A year ago last night, she proposed. I said yes. There were holiday lights on the cacti and homemade tacos. There she was, on one knee. All of our daughters were there. Two years ago, we had not yet met in person. How can this be? Time’s a trickster that thrives on our perceptions.
Two years ago, I kissed a stranger on New Year’s Eve after emancipating myself from what I’d thought was love and was afraid to leave but finally said didn’t feel like love. It was something, yes–something else. Lust, chemistry, karma even. But if it doesn’t feel like love, there’s a high probability it isn’t.
And what you know, you know, no matter how you may argue with yourself otherwise. For the record, this can hurt like hell and it can take a while; like a kosher slaughter, a clean cut can be the kindest gesture.
But back to love–love was getting on a plane. Love was choosing to be alone. Love was getting picked up at the curb with no ulterior motive or hidden agenda. Love was the moment I set a timer and then stopped crying when it went off. Love was her hands on my back that first night together and her question to me: Do you ever relax? Love is my belated answer back, this week, doing so much of nothing in her company.
Love is the open road and the well run dry and our giddiness in the Asian market and my first time eating crab rangoon (oh my god how did it take me almost forty years to eat crab rangoon?). Love is the winter market and her face contorting happily to a mouthful of kimchi. Love is talking to the cheese-maker guy about kimchi being a solo experience and bread being a communal one, and then joking about how eating cheese can go either way. Or maybe you had to be there.
In any case, a year ago, she proposed and I said yes. We imagined it would be three, four, maybe five years of living apart, of being engaged. Her word of the year was “Sure.” It sure was.She was sure, as surely as she’s lying here next to me in bed, napping.
Life together is ordinary. In the ordinary come glimpses of fictional characters who could come alive on a movie screen. In the ordinary come conversations about our kids. In the ordinary come moments of melting down and desperately seeking old crutches and others of testing out deodorant scents and how excited she is for Sunday’s coupons. And it’s like this–the days begin and have lots of parts and then the sun starts its descent, although already the birds singing sound like spring and it’s not even January yet, and I wonder–what things will have happened a year from now that a year from now I’ll say hadn’t happened yet a year ago?
To live in this way–to live at all, to be loved without worrying about whether it’s love, to need sometimes to get away from myself but never from her, and to be with someone who mirrors back to me my ability to stay, to stay with myself, to offer myself the kind of kindness and patience and encouragement she gives so freely–this is what I often refer to as “lucky.”
Last night, I wrote some holiday cards. Actually, they say “Season’s Greetings” and they are mercifully undated and generic enough that I can send them as long as it’s within a few weeks on either side of the new year. I found myself wanting to say a handwritten hello to a handful of old friends, people I’m barely if at all in touch with lately but think of often. People who will not otherwise know I am thinking of them.
My head has been so full of thoughts lately, thoughts and ideas and lists I haven’t been writing down. Every time I write a poem that seems to resonate with people, I feel connected to my purpose in life and long to do more with it. Every time she looks at me with that slight crease between her brows, I feel loved beyond. Every time I sit in on Aviva’s learning sessions with the rabbi in preparation for her bat mitzvah, I wonder what will tip me over into the kind of Jewish study that could lead to my being a free-agent rabbi who does pastoral counseling and helps interfaith couples navigate child-raising and facilitates life-cycle events and teaches and tells stories and serves. Serves. Listens. Leads. Sits with people. So there’s that little fantasy, if you can call something that began around age sixteen and has ebbed and flowed and evolved and back-burnered and shape-shifted but never, ever dissipated a “fantasy.”
Fantasies are what happen in the life that you’ll never actually live, which to me really means that fantasies are often very tied up with suffering. They are where love lives when you don’t feel loved. They are where fulfillment occurs when you feel stuck. They are where every day life is easy when sometimes it just isn’t. They are where your crutch–be it a shot of whiskey, a pack of smokes, or a pan of brownies–really, really, really will make it all better.
Fantasy is not the same as dreaming. Fantasy is what your mind uses as a torture device. Fantasy is bullshit and you know it.
The opposite of fantasy is not striving. Not lying about love and not lying about health and not feeling like you have to hide the hard moments. The opposite of fantasy is this incredibly loving and accommodating thing life does: it keeps happening. It may suck sometimes, but wow, thanks, life. I’m dead serious. I thank you. I can’t wait to see what you have in store for 2014. I plan on sticking around for the whole thing so that in a year, I can sit down and say, it again: Wow. A year ago, this, a year ago, that. May it be so. May this be a year of not getting lost in fantasy, but of using the word itself as a timer, a catcher’s mitt, a sifter. A reminder of what’s here, what I can and want to do.
When I catch myself fantasizing, I’ll stop and ask myself one simple question:
Does this thing really matter to me?
If the answer is NO, I’ll knock that shit off and move on. And if the answer is YES, then I will ask myself what I’m willing to do (change, begin, etc.) to bring it to life.
Keep me honest here, people. And I’ll pledge to keeping it real.
Photo by Antanas Sutkus