Monday, November 23, 2009
Opening my heart to someone at twenty-six was like being on a train. I bought a ticket and gave little thought to the speed I was traveling, or to whether or not I was on the right track. At forty-six, I still want the rush and I crave the unknown, but I'm also aware of reckless rides and roadblocks, and that I may need to avoid a crash.
I want to clear shelf space for him, put his toothbrush next to mine--create a sanctuary so, at the end of the day when he's done slaying dragons, he can return to a place of peace. I want to wash his socks and iron his shirts, and see the appreciation in his eyes when I do. My feminine gifts are domestic in form, physical, and spiritual--each one offered in return for all he gives me.
I'm learning a song on the guitar, and the words go like this:
Please, don't let me down this time-
I've come a long way just to fall back into line.
I've been singing those lyrics for two weeks now, silently asking him to please not let me down. But today, after running another load of laundry and stacking dry silverware into a drawer, I made time to practice my guitar. And the minute I sang that line, I cried because I knew it wasn't he who could let me down, it was me.
He requires nothing I don't already possess, demands nothing I don't give freely, but if I'm not careful, I could dedicate my life to being me, for him. I could let go of my blog, my book, my guitar and then my song--and if my song goes, so do I.
"Don't have faith in me," he said this morning. "Have faith in yourself."
I didn't have to process it or test to see if it was true.
So I'll cook when I cook and when I don't, there's take-out. I'll clean when I clean and when I don't, there's tomorrow. I'll walk by the river, write my book and I'll learn new songs, and I'll remember that the sanctuary he longs for won't be found in an empty sink, but in the full and fulfilled heart of the woman he loves.