A fire within
As the evening light wanes and indigo fills the heavens outside the glass, I watch the black silhouettes of doves flying to roost in the pines along our drive. I spent part of the day pushing furniture around in my studio, and the space feels freer. With my desk in a new corner, I can see both windows and the door, and feel snug with my chin resting on my knee as I type, trying like I always do to stretch the minutes out between interruptions to be long enough for me to get to the core of something that matters, and to put it on the page.
The past few days have been filled with the kind of conversations that make my heart quaver. Hard conversations, because we’re at the very brink of things, teetering and uncertain of us, of our direction, of anything. The wide expanse of possibility stretches out before us like a vast canyon and we’re on uneven footing right at the edge.
Here at the brink, I am still fiercely holding on to the hand of the man I love. Yet I am also threatening to leap, because I cannot settle for just enough, and this is what our life has become. The pressure of living here with what we have, and what we are, has crept up like kudzu, and filled the wildness of our days with mediocrity. I’m not content with just surviving, with making ends meet, with each day starting where the last left off, simply subsisting, and the fact that many of our days have become this is why we find ourselves here at the edge of our love, our hearts thudding in our throats.
There is something wild, and fragile, and breathtaking in me, like a field of irises; something unstoppable, like the innate sense that leads the salmon upstream through rapids and turbines to the sweetwater scent of its origins. Something that tells me that life is meant to be lived voraciously, not spent. It is a restless yearning to grow, a longing so intense it wrecks havoc when things become static in my life.
I keep trying to imagine us together in a different way than we are now. A way that is more awake, more whole, more passionate. I imagine a life with more intention and clarity, because right now I see how our existence has dulled and also, I see how the fire in his eyes has dwindled as the pressures of finances and differed dreams have risen up. There is a promethean part in me that will run the risk of being burned in order to return it to his eyes. Even if this means loosing him in the end.
So over the past few days, interwoven with moments of sheer delight—sledding pell-mell downhill with Bean in our backyard after snow fell all day, sipping cider with it’s heady scent filling a warm house, or pressing our lips together tenderly in the dark—we’ve been having hard conversations. Conversations that make us weep and beg and sometimes, gratefully, laugh. Conversations that tear through our souls like a wildfire, and leave us exposed to the quick.
I keep thinking about how the greenest grass always springs up after the forest is charred and I want to believe that this is what will happen as we talk. Yet coming back to this stuff day after day feels awful and pathetic and humbling. And also, it is a bit like digging up the awesome skeleton of a tyrannosaurs-rex with a teaspoon, such fragile work, so much to be found and had, yet so much to loose without careful, diligent, stubborn effort.
“I want to make you happy,” he says, with a tight expression spreading out about his lips that makes him look, almost, as though he is wearing a smiling mask over an expression of absolute grief. He’s said this many times before.
I turn away, my chest tightening. Then I try to explain something I know to be true: something that is indelible like a birthmark on my soul—how one cannot make another person happy, and also, that if one is barren and desolate inside, one cannot give any joy away.
“Don’t,” I beg. “Make yourself happy instead.”
He looks put off.
I try to explain how I am: how the superficial masks people usually put on for each other each day are mostly transparent to me, and how I’ve always been that girl who can walk into a room of almost strangers, and pick up within seconds the deeper vibration of their hearts, despite what they might be saying to each other. I try to make him understand how this sensitivity I have like the sixth sense of a water dowser, makes it impossible for me to go along with his motions of happiness, his tight smiles, his constant banter, the jokes, the stupid songs, because below this I feel the desolation of his creative self—something I can tell he is hardly aware of, yet is reacting to, like an animal, always on the defensive, and ready to attack.
“I want you to understand that putting me first, putting your family first, your son first, your work first, you are routinely robbing yourself of something vital to you, and to us.” I say pleading, my voice soft and low.
“It’s like this,” I say. “Picture a tin cup. If it has a leak in it, even if it is being filled, it will never be full enough to overflow.” I pause and watch his face, turned towards mine, brows furrowed, still angry, still confused.
“Even though the cup may hold some water,” I start in again, “Enough to drink from and to survive, it cannot hold enough to give any away. But if the cup is whole and being regularly filled it overflows with abundance.”
I can tell by his expression that on some level this makes sense to him, but that he has no idea how to translate this into anything meaningful for his life, and this is where I come up short. I don’t know how to beg him to be selfish, to pursue the bugle calling of his soul, to plan for and to fight for the wildest and most impossible things that he can dream. I don’t know how to make him understand that when we’re both growing, no matter how hard our daily life gets, deep happiness will burble up like an unexpected spring, and that I’ll go with him anywhere if he’s striving for something that truly matters to his soul.
Often, I’ve been accused of being selfish. I am someone who needs vast amounts of time spent alone and creatively in order to be whole. I am also intensely driven and I grew up in a family of seekers. Both my parents asked difficult questions of themselves, and grappled with their ever-changing understanding of the role of human incarnation across the arc of life. Both parents strove to grow spiritually, and to be whole, and my mother continues on this quest, doggedly and with mindfulness, now that my father is dead.
So this in some way is my model: that as human beings, we are called to grow, and that we must, lest the landscape of our soul becomes vacant and sterile. My model couldn’t be more opposite from his.
A family of traditional Italians, they eat and laugh, and when they fight it is behind closed doors and no one is allowed to ever speak of it again. They are a family without a lexicon to make meaning from loss or grief. Anger takes the place subtler emotions, and the palette used to describe life-altering events is starkly black and white. Things are either good or bad, and happiness has somehow become synonymous with many external things: good food and company, and also pretty clothes, new cars, career success. Hence, in some incomplete way his model has been this: that as human beings, we should strive for success by making money and enjoying a good life marked by the acquisition of external things.
In our conversations we’re meeting on this slender ledge, and trying to turn the language that we know into a tightrope so that we can cross into the territory of our souls that has no capacity to be named. We’re trying to take the blueprints that defined our childhood longing, and re-designate their boundaries from this different vantage point of love. We’re trying to dream together, something new and different. But this is difficult and painful because always, there is the chance that we’ll end up falling, and without the right words or the right maps, we might fail to reach out fast enough to break the other’s fall.
The way I operate, Thoughts & observations |20 Responses to “A fire within”
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This, like so many of your posts, is just beautiful and tender and oh so close to the heart. It’s so hard to ask for what you need when you feel like you’re robbing your mate of what they need. This is the struggle Mark and I are fighting right now as well. And, AGH! the guilt! I actually have a lot to say on this subject… maybe I’ll have to write about it on Wannabe Hippie. Maybe.
Thank you for once again showing me what my heart needed to hear. And I do hope you two find the balance.
Your posts about marriage, and love, and dreaming together always speak directly to a place in my heart.
My husband and I are on a slender ledge too, of a similar nature.
It is comforting for me to know that maybe this ledge is a rite of passage. That we aren’t alone in this struggle. It’s a nice reminder to me to have my hands extended, lying in wait, for slips I might not know are coming.
You break my heart and heal it at the same time. I suspect you do the same for your husband. Don’t give up and don’t stop communicating.
This post… I don’t know what to say. That slender ledge, I so know that ledge… And the fall, the fall you speak of where you may not be fast enough to break each other’s fall? Oh, I so know that too…
The talking… That metaphor of digging up the fossil with a teaspoon—man, I feel that too. It was vivid to me…
Blessings to you as you move along on this journey.
I will be reading this post over again, more than once. You describe so kindly and tenderly what I am going through, as well, with my hubby. Part of my pain is the assumption that no one else goes through this. Everyone else’s life looks so conflict-free. Thank you for sharing so eloquently, as always.
xoxo
Wow…I very much enjoyed your heartfelt post. I don’t have any profound advice….but certainly wish you strength for the journey and clarity for both of you…..and lots of love for the little one.
Sweet baby, I just don’t know what to say, except that he is incredibly blessed and lucky to have a woman who encourages him to follow his dreams - to discover his creative happiness - what a gift you are giving him, and yet it may take him awhile to process this and understand it. I think for most of our men it is an innate drive, to provide and take care of us monetarily, materially. I’m sure that call is hard to ignore, if only because in the eyes of the world, the alternative could look like failure. I believe in your love, and hope that you can find your way in these tender days and nights.
Thank you. Just, thank you.
Life. Your “slender ledge”. It’s all so fragile, yet resilient. Hopeful, yet realistic. Love is not blind. Your love for him, for your family…it echoes through each phrase. A courageous and brave love.
Once upon a time I loved a man like that, and though I could not catch him as he fell, I never, never regretted loving him.
I will read this again and again because it’s rich in meaning. Your statement that “as human beings, we are called to grow, and that we must, lest the landscape of our soul becomes vacant and sterile” resonates deep inside.
Thank you. So very much.
I have so much to say … maybe I need a blog.
I will just say that I am always amazed that other people, other women, are going through the same issues with their loved ones as I am. I always think that we are not normal or doomed because other couples probably never experience what we do. And then you write a post … and then I read your comments … and I realize that all of us are going to be okay because it is normal to have differences or hard times because two strong people can’t be a unit without tearing and pulling a little bit at the seams in order to make the whole unit bigger and better. (Christina, as the english major, maybe you can choose a prettier word for unit for me!)
Love and big hugs to you … and here’s to knowing that you can only be a better couple once you get through this.
What a beautiful post. Piers and I have been through this before and we always seem to pull out of it. I am constantly telling him that what would make me happy is seeing him make himself happy and do the things he needs to do (even if I may not love the outcome all the time). I also need a lot of time to myself and feel selfish when I do get it. Ahhh marriage is a lot harder than I ever imagined it would be, good luck to you, and to all of us! Hopefully the new year will bring some answers…
Your blog amazes me, by the way. Mine has gone to the wayside due to my life, but even if you post once a week it is lovely and thought provoking (gush, gush, gush
For the sake of your self, your husband and Bean, I hope you keep trying. It will be the most unselfish thing you will ever do.
Your words are poetry to my soul.
Beautiful. So rich. You are a gift from heaven. Keep seeking, keep trying. You tugged at something close to my heart.
You are amazing, Christina. The things you see, feel, and think… and how you manage to put it all into words… wow.
Marriage is a crazy thing… so many highs and lows. I wish you the best trying to find a balance and compromise that leaves you each fulfilled and content.
Hi Christina ~ what an amazing post! Thank you so much for the beauty and honesty in your writing. In so many ways this is the story of my husband and myself for the past 16 years…
I have always been seeking the ‘more’ of life (beauty, truth, adventure, learning) and refusing to live a safe, conventional, surface life. I have projected this want/need/desire onto my husband. Over the years I left eight times (including a stretch of 2 1/2 years) - each time fully believing that this was the end of our marriage. We found our way back together with very small but loving steps. Each time another piece of the puzzle fell into place. More than anything I have wanted a deep, true connection with him.
What has finally crystallized is that, for him, his greatest need/joy/fulfillment is found in me, our home, our two chubby cats. He has said so many times “All I want is for you to be happy” - and I didn’t get it. I thought/felt that if I need the ‘more’ to feel that life is rich and complete than he must need this as well. The simple truth is that he doesn’t feel that there is anything missing in his life. He is a happy, quiet, private, loving man. I’ll always be a seeker but I’ve taken that off of him.
I can honestly say that we are now the most connected we have ever been together.
We have started a new practice of ’sacred Sundays’ - time just for us - to laugh, play, make love, walk, talk, watch movies, share what is important to us. We are both loving this time together.
You have such a beautiful family. I wish you all joy on the path!
This post made me weep…..tears of understanding, tears of sadness and tears of hope.
Marriage is hard. Much harder than I imagined too. I don’t have any answers and I am glad (I’ve read your most recent post) that you’re both trying to navigate the ledge with grace and a bit of tenderness.
If this is of any solace…this just might be a right of passage, as suggested by another commenter….I’ve been there before…more than once with my husband…and I’ve comforted girlfriends into the wee hours of the night…over similar struggles.
Please know that there are many of us who are going through similar things…and are very grateful that you have chosen to write about it so eloquently and thoughtfully. Words can sometimes heal and can almost always put things in a much clearer perspective.
Good luck on the ledge…
Wow. Your post took my breath away, mostly because this is so similar to what I experienced in my marriage. Unfortunately, my marriage had to end in order for either of us to grow…and while it was the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced, it has also been the most liberating. I am now whole and complete; broken and cracked in places, but my life and heart are full. And I believe that my ex has found the same joy to some extent. And while it’s awful, I’m grateful. For the struggle. For the process. And most of all for the freedom.
Your story may (hopefully) end differently than mine did. But I send you energy and clarity, and above all, love for yourself and your partner.
I am thinking many thoughts about this, and feelings, but they aren’t clear enough to express. My thoughts echo those expressed Samana most; that we are not all the same. I used to project the same doubts and fears that I had onto my mate. In fact, at times, I probably projected them onto everyone. But years have passed and we’ve nearly broken apart and come back together. I’ve changed, and I now see him , in some major ways, as a mystery. I see myself as a mystery also. I guess I am more comfortable with ‘not knowing’ than I ever was. I’m more content with the present moment than I used to be, too.
My sister and her partner are struggling through something very similar to what you describe. Your writing reminds me that she believes all humans to having certain needs. One of them is passion.
I don’t know if one person’s passion is different than another’s. But I would bet that is true. Maybe so different that it is invisible to others, maybe forever. Sight is in the eyes of the seer.
P.S. Everything you write is beautiful.
Just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed this post. Thank you for some beautiful, thought-provoking writing.