Skip to main content

Surfacing

We've been married for six and a half months now, and I finally feel like I'm beginning to surface.

I'm surfacing and I'm settling.

I mean, I knew what I was getting myself into. I've seen marriages, I've talked about marriages, I've thought a lot about marriage.

"It's not easy. It's a lot of hard work. It's a lot of compromise. It's exhausting."

"I wouldn't trade it for anything. It's incredible. It's the best thing that's ever happened to me."


It's all true.

It's a thing, that's for sure. And I feel maybe I'm just kind of getting into the groove.

Not that things are EASY, not that life has stopped throwing curveballs and not that I've outgrown my insecurities and sometimes demanding ways.
There are bumps and there are hiccups and there are fights. There's misunderstanding and miscommunication and no communication - and then there's dialogue. There's honesty and there are sometimes tears and we're making progress.

I can look back at those first few weeks and the first few fights and my first few breakdowns, and smile a little. I can recognize when I was being irrationally anxious. I can commend him for hearing my insecurities and working with them. I have been learning to do the same.

You know what the most exciting piece is? I still feel like me.

In some ways, everything is different. But I'm still me. We're a team, but there's space on that team for me to be me.

If there's one thing that's gotten in the way of building intimacy and establishing our new status, it's when I've tried to be other than I am, when I've tried to be less honest, less needy, less demanding, less... Simply less.

But when I show up as Me, with all my mix of strengths and weaknesses, my needs and my gifts, my demands and my graces - things happen. He shows up and there's space for both of us to be and share and give and receive.

I feel a bit like I'm learning to love.


It's been better  and worse and harder and easier than I expected.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Simone Weil: On "Forms of the Implicit Love of God"

Simone Weil time again! One of the essays in Waiting for God  is entitled "Forms of the Implicit Love of God." Her main argument is that before a soul has "direct contact" with God, there are three types of love that are implicitly  the love of God, though they seem to have a different explicit  object. That is, in loving X, you are really loving Y. (in this case, Y = God). As for the X of the equation, she lists: Love of neighbor  Love of the beauty of the world  Love of religious practices  and a special sidebar to Friendship “Each has the virtue of a sacrament,” she writes. Each of these loves is something to be respected, honoured, and understood both symbolically and concretely. On each page of this essay, I found myself underlining profound, challenging, and thought-provoking words. There's so much to consider that I've gone back several times, mulling it over and wondering how my life would look if I truly believed even half of these thi...

I Like to Keep My Issues Drawn

It's Sunday night and I am multi-tasking. Paid some bills, catching up on free musical downloads from the past month, thinking about the mix-tape I need to make and planning my last assignment for writing class. Shortly, I will abandon the laptop to write my first draft by hand. But until then, I am thinking about music. This song played for me earlier this afternoon, as I attempted to nap. I woke up somewhere between 5 and 5:30 this morning, then lay in bed until 8 o'clock flipping sides and thinking about every part of my life that exists. It wasn't stressful, but it wasn't quite restful either...This past month, I have spent a lot of time rebuffing lies and refusing to believe that the inside of my heart and mind can never change. I feel like Florence + The Machine 's song "Shake it Out" captures many of these feelings & thoughts. (addendum: is the line "I like to keep my issues strong or drawn ?" Lyrics sites have it as "stro...

Esse - Czeslaw Milosz

I'm on a bit of a poetry binge this week, and Monday afternoon found me lying on the luxurious shag rug of a friend's tiny apartment, re-reading some of my favourite poets (ee cummings, William Carlos Williams, Czeslaw Milosz). It is an adventure to re-open a collection and wonder what will pop out, knowing something you've read before will strike you afresh, or you will be reminded of a particularly moving line that you had somehow forgotten. Like this piece from Milosz, which floors me. Every. damn.* time. The first time I read it, I lay in a park with a friend (this same friend who offered me her rug as my reading burrow) and demanded that I share it with her. I spoke it carefully, and then, into the post-reading silence, I slammed the book shut, and dropped it as loudly as I could onto the grass. "I'm never reading anything again," I declared, "What else is there to say?" Esse I looked at that face, dumbfounded. The lights of métro st...