keep me grounded. The way we end up having tickle wars in bed at 2am on a work night. Or how I stumble across him in the morning with his man mug of coffee as he listens to the high tide thunder against our shores. The long look he gives me when he comes home from work. I'm covered in flour and still in my pajamas. It's a look that says I love you, you're beautiful; even when I'm obviously not. These are the pieces of a marriage that cannot be contained or planned. The moments that remind me how good this marriage really is.
One of these months my budget will stick, I say to Rich. He says yeah, right and we both roll our eyes and laugh because we know that anything can happen. And usually does.
Sometimes I'm tempted to look at marriage like a budget. I want to plan out each step of our union, of our growth. A house within two years, a child within five. Then a business of our own. And it's so easy to get carried away planning for a tomorrow without living today. So it's the unexpected flips that keep me grounded. The way we end up having tickle wars in bed at 2am on a work night. Or how I stumble across him in the morning with his man mug of coffee as he listens to the high tide thunder against our shores. The long look he gives me when he comes home from work. I'm covered in flour and still in my pajamas. It's a look that says I love you, you're beautiful; even when I'm obviously not. These are the pieces of a marriage that cannot be contained or planned. The moments that remind me how good this marriage really is.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Day 65: Sourdough Lovin'
I've got a sourdough starter in my fridge and it's taking up half of the first shelf. This is quite significant, so let me explain. I'm not so good at schedule or promptness. I forget all kinds of things from birthdays to deadlines to menial tasks like watering plants. I live in a house of dried flowers, not because I particularly love potpourri, but because I'm so scattered and forgetful. Behind me there's a neat pile of Christmas gifts waiting to be mailed. And it's almost February. So it's a bit miraculous that this sourdough starter is alive and fermenting. For three months now, I weekly bring it to room temperature and feed it a bit of bread flour and warm water. The bubbly sour smell spreads throughout the kitchen and I peer into the over sized glass mixing bowl and marvel that what looks likes spoiled milk can add flavor and texture to a loaf of bread. And it does. I've just pulled a pair of loaves from the oven and I can heard their quiet crackle as they cool and set. I want to tear open a chunk, like communion Sunday, and sit in the quiet and taste the bread.
And love, of course, is just like sourdough. You have to wait it out. You have to let it sit. Love is like sourdough because when you feed it right it grows stronger with time. Not minutes. Not days. Love and sourdough need patient caretakers. People of faithfulness and integrity who will not skimp on nutrients. Spouses who will measure with care the flour and water and will wait for the bubbles before sealing and storing for another week. But most of all, love and sourdough need a partner who knows that something that appears to all the world to be spoiled, is actually the most precious concoction of all.
I want to be a sourdough wife. The kind who is marked by faithfulness. The kind who waits. The kind who sees her husband as the precious one he is.
And love, of course, is just like sourdough. You have to wait it out. You have to let it sit. Love is like sourdough because when you feed it right it grows stronger with time. Not minutes. Not days. Love and sourdough need patient caretakers. People of faithfulness and integrity who will not skimp on nutrients. Spouses who will measure with care the flour and water and will wait for the bubbles before sealing and storing for another week. But most of all, love and sourdough need a partner who knows that something that appears to all the world to be spoiled, is actually the most precious concoction of all.
I want to be a sourdough wife. The kind who is marked by faithfulness. The kind who waits. The kind who sees her husband as the precious one he is.
Day 64: Much Thanks
I'm not a kind person. I'm mostly selfish. When that scientist said that 95% of our time is spent thinking about ourselves, he was thinking about me. Or I was thinking that he was thinking about me, because almost everything thought that pushes through my brain is about myself. Am I hungry? Do I have enough money? Should I go back to school? Even now, I'm writing, but somewhere in the back of my head I'm shuffling through the cupboards and debating whether it's worth it to make a whole pot of coffee just for me.
And in the middle of my self-centered living, a colleague that I barely know tells me I am kind. That I am good. That I'm a blessing. I know I'm not these things, after all, I live inside my head. I know all about motivations and self-centered desires. But she says these words to me in a casual way, like she's stating the obvious. And It makes me want to be good. It makes me want to be kind. I wander through the rest of my afternoon trying to figure out way to be what she's said I already am.
There's an ad on TV tonight; a car commercial- a hybrid. It's very green; everyone is planting trees and kindergartners are recycling and it's all so acted with swirly music and earth love. But the idea is that people can make a difference, and I like that. I'm certainly not going to go out and buy a hybrid, but my mind is caught on this idea. That people really can make a difference. That love can make a difference. Through these 100 Days of Love, so many of you have sent encouraging e-mails and messages. They are good things and they make the swirly music in my head play louder. I want to say thank you.
And now I'm off to make that pot of coffee.
And in the middle of my self-centered living, a colleague that I barely know tells me I am kind. That I am good. That I'm a blessing. I know I'm not these things, after all, I live inside my head. I know all about motivations and self-centered desires. But she says these words to me in a casual way, like she's stating the obvious. And It makes me want to be good. It makes me want to be kind. I wander through the rest of my afternoon trying to figure out way to be what she's said I already am.
There's an ad on TV tonight; a car commercial- a hybrid. It's very green; everyone is planting trees and kindergartners are recycling and it's all so acted with swirly music and earth love. But the idea is that people can make a difference, and I like that. I'm certainly not going to go out and buy a hybrid, but my mind is caught on this idea. That people really can make a difference. That love can make a difference. Through these 100 Days of Love, so many of you have sent encouraging e-mails and messages. They are good things and they make the swirly music in my head play louder. I want to say thank you.
And now I'm off to make that pot of coffee.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Day 63: Genetics
There was a part of me that thought that by this time I would be announcing a pregnancy through this blog. That 100 Day of Love would slide into 9 Months of Love.
But we were never promised fertility. And the best stories never end the way you think they will.
The lab results came back today. They say the chances are slim to nil of conception unless we start a rigorous hormone therapy. Injections and Pills and monitored blood tests and maybe it will help and maybe it won’t. But the treatment is thousands of dollars that isn’t covered by insurance and the list of effects include words like cancer and depression. I want a child- I want half a dozen children, but I can’t risk losing my husband to force this. The cost is too high.
The good news is, it’s genetic. Our infertility is nothing he did or didn’t do in his crazy twenties. The guilt and the blame can slide away. And I believe that we’re created creatures, not randomly selected components of nature and science. We’re created and that means there’s a reason for every part of us that is different. I have to hold onto that. We have to hold onto that.
We believe in miracles and we believe in fate. And I know there are babies out there, little unborn lives who will need the forever love of our crazy family.
I once heard someone say that everything will be OK in the end. If things are not OK, it means it’s not the end. And so I’m not giving up. But I’m not fighting anymore, I’m not hoping the way I was three months ago. I’m letting go- we’re letting go and we’re waiting; like we should have been all along.
But we were never promised fertility. And the best stories never end the way you think they will.
The lab results came back today. They say the chances are slim to nil of conception unless we start a rigorous hormone therapy. Injections and Pills and monitored blood tests and maybe it will help and maybe it won’t. But the treatment is thousands of dollars that isn’t covered by insurance and the list of effects include words like cancer and depression. I want a child- I want half a dozen children, but I can’t risk losing my husband to force this. The cost is too high.
The good news is, it’s genetic. Our infertility is nothing he did or didn’t do in his crazy twenties. The guilt and the blame can slide away. And I believe that we’re created creatures, not randomly selected components of nature and science. We’re created and that means there’s a reason for every part of us that is different. I have to hold onto that. We have to hold onto that.
We believe in miracles and we believe in fate. And I know there are babies out there, little unborn lives who will need the forever love of our crazy family.
I once heard someone say that everything will be OK in the end. If things are not OK, it means it’s not the end. And so I’m not giving up. But I’m not fighting anymore, I’m not hoping the way I was three months ago. I’m letting go- we’re letting go and we’re waiting; like we should have been all along.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Day 62: Fixing Broken Things
Rich doesn't know a thing about cars. It's true and we both know it. But he's a guy and he thinks all guys are supposed to know about cars. This is how he ended up belly-up under the truck, covered in snow and tapping with a spatula at whatever pipes he could reach.
Our truck is broken down. Again. Two days after returning from the mechanic, I am sitting in a snowbank with an engine that won't turn over. It just winds and grinds, like Micky when he's not getting enough attention. I call Rich because it's his truck and it's he who insists that I drive his truck when there's even a dusting. Somehow this has got to be his fault. He comes to get me and I wait in the warm Toyota while Rich, armed with his infamous spatula is puttering around trying to knock something in place. He doesn't have a clue. I say this with love, but it's true. And somewhere mixed in my own stereotypes I can feel myself getting angry at him because he can't fix the truck with his bare hands.
Maybe it's because the other men in my life- my father, my brothers always found a way to figure out what was wrong with whatever beater I was driving and they always fixed it. Maybe it's because I actually believe that men are supposed to know how to fix cars. That you're less of a man if you can't. I practically say as much outloud, in my teasing voice that means I'm kinda serious. I say, "I can't believe we're gonna pay a man $200 dollars to clean spark plugs with a handerchief. How do you not know this stuff?"
But then he turns to me and says, "Remember honey, my dad died when I was still a kid!" His voice rising slightly, "I didn't have anyone to teach me these things." And I feel like a liver for making fun of his inabilities.
I wonder, why do we expect our partners to be filled with knowledge and expertise on things we ourselves know nothing about. Perhaps it's because together we are one whole unit. And I want our unit to be the best. But Love is not about what you know or don't know. Love is not about who can repair an engine or roast a turkey. Love is about looking at this other creature, this crazy man who is rolling in dirty snow and knocking his silly spatula against anything that will make noise. Love is looking at him and laughing out loud because he is this incredible creature who may not have a clue about cars, but who wants so badly to be the one who fixes my broken pieces.
And so I wipe the snow off his face and kiss him and tell him that he's my favorite. That I love him. And I do. Because a car is just a car, even when it's a truck. And there will always be someone to fix Spark Plugs. I'm just thankful I married the man who cares enough to jump start this old heart of mine. Even in the snow.
Our truck is broken down. Again. Two days after returning from the mechanic, I am sitting in a snowbank with an engine that won't turn over. It just winds and grinds, like Micky when he's not getting enough attention. I call Rich because it's his truck and it's he who insists that I drive his truck when there's even a dusting. Somehow this has got to be his fault. He comes to get me and I wait in the warm Toyota while Rich, armed with his infamous spatula is puttering around trying to knock something in place. He doesn't have a clue. I say this with love, but it's true. And somewhere mixed in my own stereotypes I can feel myself getting angry at him because he can't fix the truck with his bare hands.
Maybe it's because the other men in my life- my father, my brothers always found a way to figure out what was wrong with whatever beater I was driving and they always fixed it. Maybe it's because I actually believe that men are supposed to know how to fix cars. That you're less of a man if you can't. I practically say as much outloud, in my teasing voice that means I'm kinda serious. I say, "I can't believe we're gonna pay a man $200 dollars to clean spark plugs with a handerchief. How do you not know this stuff?"
But then he turns to me and says, "Remember honey, my dad died when I was still a kid!" His voice rising slightly, "I didn't have anyone to teach me these things." And I feel like a liver for making fun of his inabilities.
I wonder, why do we expect our partners to be filled with knowledge and expertise on things we ourselves know nothing about. Perhaps it's because together we are one whole unit. And I want our unit to be the best. But Love is not about what you know or don't know. Love is not about who can repair an engine or roast a turkey. Love is about looking at this other creature, this crazy man who is rolling in dirty snow and knocking his silly spatula against anything that will make noise. Love is looking at him and laughing out loud because he is this incredible creature who may not have a clue about cars, but who wants so badly to be the one who fixes my broken pieces.
And so I wipe the snow off his face and kiss him and tell him that he's my favorite. That I love him. And I do. Because a car is just a car, even when it's a truck. And there will always be someone to fix Spark Plugs. I'm just thankful I married the man who cares enough to jump start this old heart of mine. Even in the snow.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Day 61: Love and Lead Lights
We didn't have a television when I was a kid. That's not exactly true. We had a television, but it was tucked in my parents closet and only made appearances during the World Series. I didn't mind, except for a few uncomfortable moments in third grade when I heard one girl whisper to another It's true, they don't even have a TV at her house! My parents wanted us to be active and creative and productive and so we were.
We didn't have TV, but we certainly had radio. I remember holding the light for my dad as he worked on the car. He would have the Red Sox game buzzing on AM radio while he read through manuals and tinkered with whatever was going on under the hood. Usually my brothers were with him, but occasionally I would be outside holding the lead light, twisting it this way and that, while the socket cranked and the Sox inevitably lost another season. They were good nights. Unfortunately I never became the loyal Sox fan my father still is. I pretended to love the Yankees, mostly because it mean a good debate with my dad. Because he used to get so crazy defending the Red Sox, like they were his own. And I think, in a way, they were. But I learned something about love on those chilly autumn nights. Nights when I could have hung the lead light on a nail or hooked it to the hood. Nights when my dad couldn't see a thing anyway because I mostly shined the light into my own shadow. I learned that Dads will always work on cars, even if they have no idea what they're doing. That it's important for children to see their Dad working on a car and believe that he can fix it. Because he can fix anything. And I learned to stay. Even when I was cold and my arm was numb and I didn't know if Dad was mumbling at himself, the car or the Red Sox. Because when you love someone- when you're teaching someone what it means to love, you teach them to stay and to hold the light high. And there are times right now, when I want to hang it up and go back inside. When this whole love thing seems like more work than it's worth. But I know that even if my husband will never be a dad, he'll still be a fixer. We'll be fixers together and so I'm staying and I'm holding the light.
We didn't have TV, but we certainly had radio. I remember holding the light for my dad as he worked on the car. He would have the Red Sox game buzzing on AM radio while he read through manuals and tinkered with whatever was going on under the hood. Usually my brothers were with him, but occasionally I would be outside holding the lead light, twisting it this way and that, while the socket cranked and the Sox inevitably lost another season. They were good nights. Unfortunately I never became the loyal Sox fan my father still is. I pretended to love the Yankees, mostly because it mean a good debate with my dad. Because he used to get so crazy defending the Red Sox, like they were his own. And I think, in a way, they were. But I learned something about love on those chilly autumn nights. Nights when I could have hung the lead light on a nail or hooked it to the hood. Nights when my dad couldn't see a thing anyway because I mostly shined the light into my own shadow. I learned that Dads will always work on cars, even if they have no idea what they're doing. That it's important for children to see their Dad working on a car and believe that he can fix it. Because he can fix anything. And I learned to stay. Even when I was cold and my arm was numb and I didn't know if Dad was mumbling at himself, the car or the Red Sox. Because when you love someone- when you're teaching someone what it means to love, you teach them to stay and to hold the light high. And there are times right now, when I want to hang it up and go back inside. When this whole love thing seems like more work than it's worth. But I know that even if my husband will never be a dad, he'll still be a fixer. We'll be fixers together and so I'm staying and I'm holding the light.
Day 60: Love and Sugarcane
My mother is leaving for the Dominican Republic next month. A talented nurse, she is spending ten days assisting in surgeries and travelling to scattered towns and villages to administer primary health care. And dad is staying home. It's a matter of frozen pipes and such, but this mission of her reminds me of my own trip to Nicaragua nearly ten years ago.
I was young and in college and still convinced that I could save the world because I was American. And so I was miserable for the first week. Stuck twenty miles outside Managua, I was chipping at dirt with a pick ax, trying to clear a foundation for a basketball court. I know! A basketball court! I wanted to swoop over the valleys with my superwoman cape and eliminate poverty and violence with a glance and a flick. And instead I was working on the free-throw line.
After a week of hard labor we toured the city, on an ancient school bus that still had Cincinnati School District printed along it's yellow sides. I'll never forget the houses- row after row after row of gray squatted shacks that pressed up against the horizon. Children jumped onto the bumper of the bus, hanging onto the edges and sticking their fingers through windows. They were holding out for pennies or gum or whatever they could grab, I suppose.
We walked through a old man's home. It was one room that was split into two. The first was a store of sorts. One dusty glass bottle of coke. Two spoons. A string of beads. Tires that were shaped into flip flops, the pattern of tread still visible on one side. We walked into his backyard, an area smaller than my living room and filled with sugar cane. These stalks were rowed together and stretched as high as his house, maybe higher. Our interpreter explained that he lived off the profit of these two dozen sugarcane. And I'll never forget the way he didn't stop to hesitate but pulled out his machete and hacked off thirteen branches. One for each of us. It was about hospitality. It was about pride. It was about giving whatever you had to the ones who walked through your door. We sucked and chewed on the sugar cane out of respect, but I couldn't help feeling embarrassed and unworthy. That a man with so little could love a group of strangers so much to give them what he could not afford to give his own family.
Afterward we stopped at a Pizza Hut in the touristy part of the Capital and I remember gagging on the pizza- the way the cheese mixed with sugar cane in my mouth. The flavors of hospitality and greed. And I wonder, who loves more? Is it the white American who can pay to travel South and chop up dirt for two weeks, or is the Nicaraguan native, the man who gives more than he can afford to people who already have so much? All I know is Love is giving what you cannot bear to lose to another, even when they don't deserve it. Maybe it's your piece of sugar cane. Maybe it's your heart.
I was young and in college and still convinced that I could save the world because I was American. And so I was miserable for the first week. Stuck twenty miles outside Managua, I was chipping at dirt with a pick ax, trying to clear a foundation for a basketball court. I know! A basketball court! I wanted to swoop over the valleys with my superwoman cape and eliminate poverty and violence with a glance and a flick. And instead I was working on the free-throw line.
After a week of hard labor we toured the city, on an ancient school bus that still had Cincinnati School District printed along it's yellow sides. I'll never forget the houses- row after row after row of gray squatted shacks that pressed up against the horizon. Children jumped onto the bumper of the bus, hanging onto the edges and sticking their fingers through windows. They were holding out for pennies or gum or whatever they could grab, I suppose.
We walked through a old man's home. It was one room that was split into two. The first was a store of sorts. One dusty glass bottle of coke. Two spoons. A string of beads. Tires that were shaped into flip flops, the pattern of tread still visible on one side. We walked into his backyard, an area smaller than my living room and filled with sugar cane. These stalks were rowed together and stretched as high as his house, maybe higher. Our interpreter explained that he lived off the profit of these two dozen sugarcane. And I'll never forget the way he didn't stop to hesitate but pulled out his machete and hacked off thirteen branches. One for each of us. It was about hospitality. It was about pride. It was about giving whatever you had to the ones who walked through your door. We sucked and chewed on the sugar cane out of respect, but I couldn't help feeling embarrassed and unworthy. That a man with so little could love a group of strangers so much to give them what he could not afford to give his own family.
Afterward we stopped at a Pizza Hut in the touristy part of the Capital and I remember gagging on the pizza- the way the cheese mixed with sugar cane in my mouth. The flavors of hospitality and greed. And I wonder, who loves more? Is it the white American who can pay to travel South and chop up dirt for two weeks, or is the Nicaraguan native, the man who gives more than he can afford to people who already have so much? All I know is Love is giving what you cannot bear to lose to another, even when they don't deserve it. Maybe it's your piece of sugar cane. Maybe it's your heart.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Day 59: My Forever Friend
I remember asking my mom why she didn't have any girlfriends, like all my teachers had. Like everyone elses mom had. I was thirteen and girlfriends seemed very important at the time. She said, "What do I need girlfriends for? I have your dad." At the time I thought it was a poor excuse and I was afraid that my mom was a bit of a loser (sorry mom!), but now I get it. When your husband is your best friend, it's hard to make room for anyone else.
You would think by now that we would have other friends. Rich and I, we're not scary people. Our personalities are endearing and our lists of Facebook friends are as long as anyone elses. But the truth is, we're each other's only friend. I tell him he's my best friend, he says I'm his only.
Here's the thing, we don't really like people. I know how awful that sounds, but maybe it's just that we most appreciate people in small doses. I like the toll collector man who takes our dollar before we scoot onto the highway. And the Starbucks Barista who remembers my soy Cinnamon Dolce Latte. I like the mailman. Our new mechanic. And our new landlord, who I've never met. I like the woman who walks laps around the indoor track three days a week. We pass each other and smile good morning. But friends, real friends. It just seems like alot of work.
It wasn't always like this. When I was a teacher everything was about people. Especially in a tiny alternative school where three of us anchored the troubled lives of two dozen young people. We supported each other, which is a shiny way of saying that we met for drinks after work. To feel okay about the lousiness around us. I remember one afternoon that turned into night. They were waiting on a third pitcher of Margaritas while I was wondering what in the world I was doing in the middle of Oregon in a cheap Mexican bar while my husband was home alone. And I remember the relief when his old truck pulled up outside.
You see, we weren't made for parties or mixers. Rich and I were made for each other. And I know we come across as snobbish or aloof. But there's a joy and a freedom when you get to spend all your days with your forever friend. Call me crazy, call me a hermit, but I don't want to waste even a second of the days we've been given.
You would think by now that we would have other friends. Rich and I, we're not scary people. Our personalities are endearing and our lists of Facebook friends are as long as anyone elses. But the truth is, we're each other's only friend. I tell him he's my best friend, he says I'm his only.
Here's the thing, we don't really like people. I know how awful that sounds, but maybe it's just that we most appreciate people in small doses. I like the toll collector man who takes our dollar before we scoot onto the highway. And the Starbucks Barista who remembers my soy Cinnamon Dolce Latte. I like the mailman. Our new mechanic. And our new landlord, who I've never met. I like the woman who walks laps around the indoor track three days a week. We pass each other and smile good morning. But friends, real friends. It just seems like alot of work.
It wasn't always like this. When I was a teacher everything was about people. Especially in a tiny alternative school where three of us anchored the troubled lives of two dozen young people. We supported each other, which is a shiny way of saying that we met for drinks after work. To feel okay about the lousiness around us. I remember one afternoon that turned into night. They were waiting on a third pitcher of Margaritas while I was wondering what in the world I was doing in the middle of Oregon in a cheap Mexican bar while my husband was home alone. And I remember the relief when his old truck pulled up outside.
You see, we weren't made for parties or mixers. Rich and I were made for each other. And I know we come across as snobbish or aloof. But there's a joy and a freedom when you get to spend all your days with your forever friend. Call me crazy, call me a hermit, but I don't want to waste even a second of the days we've been given.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Day 58: An Organic Kind of Love
Love is not about the plans that we lay out, or how well we organize the dreams of our lives. Real love, true love, the kind of love that never ends, is about what we make with the day that is given us. Do we waste, do we invest, do we scrape by, or do we build with whatever stones we find around us?
My parents live in a house on a hill on a very busy road. A road that stretches right across this country. East to West. In fact, they were travelling this road nearly thirty years ago barely married a year with an infant and a Volkswagen. They were headed to Maine for a visit, or at least this is how I like to imagine the story. But the car broke down while they were here. My father got a job. And then another. Just out of the Coast Guard, he was picking apples and turning them to cider. He was scooping ice cream. They were taking care of each other and one infant turned to two, then three, soon four. She made her own everything, from clothes to jams to dolls for the girls. He turned down Cornell University to work full time and provide for his family. And one day they bought this tiny house on a hill on a very busy road that they once were passing through.
Today this home is a veritable fortress, surrounded by gardens and fruit trees. It's beautiful and we walk the property and talk about the time we built a village in the woods or raised a baby lamb in the kitchen. Sometimes I can't believe how much love surrounded us all those years. We were covered with the stuff, just saturated with the blessing of one man and one woman.
So when I think about what it means to love another, I'm always brought back to this image of my parents. Young and completely broke. But determined and flexible and organic enough to know that what they had between them was indeed enough.
My parents live in a house on a hill on a very busy road. A road that stretches right across this country. East to West. In fact, they were travelling this road nearly thirty years ago barely married a year with an infant and a Volkswagen. They were headed to Maine for a visit, or at least this is how I like to imagine the story. But the car broke down while they were here. My father got a job. And then another. Just out of the Coast Guard, he was picking apples and turning them to cider. He was scooping ice cream. They were taking care of each other and one infant turned to two, then three, soon four. She made her own everything, from clothes to jams to dolls for the girls. He turned down Cornell University to work full time and provide for his family. And one day they bought this tiny house on a hill on a very busy road that they once were passing through.
Today this home is a veritable fortress, surrounded by gardens and fruit trees. It's beautiful and we walk the property and talk about the time we built a village in the woods or raised a baby lamb in the kitchen. Sometimes I can't believe how much love surrounded us all those years. We were covered with the stuff, just saturated with the blessing of one man and one woman.
So when I think about what it means to love another, I'm always brought back to this image of my parents. Young and completely broke. But determined and flexible and organic enough to know that what they had between them was indeed enough.
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