Knowing You

They say the older you get,
the faster time flies,

and that the years with young children
will flash by
in an instant.

And yet it seems,
dear children,
that time has slowed considerably
since you came into my life.

Each moment (so precious)
deserves my full attention.
And my days, once so scheduled
and routine and filled with longing
for the 5 o'clock hour,

are now loose and free-flowing,
with long stretches of time spent
dancing in pajamas
or hunting for insects
or snuggling you in silence.

In retrospect, it's true,
the years have gone quickly
and I marvel at the size
of your once-tiny feet.

But the moments are
what matter
and the moments seem to...
stretch.

Thank you for sharing your eyes and your ears,
your untarnished perspective,
your sense of wonder,
your joy.

Knowing you
has allowed me
to breathe deeper

and has taken presence,
appreciation for the now,
beyond intellectual concept
to the level of daily practice.

For that, I thank you,
more than you will ever know.

Mind Over Marriage

"Do you have to argue with me about EVERY little thing??  So, yeah, there might be another way of looking at things, but you know what?  Sometimes I don't care; sometimes I just want you to LISTEN to me."  This is what Stephen said to me during a recent drive to the grocery store and it stunned me into silence.  Immediately I thought, I don't do that, then, even if I do, it's only because you so often DON'T MAKE ANY SENSE, and finally, I wasn't arguing with you; I don't even LIKE arguing.  The next thought I had effectively prevented me from giving voice to the previous three: holy shit, he's right.  Even now, in my head, I'm arguing with him.  Perhaps I should have just apologized then and there, but of course I didn't.  I remained silent for the remainder of the drive, in part because I was annoyed that he had snapped at me, but mostly because what he said was true.

I come from a family that argues a lot, that has always argued a lot.  This is not to say that I grew up in an unhappy home filled with constant yelling and screaming and fighting.  I actually had a very happy childhood and, growing up, often thought that I had the "perfect" family (I know better now, of course).  The point is, I've always been surrounded by very intelligent, very opinionated family members for whom argument could almost be considered a pastime.  While I love my family, this aspect of family life has always made me uncomfortable.  Perhaps it is because I am the middle child, always wanting to keep the peace.  Or maybe I am too insecure to speak my mind, for fear of being shot down.  Or perhaps with so many loud voices talking at once all the time I simply stopped trying to be heard.  Whatever the reason, it doesn't matter now.  What does matter is this: if I loathe constant arguing so much, why am I bringing it into my marriage?

Since that car ride, I have become painfully aware of just how often I argue with Stephen about things that just don't matter.  I've been trying to remain vigilant and feel that, more often than not now, I am able to stop myself before I start.  I hope this improvement is not all in my head.

Many of my arguments with Stephen are based on the fact that we have very different outlooks on life, very different opinions about human nature.  From the beginning of our relationship, I have been trying to impress my world view upon him, trying to turn him into a more "positive" person, a less "judgmental" person, someone who views the universe as inherently good, full of abundance and love and connectedness.  I do this out of love, yes, but at what cost?  And who am I to think I have all the answers, to think that by "knowing" him I somehow know what's best for him?  How egotistical can I be?  How judgmental.

I think that it is fairly common practice in marriage to try to "change" your spouse, or to quietly loathe certain aspects of who they are, but I think this practice is misplaced.  I chose to marry Stephen.  I made this choice because I fell in love with him but, more importantly, because I felt in my heart that he would make a good husband, father, and lifelong partner.  Four and a half years later, I no longer feel that, I know it.  For all his alleged faults, Stephen can put most husbands and fathers to shame.  He loves me like I am the only woman on Earth and cares for his children with a passion that is truly inspiring.  He supports me no matter what, puts up with my ever-changing moods, and never, EVER makes me feel judged.

All that other stuff?  That stuff about his view on life and human nature?  Well, I either need to just accept it as being a part of who he is, a part of the strange brew that is my husband, and love him regardless, or I need to leave.  And it's pretty much as simple as that.

(Don't worry, my love, I want to stay.)

I wish I could claim to have written this myself...

I happened upon a collection of Janet Holmes's poems while perusing a book store probably 7 or 8 years ago. I had never heard of her, but instantly fell in love with her writing. I consider The Love of the Flesh to be one of the most beautiful love poems I have ever read. Since I was having trouble coming up with my own words this evening, I thought I would borrow some to share. Happy Valentine's Day, everyone. May your spirit be light as you indulge in the pleasures of the flesh!


The Love of the Flesh
by Janet Holmes


Reality is not limited to the tactile:
still, we touch our own faces, as if by the slide
of fingers over cheekbones, eyelids, lips,


we can check that we are not dreaming.  This is
the life of the body, the life of gesture,


tangible, a palm against the skin.
When I put my hand to your face it becomes a caress,
but here, against my own, it is disbelief
or wonder.


The questions are hard, as when medieval scholars
divvied up the body in debate
as to where the soul hung its ephemeral hat-


and those who plumped for the heart laboring its fenced-in field
shouted down those others who felt God's messages
precisely in the pit of the stomach,


while the ancients reasoned the brain, the unromantic brain,
and virtually every organ had its champion...


Their filigree of argument confounds me
just as, then,
the suddenness of love left me dazed:


for days they had to call me twice
to get a single answer - I was deaf
and breathless and stunned.  It was not
as if the world were new and beautiful.


It was, instead, as if I had unlearned
how to use my hands
and feet.  Where does the life of the body


leave off, the life of the spirit start?  When
does the mouthful of air move beyond breathing
towards magic?  We made


a spectacle of ourselves, dancing about
like clowns in huge shoes, goofy with happiness,
inarticulate in all but the lexicon
of sexual flesh;


and the soul, from its short-leased home
among the muscles, sent its respects,
or so we were told...


Even in Paradise, the light-filled spirits
long for their resurrection,
and Dante is surprised that they miss their bodies:


"Not only for themselves," he speculates,
"but for their mothers and fathers, and for the others
dear to them on earth,"


souls wistful for flesh, nostalgic
for their faraway, simple selves who walked about


and who, lifting and seeing their hands,
thought suddenly one day These touch, caress, stroke;
who found in the body a bridge beyond it


and coined the word beloved.  And thus we performed
for ourselves the seamless changing over
of element to element,


body to air, solid to spirit, magic trick
or miracle, without knowing the particular
spell or prayer or luck that made it quicken.

All in good time

I am just barely starting to fall asleep when I hear the familiar click of the door knob down the hall, followed first by the sound of electronic rain and second by the sound of small feet running quickly in the dark.  Within moments you are on the bed, making your way to the top and then the middle, where you are met with loving arms and warm covers.  We take our places seamlessly, each nestling into a semi-fetal position, face-to-face, your small warm feet resting on the tops of my thighs.  When he is not working, your father curls around your back and the three of us form a perfect little puzzle.  I do not mind that I must pull myself away from the warmth of my husband's arms and move to the cold outskirts of the king-sized bed in order to make room for you.  I do not mind that you sleep no more than 4 or 5 hours in your own bed before joining us in ours.  Nor do I mind the occasional knocking of heads, the accidental meetings between foot and eye socket, the mid-sleep slaps across the face.  These small inconveniences are more than made up for by the sound of your breath, the smell of your hair, the soft warmth of your skin, and the glimpses into your dreams I am afforded by having you near enough to hear you talk in your sleep.  Why, just the other night, you actually smiled and giggled while sound asleep and I nearly cried, the sound was so lovely and unexpected.

I've heard the admonitions, the concerns that "he will never be able to sleep on his own," the recommendations for getting you to sleep in your own bed in order to "foster your independence."  I simply cannot listen.  We hurry through so many things in this life as it is.  Must I rush this along as well?  I refuse.  These moments with you are too precious, fleeting; I will not wish them away.  So, join us in sleep, my son, for as long as you feel the need; we are here.  And when you are ready to leave, we will let go willingly, knowing that the time is right.