THE MARRIAGE MIX

When I have not posted on this blog or my more personal blog for a few weeks, I will often get a phone call from my friend Kelly.  And it goes a little something like this:  “You have been quiet lately.”  This is normally followed by a sing-songy, drawn-out “Whaaaat’s going oooonnnnnn???”  I love friends who notice when we drop from the radar.  And think to check in.  I am so grateful for that.

The long and short of it is that I am living the very topic that I strive to write about.  And for the past 6 weeks or so, that topic has been hard to write about.  I have been so busy living the highs and lows of it that I have not known how to step back and see it in a way that allows me to form words to describe it.

As a result of having my head underwater, shoved right down into the middle of my murky, mysterious marriage, it has been almost two months since I have posted on this blog.  That makes me sad for a few reasons.  One being that the feedback I have gotten from those of you who read this blog regularly seem to get something from reading the stories that I share here.  I am so thrilled that out of my messiness, others have found something helpful.  Something hopeful.  That is the reason I write this blog.  I write it so others may read and think, “Oh, look, there is someone going through what I am going through.  Maybe it is not the end of the world.”  And, let’s be honest, sometimes it is comforting to realize that there is someone out there just a little more crazy than you are.  It allows us to breath a sweet sigh of relief.  I am completely willing to be that person for my readers.  If finding me crazy helps you feel a little more sane, well, go for it!  We could all stand the illusion of being a little more sane.  So, trusting and believing that is matters to other people that I write this blog, I am sad that I have left it to the wayside this spring.

I am also sad because I seem to have given in to the power of self-sabotage.  O Magazine recently published a very insightful article on this topic, written by a popular life coach.  It gave me a window into that part of myself that desires, more than just about anything, to become a writer.  Well, most of all, I would like to be the best mostly-non-crazy wife and partner to Herb that I am capable of being.  But if you scroll just a little further down the list, you will find the word WRITER.  But following the rules of self-sabotage to a tee, out of fear that even if I give it my all that I will fail, I have just made myself fail on the front end.  Not making writing dates with myself.  Advertising on other blogs and then not writing in this one for most of that same month.  It is sad to see anybody have a dream for their lives and then just pilfer it away out of fear and an assumption that they can’t do it.  When you are doing it to yourself, well, that is enough to drive you out of your mind.

There are no pretty bows to tie this up with.  Just the hope that if I sit down and write, that it matters.  Just the notion that living a life that did not see the completion of an important dream is a sad journey I am unwilling to take.  So, I take each day as it comes.  Trying to make small, important choices.  Yes, I will breath and take a walk instead of rolling out of bed and checking email first thing.   No, I can’t join your book group because I need to focus on being a mostly-non-crazy wife and an author.  And trust me, that is going to take a lot of my time!  Plus, let’s be honest . . . I probably wouldn’t read the book anyway and then just show up and eat your snacks!

from the photostream of yoshiko314

“Coffee or tea?”, the handsome British flight attendant asked us.
Guarding my tear stained face best I could, I told him no thank you.

The reality of his question only worsened my pain.  Herb and I were not just talking about separating.  We were talking about separating while on an international flight, heading home after a holiday in the United Kingdom.  If we are being completely honest, I was talking about separating while on an international flight, heading home after a holiday in the United Kingdom.  Herb was listening and trying to figure out what to do.

Nothing happened while we were away.  No secrets uncovered.  No cruel words spoken.  If nothing else, it was the overwhelming sense that our marriage was not what I had wished it would be.  It was too painful to watch how the wounds we inflicted on each other during our first days and months . . . and years . . . of marriage had created a dryness in our partnership that just did not seem to be satiable.

Hearing the question, “Coffee or tea”, in such a flawless, proper accent made me cringe.  It highlighted the sadness of our conversation and left me feeling completely exposed.  There was nothing proper about what was happening in row 36, seats D and F (luckily we had the entire row to ourselves, as we are not above having difficult conversations on airplanes, with strangers sharing our row); and by that time, my eye makeup certainly was not flawless.

But it was more than a reminder that what we were going through that sunny afternoon over the Atlantic was a painful mess - it was a reminder that life goes on even in the midst of our pain.  While I felt like the bottom was dropping out from under me, the sun was still shining, people were still sleeping, and flight attendants were still offering coffee and tea.  I wanted life to stop long enough for us to figure things out.  I wanted to resolve my pain that I hold about this marriage; everything it is and is not.  I wanted to be able to enjoy being asked the question “Coffee or tea?” in a smooth British accent, while flying over the Atlantic, without being distracted by big questions like, “Will my marriage survive?”.

It may sound trivial, but more than anything, the struggles Herb and I face in our marriage can be boiled down to being distractions.  They keep us from living our lives - together and individually - to the fullest.  It is impossible to stop and smell the roses when your damn nose is constantly stuffed up from sobbing uncontrollably.  And while some people would be most horrified that they were sobbing uncontrollably on an international flight, I am mostly sad that those moments of sobbing (and there have been many) have kept me and Herb from enjoying what is right before us.  The moment.  Our lives.  The simple offer for a hot beverage on an international flight home from a lovely visit with friends.

I have either cried or yelled (and often both) in four different countries and several states in the United States.  I have cried and yelled on airplanes, bicycles, pedestrian bridges.  In subway stations and the Caribbean Sea.  Worse yet, I have lost countless chunks of my life crying on my couch, bed, and kitchen floor at home.

I am tired of crying.  So, there I sat on the airplane, telling Herb that I wanted to move out for a while so that we could each heal a little from all the yelling and crying.  So that we could figure out a way to come back together.  But despite his statement of agreement in the moment, I knew he would not go for it in the end.  Not because he would miss me.  But because he knows he might not.  And that always reminds me that I might not miss him.  And so we stay.

Some might think that not missing each other is sign we should clue into: that our marriage does not work.  That one of us should leave.  We agree that it is a wake-up call.  Only instead of viewing it as a reason to hit the road, we view it as a reason to continue on.  We use it is a litmus test as to how healthy our marriage is.  When it comes out looking brown and pukey, we know that our marriage needs more work.  We choose to take this perspective for a few reasons.  Partly because of our commitment to the marriage.  Partly because he knows that if we divorced, I would tailspin into a cycle of shame and I know he would get lost in a spiral of isolation.  But also because we love each other.  Because we know it can work.  We know that so many of the problems we have had are not based on incompatibility or bad chemistry.  We know this because when we are not fighting, we are the best of friends and we have nice chemistry.  No, our problems tend to crop up around our individual, pre-existing wounds and issues; our baggage.  In fact, I would be so bold to say that Herb and I are actually perfect for each other.  In highlighting old wounds, we are able to push each other towards healing and personal growth.  We believe that marriage is intended for companionship and support and intimacy.  But also to shape us and mold us.  To heal us.  And mature us.  Herb helps bring up these needs more than anyone else.  Herb stands by me as I try to sort out these needs.  And so we carry on.

Maybe it sounds ludicrous.
But maybe it is true.

I am happy to introduce our first guest blogger.  Rhi and I met in blogland, but have had the honor of truly becoming real friends.  She and her husband, along with me and mine, hope to become even better friends next week as we hunker down in their home in Wales to talk and laugh and drink british ale and get to know each other better.  I am thrilled that she agreed to share a bit of their very real and raw love story here.

my name is rhian, i am mostly known as rhi, sometimes cooksey. i am an unemployed graduate with grand dreams of living as a struggling artist. i am pretty good at the struggling, but still practicing the art bit.  i like to read and write, i like to walk barefoot in grass, and i like strawberry soya milkshakes.  i have been married for nearly 6 years to an often wonderful geekboy. and it has been hard.  but we still laugh at each others jokes, he warms my feet when they are cold, i bake him cupcakes frequently, and enable him to leave the house with at least one stray cotton thread on his self. i have a blog that is much abused with youtube videos, random journal pages, and daily ponderings.

This is just a small, highly edited and censored part of my story. One half of how a baby marriage of less than one year has struggled and fought and kicked and screamed its way to regain some sense of normality. To regain some feeling of love and security amidst a time of grief and loss.  And how freshly tweezed eyebrows may be the key to it all.

*****

“Do you pluck your eyebrows yourself or go to a shop?”
The shiny blue Peugeot, big enough to fit an entire drum kit in the boot, sped down the wide open B-road.  It drove down unlit territory on an empty road.

“Uh - myself.” I replied with a mixture of complete embarrassment and horror.

Why on earth would he ask that? Isn’t that some kind of sacred ground that should never be crossed by them; that other, unobservant species more akin to caveman than gentleman.

“They’re really nice.”

The air in the car seemed to take on a golden glow. The pitch black sky blurring by overhead seemed to grow a little bigger, the stars shone a little brighter, and my face grew a lot redder.

Fancy he picked my eyebrows as his target for the first compliment he would pay me!

I mean, the half whispered in nervousness, “I think I like you”, didn’t really count as a compliment. Lots of people liked me. My mum liked me. My brothers sometimes liked me. That boy who took me on a date the week before probably more than liked me. Or, something.

But my eyebrows. That was something special. That was actually quite tangible. And it was one of the many areas I always felt most self conscious of in my 18 year-old self’s body.

I suddenly felt very sure that this boy was terrifically special. He had unknowingly tapped into the one facial feature I had complete control over, and often had spent copious hours worrying over. Were they too bushy? Did they have enough shape? Were they lopsided? Lopsided is not a look I was going for.

Traveling down that unlit expanse of tarmac, empty of any other car to race or be compared too, the world felt a little more exciting.

A little more terrifying.

*FLASH*

We haven’t got time to stop for a Burger King. Why doesn’t he realize this?
As the panic sat in my stomach, and felt like it burned a hole in my heart, I tried to persuade myself to stay calm. To breathe. To not stress him out. Everybody needs to eat.
I will remember that drive home forever. Having talked to my dad just hours earlier, and having been informed that my brother had been taken to hospital, the already planned journey had taken on a new feel. It was no longer carefree and enjoyable. It had become a race to get somewhere as quickly as possible, to get to that safe place where our pictures hung on the walls, and where I could pretend that everything would be okay. Because it always was okay in the end. Always.

That was three days before my brother would die. Three days before I would lose him, and parts of myself forever. Three days before the world turned dark and my heart would be shattered into a thousand pieces. Before I would sit at my dark mahogany family dining table, and sob into my hands. Three days before my marriage would alter inconceivably, and before the memory of a nighttime Burger King pit stop would make me despise my own husband.

Death is something we are all aware of, yet something we all blissfully ignore on a daily basis. Until it creeps in and takes you by surprise.

I am quite certain there can never be a preparation for the overwhelming shock of losing someone. Its as if all the air is sucked out of your world, your lungs struggle to do the job they were created for, your head feels as though it might burst any minute with the incomprehensible idea of never seeing that person again. The world has shrunk, and you have no space or time for the things that came Before. Your life becomes a battle-ground to complete the most menial of tasks. Getting up. Brushing your teeth. Showering.

Time is split into Before and After.
TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEDNESDAY . . .

from the flickr photostream of rose lovering

On Valentine’s Day, Herb and I hosted a few close friends and their kiddos for a nice romantic dinner for six.  If dinner for six can be romantic.  And if you don’t mind a baby girl being passed around the table.  And three little kids building sky scrapers out of Herb’s vintage tinker toys in the living room.  And by living room, I really just mean the other half of the 400 square feet of open space that comprise our kitchen, dining area, and living room.

Despite all of the amazing, aphrodisiac-based recipes in the cookbook called Intercourses that I received at a wedding shower, all I could think of that week was chicken mole folded into enchiladas.  Something about the unexpected sweet punch of the dark chocolate in a spicy sauce and the understated presentation of delicious layers sounded, well, sexy.

And though I don’t know how many people left the dinner feeling amorous, it tasted mighty fine!  So fine, in fact, that I made another batch for dinner a few days later; making more than enough so we could have it at least twice.  On Saturday morning I was helping Herb make breakfast.   Only he was not interested in the sausage that I threw on the counter.  He had another plan in mind and was on a mission.  To my surprise, out came the other half of the chicken mole.  The chicken mole I had labored over.  The chicken mole that had, from start to finish, taken over an hour to prepare.  The chicken mole that was intended to be tucked away in the freezer, safe and sound and ready to be pulled back out on a night that I was too tired to make dinner.  This very same chicken mole had mistakenly been put in the refrigerator.  He began to heat it up in order to serve on top of his fried eggs.  I asked him to put the rest in the freezer for another meal.  He did.  And then, he pulled it out a second time.  He was still hungry.  He put more in the pan.  And then remarked that there would probably not be enough for another meal.

Now, most of you know where this is going, right?

I was so frustrated.  To the naked eye, this seems so silly.  It is just chicken.  It was going to be eaten at some point.  What was all the fuss about?  Sometimes, in the middle of an argument, I find myself asking the same question.  What IS all the fuss about?  What is really bothering me here?  Other times I loose my mind so fast that no such questions are pondered.  But on Saturday they were, and it was a case of feeling unheard.  Unimportant.  All I could think was that what I ask of him doesn’t matter.  That he disregarded the fact that I have recently tripled the amount of time I work, and that having extra food in the freezer was my way of managing the new schedule and stay sane.  What is funny about that, is that 85% of the time, my husband is a great listener.  He puts me at the top of his priority list as he makes choices about his day.  But during that other 15% of the time, when he eats my chicken, I feel so scared.  So alone.  I feel like my voice doesn’t matter.  I start to wonder if things have suddenly changed for good and my voice will never be held in high regard by him again.  Then I start to feel stuck in a marriage where I am not important.  All in a few minutes time.  All over a batch of chicken mole.

We talked about it.  I left the room.  I came back in.  I left again.  I cried a little bit.  I came back in.  Then Herb said, “I will make more.”  He said it in the heat of the moment.  It was hard to tell if he was trying to appease me or if he actually intended to do it.  But I thought “You BET you are making more, buddy!”

I oscillated all weekend between wanting him to follow through and make more chicken and feeling like a punitive, cranky wife who needs to get over herself and move on!  He seemed just a little surprised the next day when I mentioned we needed to run to the store for supplies, including chicken and a chocolate bar.  I am sure he was thinking, “What did I get myself into?  And why is she so cranky and punitive?”  So we took a lazy walk to breakfast and then the grocery store before coming home in the early afternoon.  After Herb spent the rest of the day wrestling with our broken dishwasher, I had no interest in pushing the chicken agenda.  In fact, I was prepared to let it go and put it in the freezer so I could make it another day.  I noticed my interest in “making him pay” had begun to wane.  The further I stepped back from the situation, the clearer a picture I had of him.  He was not just the guy who ate the chicken and left me feeling ignored and unimportant.  He was the guy who takes lazy walk with me and helps me lug groceries home.  He was the guy who knows how to fix our dishwasher and doesn’t make me feel bad about taking a long hot bath in the middle of the day while he has the thing pulled out in the middle of the kitchen, resting on it’s side.  In short, time allowed me to see him more clearly.

The next day, I arrived home around 8 AM from an early walk with my next door neighbor to find Herb flipping bacon AND preparing the chicken to be roasted!  I was pretty impressed.  And then we got into another argument (these things go in waves around our house).  Again, I was so hurt and angry.  Yet, something funny happened.  I started helping him with the chicken.  I answered his questions about what pot to use.  I chopped an onion.  I measured the oil.  I stirred the sauce.  He didn’t ask me to, I just started working.  All the while, I am thinking, “You shouldn’t be doing this.  How will he ever learn?  This isn’t punishment for him - it is punishment for you - he messed up and here YOU are cooking again!  You’re never going to make him hear you if you help him out like this.”  With every onion slice and stir of the sauce, I disregarded that voice.  The voice of fear.  The voice of contempt.  The voice of keeping score and placing blame.

Something I learned during our engagement is that fear and love do not co-exist.  And though I was hurt and sad and day dreaming about Herb moving out and having the house all to my own, I decided to choose love.  Not because I am a great person.  Or a superior wife.  Or find marriage easy.  (I mean, do you READ this blog?!?!)   But because as much as Herb and I hurt each other and drive each other crazy, there is the voice of love that lives in this house, guiding us and holding us during our most frustrating and fearful moments.  We know that voice as God’s voice. And sometimes God simply says, “Cara, shut up, don’t worry, and start cutting that onion!”

Dear Ms. Valentine,

When I was a little girl, your visits were a pretty big deal around my household.  I remember you showing up with your round face and soft curves.  Your pink bag and your shimmery earrings.  Your soft red curls fell perfectly around your face.  I always spent time in the mirror after you came around, trying to mimic your perfect pink heart-shaped pout.  You inspired us - pink and red shirts, socks, and hair accessories were the thing!  Little presents and love notes from mom and dad, probably a special craft project, and certainly a special breakfast!  I loved you so much.  Mostly because you loved me.  You made me feel so special!

In middle school you changed, just like so many of my other friends from elementary school.  You got all sexy.  And kind of aloof.  You were worried about popularity; who fit and who didn’t.  One time, I noticed that you started pulling those curls back into a severe twist.  The peach stain on your lips was replaced by a deep red shiny gloss.  And as I leaned into to greet you, I was certain that you had been doing a strict routine of pilates because what was once a soft bosom, was a rock solid physique, pushed into a lace bustier (I saw it poking out from your blouse).

I was not as comfortable with you as I once was.  Our conversations were awkward.  You seemed distracted and disinterested in me.  It was like you were judging me.   Things at school changed too, when you came to town.  Candy-grams were distributed during class, announcing to the world whether or not one was loved and accepted by many.  I was normally the girl that fell into the “or not” category.  You became yet another measuring rod that reminded me that I did not measure up.  So, thank you for that.  And in fact, I am sure my therapist thanks you too.  Very subtly, you told me all sorts of thing about my worth and beauty that are now paying for his third child to go to college.

Throughout college and my early 20’s, I didn’t need any reminders that I was single, but you came around each year, just in case, with a blank spread sheet that you used to keep track of all of my dates and boyfriends. You have always been reliable like that.

I will be honest Val, by the time Herb and I started dating, I was ready for a little retribution.  You would think that by that point I would be completely fed up with your nonsense.  The way you break people down into two groups - loved and unloved.  Together and alone.  The way your perky breasts make the rest of us feel inadequate and unsexy .  You are everything I am against.  But I didn’t care.  I was ready to dive into your pit of pink teddy bears holding hearts that say “I love you”.  (Though, let’s be honest, I was expecting something much classier from Herb Harjes!)

Herb tried to make our day together special.  He took me to California to meet a very special relative in her 90’s.  Before we left, he gave me a gorgeous hand blown glass vase by a local artist.  He filled it with rocks from a nearby river, flowers, and little pictures of me on that were wired into the bouquet.  He even wired in a poem by Maya Angelou and a note from himself.  I made him a little book about our love story and bought him some tickets to see Mark Cohn (who we saw on our third date together).  To me, these things are incredibly sweet; beautiful gifts from our hearts.  Messages to the other that say, “I want you in my world”.

But once we were in California, you showed up and ruined everything!   Seriously.  The nerve!  To come around like that, on my first time as an adult to celebrate your visit, and you tell me it does not count.  You rubbed it in my face that once again, I was not good enough. That if he really loved me, he would have done more.  On our way back to his Great Aunt’s home for a 6 PM pot roast and Wheel of Fortune, we drove by a restaurant.  People were walking in, all decked out and looking nice for their plus one.  Herb said, “AHH, look at all those amateurs - out for Valentines Day.”

My heart was crushed.

You sat there, next to me, and told me that it was not enough.   That I was not enough.  I listened to you sneer in my ear.  I wanted nothing more than to be wearing a cocktail dress and walking into that restaurant. I had been waiting over a decade for this.  I got quiet.  I may have teared up a little bit.  “I don’t think they’re silly.  I think it is nice.”  Aching heart.

I explained how much I had been looking forward to your visit, Val.  Everything I had hoped to do and feel while you were in town.  Herb felt horrible.  After we spent some time with his family, we went out for wings and some beers to sort of “make up for things”.  You were there too, dressed completely inappropriately for a bar, in your clingy red dress with that dreadful neckline.  And as you silently sipped your white wine spritzer, you occasionally caught my eye and laughed.

Ever since then, we both feel ourselves getting nervous around February first, when we know you are preparing for your visit.   You messed us up, Val.  Herb feels pressure to host you in our home, even though he does not understand you.  And I am dying to be wooed and charmed by my man.  Every time you send me your check list of things he has to do in order to prove his love, I wilt with disappointment.  So it should come as no surprise that he gets worried about disappointing; not being able to live up to my expectations.  Or rather, your expectations.  And silly as it may be for a grown woman, I get nervous that once again, you, a lusty beast of a love barometer will determine that I am not lovable.

Sincerely,
Cara Harjes

It is not a secret that Herb and I have both thought about ending our marriage on occasion.   For me, this normally takes place during a massive argument, when my brain feels like somebody poured a bag full of flaming hamsters in there.  As the little rodents are tumbling and bumbling around, all I can think of over the sound of their piercing squeaks is: “Get me out of here - NOW!!!”.  Once the hamsters find their way to a  watering hole and extinguish the flames, this line of thinking is quickly quenched as well.  Then we begin the cycle of reuniting and as I slowly regain my sense of balance, I remember that there are few places I would rather be than with my man.

In much scarier moments (or sometimes entire seasons of life), the desire to leave our marriage and start over in my own little studio apartment with a sunny yellow kitchen pops up out of the blue.  On these occasions, I feel my body filling with fear.  Partly because there is not an argument to explain these feelings, thereby convincing me (for at least a moment) that my heart actually desires to leave my marriage.  A great deal of the fear is rooted in the fact that I don’t even like the color yellow for a kitchen!   When living with a yellow kitchen is preferable to the life I am leading now, I know I am discontent.  And that makes me sad.  

There have been a few points that stand out in our marriage that would leave both of us “justified” in the eyes of our friends and families if we left.  Oddly, these are not any of the reasons I would actually leave.  There is not a specific instance or circumstance that would motivate me to leave.  No, if I packed my bags and left a note, it would simply read this:

“Dear Herb,

I love you, but this is  just is not what I wanted for my life.  

Please forgive me.

Love, Cara”

For all of the things that I love (and like) about my husband and who we are as a team, it is not everything that I was hoping for out of love.  I want more romance.  And fewer awkward pauses when we are talking on the phone .  We have been together for almost five years - why the awkward pauses, I don’t know.  I want more passion in the bedroom and less passion in our arguments.  I want to go on more hikes.  This one is especially humorous because I have chronic back pain, and have no business hiking.  And yet, I envision fit and trim versions of Herb and Cara, trotting through the woods on a Sunday afternoon, clothed in all sorts of high tech fabrics made for hiking.  We are eating turkey sandwiches and enjoying the view at the summit of a difficult mountain.  What we have is good.  But we don’t have this.  And at least a part of me wants this.

People leave marriages for so many reasons.  Sometimes, leaving has to do with something big that the pair just can’t figure out how to get around.  But I have a suspicion that there are legions of people who, when you strip back the circumstantial reasons, simply left because it was not what they had hoped for.  And it is very easy to convince yourself that if it is not what you wanted, then it was a mistake.  Looking at it this way, it is no wonder we have such a high divorce rate - we live in a culture that simply embraces correcting our “mistakes” and moving on in order to be true to ourselves.

But I have to believe there is another way, a third path.  So I find myself in an interesting sort of “middle place” (to borrow the term from Kelly Corrigan).  I am committed to my marriage and yet, I long for it to be different.  So, is this my exit point?  For some, perhaps many, an unwavering “YES” might resound.  But for me, I believe in something else.  This middle place is often uncomfortable, but it is not powerful enough to make me back away from our marriage.

I stay because if I slow down long enough to pay attention to our daily rhythm, I can see how many things are not just good in our marriage, but actually delightful and full of love.  If I focus on the fact that it is not what I wish it was, I completely miss out on how much I enjoy what it actually is.

I stay because I believe things grow and morph and evolve.   Like an infant that is a mere reflection of who it actually is and what it will become, I choose to trust that our marriage is only just beginning to unfold.   And if for no other reason, I am much too curious to walk away now.  I want to know who and what we will become.  I want to stay in this middle place and see what it might bring about.

(Thank you so much for taking the time to read this.  If you saw something here that you liked, hated, or related to, I would love to hear your thoughts!)

When compared to my marriage, all other relationships seem so one dimensional.  Even the deepest of friendships have boundaries at which point, if crossed, one says, “I can go no further.”  If a friend said something hurtful to me, I would probably take a step back.  I might eventually step towards them again.  I might not.  It would depend on what they said and what our friendship was like before hand.  I might continue in the relationship, but build a wall between us, to protect myself.  At the end of the day, keeping myself safe in my relationships often takes precedence over the relationship itself.  Sometimes that means allowing a friendship to dwindle away in an attempt to be safe.

But marriage is different.  You have something larger than yourselves keeping you attached to one another.  While there are some obvious boundaries violations after which personal safety must take precedence, in general, there are things that can happen in a marriage that might destroy most other relationships.  There are so many nuances to the relationship. In addition to husband and wife, there is a third, mysterious element present.  It is the marriage itself - the thing that is created by her and him, coming together and creating something that only exists when they are together.

At first, it is like a tender green shoot, alarming us all by coming up out of nothing but dirt after a long, harsh winter.  Fragile and frail, it must be protected.  Over time, I suspect, this third element becomes stronger and less vulnerable.  I like to believe that eventually it becomes so strong that its participants develop super-hero-like powers.  I am convinced that during year five we will finally be able to start reading each others minds.  Think of the minutes we would save on our cell phone plan!  On paper that would be the coolest.  In reality, as one who spends the entire day in my own mind, I would never wish that upon anyone and especially not Herb.  Maybe I will start wishing for the ability to fly instead.

Mind-reading aside, I have observed that despite its need for protection, the new marriage is surprisingly resilient.  Not only that, it has the ability to move me in ways I would never move myself.  I have found myself heeding to its siren call, on more than one occasion, to step closer to my husband in times of distress, rather than walking away.   As a result, I close my eyes and with desperation and reckless abandon, fling myself towards Herb in ways that leave me questioning my general sanity and ability to operate large machinery.

This week, Herb found himself questioning me and my ability to follow through with the things I begin.  As we were discussing this, he said things that left me stunned and wounded.  Looking back, most of these things were said out of his own fears and wounds.  There was truth spun into his words as well.  I spent half the night licking my wounds and the next day in emotional triage.   On the third day, I became angry.  I looked for ways to hurt him.  I threatened to stay home this week while he goes to visit family on the east coast.  But with this third element pushing me closer to him, I had to laugh as I showed him all of my cards, “If I stay home, will THAT make you understand how bad you hurt me?”

As I left my shell of a body sitting in a heap on the only sunny spot of the kitchen floor, I hovered above myself, looking down with disgust.  As I observed myself taking a verbal wrecking ball to any semblance of safety and self-defense, I thought, “NO! What are you DOING?  Do NOT ask him THAT?  Do NOT tell him why you are going to stay home.  Just make him pay for it!  Make him suffer!”

And yet, I am a goner when it comes to my marriage.  As much as I long to push Herb away sometimes, it is impossible to push too hard or for too long.  For better or worse, with Herb, I am invested in something that is larger than him and larger than myself.  I am married not just to him, but more importantly, to the relationship itself.  And so while I might try to keep myself safe, and push him away, in the end, I am undone by the power of belonging to something greater than myself - something that only exists when I remain close to the man I married.