Recently, for me, it’s been a lot of fury. Make no mistake, I’m thankful for the fury. It’s protected my heart against the onslaught of grief which is no doubt coming. It acts as a buffer until my spirit is ready to put one foot in front of the other. The rage acts as a middle woman between yesterday and tomorrow.
But fury takes its toll. It sucks you dry like a vampire leaching blood. I’ve been here before. When you eventually come limping into port, spent and sputtering, it is scary as hell. What you need is someone to help guide you in. Someone who will catch your elbow as you stumble ashore. Hero to Leander rowing across a sea of emotion.
My husband and I met on Thanksgiving. Over nineteen years the story–our story, our once upon a time–has been honed and polished. We’ve been together long enough that we both tell the same version–the she said and the he said have long since been we said. This year I had planned back to back posts of a very different nature and then life went and threw a monkey wrench into my sea of relative calm and well, here we are. Here I am. Not so silently vibrating with rage. Lightening bolts of fury crackling from my fingertips.
The thing with fury is that you never know when it’s just going to burn itself out. When it’s just going to extinguish and take with it not only the flame but the light you use to guide yourself. It could be five minutes from now. It could be two years. But however long it takes, I know I have a safe haven to land, to dock. It’s the same one I’ve had one for nineteen years. Even when things are going along float-ingly and I’ve no use for it, it’s there.
There is a saying I am fond of, one of those slightly cheesy-could-be-on-a-poster-in-a-break-room type quotes:
Fate whispers to the warrior, you cannot withstand the storm.
The warrior whispers back I am the storm.
There is a lot of energy contained in a storm. It can do a lot of damage, but it can also sweep away the detritus, blow away the cobwebs, leave everything around it…different. My husband has, with unfailing consistency, accepted each storm, accepted the damage, accepted the different. Exactly as I have done for him. In a story of Heroes and Leanders, we have played each to the other.**
And for that, today and everyday, I am thankful.
I tease my husband that I am an easy person to be married to. Except for the hard bits. It is not easy being married to someone who is vocal, who is opinionated. I will say passionate, but passion is often bedfellows with lunacy and single-mindedness. Yet not only does my husband carve out a space for me to refuel and sometimes lick my wounds and heal, he is proud of my opinionated, single-minded, passion bordering on lunacy.
And for that too I am thankful.
I don’t subscribe to the idea of luck when it comes to love and relationships, though I am partial to a bit of fate all tied up with string. My husband and I chose a course, a series of conscious decisions which led us to one another, which led us exactly here.
So in the history of us, a love story which started over pumpkin pie and has led us all around the world, I am once agin reminded to be thankful. Not only for the ability to feel, and feel well and passionately, but to have a place to dock, night after night. And to offer a place in return.
**If you’re not familiar with the story of Hero and Leander, it ends, as with most myths, with death. Leander crashes upon the rocks. A distraught Hero throws herself of the cliff. Rest assured that my infatuation with Greek mythology stops short at the death bits. I’m not that passionate.