When I lived in Ferndale, seemingly in another life (before I was married, before I was Orthodox, before I had kids), I read the New York Times every Sunday. I turned first to the Weddings pages and read the stories of how people found each other, how people found love.
I imagined then that I would meet someone one day, the person I would marry and build a life with, and we would, together, read the Sunday NYT together – over coffee, with 94.7 Sunday Morning Over Easy on the radio. We wouldn’t talk, we’d just pass a section to the other when we had finished with it, and between us would hover that unspoken contentedness that I imagined, yearned for.
That did not happen with my marriage.
Perhaps I should have seen it as a sign of incompatibility. But the image faded from mind and I delved into what would become my life for eight solid years of less-than-happy.
So now…the old image is back and I realize that I am finally living it.
It’s Sunday morning and Dan is still asleep. Outside, the birds are chirping their morning song and inside, the scent of the dinner we made last night together lingers.
Yesterday, we strolled the Royal Oak Farmers Market, selecting swiss chard, fresh eggs, patty pan squash and heirloom tomatoes, for slicing and sauteing in my kitchen together.
It was Chris Isaak on the CD player and candles flickering on the counter and every few steps – he at his cuttinb board, me at mine, or both of us flitting between pans on the stove – we’d brush past one another and stop with a subtle smile and a nestle into the other.
On Sundays, at Dan’s apartment, we read the New York Times.
Just now, I flitted to the newspaper’s website to glance at the weddings featured there, and I watched a video of how one couple met. In San Francisco, in 2002, they found each other and realized all the things they liked and believed in matched. They started working together, living life together, inhabiting the same air.
It’s like that with us, though our children complicate the picture, certainly.
Until you find that person, that one whose presence makes everything more colorful, more breathable, more beautiful, it’s impossible to imagine it. It’s not mere love – it’s not mere companionship.
It’s a grounding in the idea that I-belong-here and we-were-meant-for-each-other. Everything else stands still.
Ok, I’ll stop waxing poetic about my midlife boyfriend. But truthfully, there are no words for that merging of two minds, two souls, two bodies – it’s a miracle that it ever happens, a precious gift that opens one’s eyes to all the possibilities in Life.