The grace of you

In contemplating how I wanted this particular post to come together, I found myself thinking about my oldest son’s blog. Because writing appears to be in our family’s genes, he set up the blog earlier this year as a way to practice his craft. Although many of the posts are well thought-out and researched, some are simply personal diatribes—almost like diary entries. When I called him on it, he pointed me to his blog’s mission, embodied by his tagline, which says: “This is not for you. These are my words.”

I get it. For him, posting is about creating the discipline to write on a regular basis, whether or not he has an audience. For me, though, I’m always painfully conscious of my readers. It’s a focus that’s been drummed into me as a corporate writer, where I have to constantly gear my language to specific “target” audiences. I actually even write many of my posts with particular readers in mind—even if those people will never read them. It just helps me choose the right language and imagery.

For this post, however, I found myself unexpectedly aligned with my son’s mission. This time around, just this one time, this is not for you. These are my words. And the words I want to write, right now, are all about my husband.

We’ve been married 27 years today. It’s our anniversary. Spent more than half our lives together. Been through ups and downs, thick and thin, joy and anger and boredom and delight. We’ve seen the worst of each other. We’ve inspired the best in each other. We’re sometimes battle weary, sometimes totally aligned—and always, unfailingly, in love. He’s my beacon, my north star, my compass towards what’s right, my reminder to be compassionate. Dear lord, 27 years later, he still makes me laugh so hard sometimes I cry. We’re great at mutual silence. We’re great at talking it out. We always strive to be better, for ourselves and each other. I am deeply, ever-lastingly, eternally grateful.

It’s odd, you know. As a writer, I’m so used to plucking the right words from the ether. It’s my God-given gift. When I’m writing, the universe honestly just flows through me and what pours out is invariably unfiltered. I’m a willing conduit. But writing about something so emotionally close to me renders me almost speechless. It’s like the flow of what’s waiting to arrive is so fucking massive that it threatens to obliterate me if I open to it fully. What arrives instead are other people’s words (and that moment when I think: Damn, I wish I wrote that!).

Damn, I wish I wrote this line from Alanis Morissette’s song, Head Over Feet: “You held your breath and the door for me.” He did. He does. The gift of that is so immense it makes me dizzy.

Damn, I wish I wrote this line from Cattle and Cain’s song, Skies: “Suddenly my world is new. My heart is in your hands but it’s safe with you.” Try that on for vulnerability, kids.

But most of all, most of all, I wish I wrote these excerpts from Kathy’s Song by Simon and Garfunkel: