Nineteen years ago, you bowled me over
like two Big Ballard Imperial IPAs on a river
float. Eighteen years ago, we both said “I do” to a
lifetime of loving and trusting together.
places (count ‘em!), from the suburbs to big cities to rural
spaces, chasing depth and meaning and wonder in a world
where everything seems to be hanging by a thread.
Marriage is far from easy, but you make it make sense for
me, modeling the wisdom of what the 12-steps say, that
our past is a series of lessons that advance us to higher
testimony. Yes, Chef! Mistakes abound. Regrets creep
in – and creep out. But there’s so much wonder in these weeds.
My love for you grows even though, on most days, I bumble
around, communicating my feelings like the Duke of Hastings,
struggling to know the difference between meeting your
needs and being intimate with you – you who possess the
courage to go public with unpopular convictions,
you who have the guts to grieve, you who give up your life
for those society considers the least, you who prize vocation
and liberation over wealth-creation and procreation, you who
fantasize about punching abusive patriarchs and nazis, you who
stay present and pay attention as our bodies break down, you who
shower our niblings with passion, nurture, joy, laughter, dance
and delight, you who move on a mixture of intuition, experience,
expertise and ancestral knowledge percolated in past
generations, you who express with whisper-yells: “Yes!” You
who harvest wisdom from harsh experience, you who make us
the smoothies and the salads, you who soul scribe and share
what’s going on in your body, you who warn me when Mars is
in retrograde, you who pour on me the permission to pursue
pleasure and delight, demanding that I, too, deserve to be seen
and known and loved and served even when I swim in shame
and cast blame, you who see the unseen Sharon and hear the
unheard Honey Locust. Lindsay, I love you. Let’s do eighteen more.
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