epithalamium

I've been married five times, four times to the same man. My second husband, Charles, and I got married in bits. We were legally joined at 8:00 AM on New Years Eve at New York City Hall, after standing in line outside in the bitter cold. We roped a friend visiting from out-of-town into being our witness--nearly everyone else we knew was on vacation. We were crowned with tropical-flower leis in the church a few weeks later at Juvenaly's Orthodox Mission in Kona, Hawaii. Afterward we sipped champagne with dear friends and looked out at the sea. To include our local parish and friends (now all returned to NYC from vacation), our marriage was then blessed a few days after Valentine's at St Mary Magdalen's Orthodox Church on the Upper West Side. And then, when I'd really had enough of these weddings, we celebrated with family (and a number of taxidermic creatures) in a spare one-room schoolhouse on the high plains south of Denver, Colorado. Elk, salmon, and a number of awkward toasts, were served.

I recite all this in some way to explain why I chose the poem by Matthew Roher below. So much of our first year of marriage was spent in external activities and events. There was so much to plan, to do, to adjust to. I sometimes forgot the man I'd fallen in love with, who teased me in courtyard at the Cloisters and then pointed out the subtle s-curve in a wooden scupture of the Virgin Mary. Under all the shiny things we did that first year, under all the weddings, moves, stresses, presents, and purchases, something was hidden. Something known barely to ourselves, this thing that grows from two lives lived side-by-side. In the solitude of our own hearts, and in the often dogged discussions we had about life and our life together, a space was plotted and a garden planted.

By the way, an epithalamium is a poem written in honor of the bride and groom.


E P I T H A L A M I U M

In the middle garden is the secret wedding,
that hides always under the other one
and under the shiny things of the other one. Under a tree
one hand reaches through the grainy dusk toward another.
Two right hands. The ring is a weed that will surely die.

There is no one else for miles,
and even those people far away are deaf and blind.
There is no one to bless this.
There are the dark trees, and just beyond the trees.

by Matthew Roher

{ Poetry Wednesday }

drawing souls or just discrepancies

On my first date with Charles we argued so vehemently that we ended up sitting on opposite ends of a public bench in Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, seething. Pink cherry blossoms fluttered past as I vowed to never date this man again, ruing the fact that we attended the same parish. Looking back now it is clear that the same dynamic that fueled our anger was also the impetus which brought us together.

Nowadays it goes something like this:

Me: I don't think Isaiah should go out like this, he needs his ears covered.
Charles: It's not that cold, he'll be fine.
Me: Yes, it is cold. And babies get earaches easily.
Charles: You are such a worrier.
Me: Well, the books say that their ears... er, well, I'm just trying to be a good mom.
Charles: Every mother has some thing she obsesses about.
Me: I'm not obsessing! Why do you always disagree with me?

It seems like every conversation is a more or less dramatic version of this, ending in me yelling, "Why don't you just agree with me?" Which is where it gets confusing, because then Charles says he does agree with me. And has all along.

If he did agree with me, though, I imagine a scenario more like this:

Me: I don't think Isaiah should go out like this, he needs his ears covered.
Charles: Oh, of course, it's cold. Where is his hat?

I was thinking about this yesterday in the shower (being the only place where I can think anymore), and when I got out I sat down next to Charles with a pad and colored pens. I said I had a few questions to ask him, and he looked at my pad and markers and said, "oh, no, is this one of those things where we have to draw our souls?"

I rolled my eyes and drew a circle. I said, "How often do you agree or disagree, in general, with what people have to say?" He said it was fifty-fifty. I cut the circle in two and colored the section for agree green and the section for disagree pink (see figure 1 above). Then, "Well, how do you think people perceive your response to what they are saying? What percentage of the time do they think you agree or disagree with what they are saying? Like here, on a pie-chart." Charles figured that only 25% of the time they thought he agreed with them and 75% of the time they thought he disagreed with them (figure 2). Then I asked, "How often do you agree with what I have to say?" "Ninety percent of the time" he said comfortably. I raised my eyebrows, and drew another pink and green pie chart (see figure 1a). Then, drawing the fourth circle, I said, "Well, here is how often I think you agree with me." I drew a small sliver for "agree," indicating that I assume he is agreeing with me only, say, 15% of the time (see figure 2a).

I don't know what conclusion you would draw from this exercise, but I'd say that this neat little discrepancy is why we argue so much.

you make me feel like an incompetent woman

Last week when I came home Charles was sitting at his computer. This is usually what Charles is doing when I come home, and his screen is usually covered with inscrutable columns of numbers or puzzling line graphs. He never seems to brood over these pages, but flips through them as if they were Italian shoes he was considering purchasing on zappos. He greeted me and cheerfully asked me if I had my 2006 tax forms. I think I just looked at him blankly for awhile--no one I know asks after tax forms cheerfully. But when I unearthed the fat 2006 envelope from H&R Block, Charles immediately set to work on our joint 2007 taxes, occasionally asking me to clarify this or that.

Watching him, I felt guilty in that neurotic married way I've suddenly rediscovered. Guilty because someone is doing something for me that I imagine is burdening them. Guilty because I am not doing it myself and thus must be incompetent and in need of a great deal of help. I finally said, "you don't have to do that, you know." Charles stopped and looked at me with puzzled expression, "I'm confused," he said, "do you not want me to do our taxes?" I paused and considered. "Well," I said, "If you want to do them, if you don't mind doing them, it's great, really great." Charles turned back to the computer and continued to plug away at our taxes without the slightest trace of resentment.

I'm just not used to this. Not used to being married to such an amazingly capable and cheerful man who actually seems to enjoy doing things for me. It's not that I mind exactly, it's that I feel awkward about it. I'm used to being the one who does things for other people. I'm used to feeling, well, very competent. It's sick, I know: because my "competence" calculated against another person's "incompetence" isn't the most healthy self-esteem measurement system. It isn't very nice--or fair--for either party. But I felt it worked for me in the past.

It worked for me with my ex-husband, for example. Now, for the record, I have a great deal of respect and affection for my ex-husband, but it isn't stretching things to say that he wasn't exactly a pillar of practicality. The everyday workings of life often seemed to elude him, and I was more than happy to sort it all out on his behalf. I considered his absentmindedness mostly endearing. Looking back, though, I must admit that he bolstered my fragile self-image--I was necessary for his survival, a superwoman with forms and paperwork. It all seems rather pathetic now: without him as a foil I'm just mediocre with paperwork, and with practicality in general.

Charles and I went to work-out that evening, and when we returned he sat down at his computer and resumed work on our taxes, sweaty gym clothes notwithstanding. This baffled me just as much as his wanting to do the taxes in the first place. I can't imagine prolonging financial paperwork late into the evening donned in damp exercise gear. I added this to the top of my list of odd behavior proving Charles is nuts, or a robot, or an alien. In a short while he announced he'd finished and that we'd receive a nice tax return from the IRS. I probably just grunted; it all seemed like science-fiction.

The next day at work I gratefully pondered my enormously efficient husband, how incredibly fortunate I am to have his help and love. When I went to get my mail, I found a letter from the Department of Revenue addressed to my ex-husband, stating that he owed money and that his license could be revoked as a consequence.

I think I'm coming out on the side of feeling incompetent, if only temporarily. It's healthy to work toward a more reasonable measurement of self-worth, just as it's healthy to let others help and support me without feeling guilty. And, really, I don't want to do the taxes ever again.

a pinch of moana

I've been pinching myself often lately. I expect any moment to wake up in my apartment in Crestwood and feel my familiar old bed rattling as the Metro North express train passes on its way to White Plains. Instead, it's 6:30 am and I've been wide awake for two hours, listening to waves beating on the Waikiki beach just below our balcony. I also awake of late to the sound of sirens wailing 34 floors down, and I lie and watch the sky lighten over Central Park, turning the midtown high rises outside the window from gray to green to gold. Sometimes pigeons circle, flapping down to roost on this or that cluttered rooftop.

My life has changed at speeds of which I didn't think myself capable. I still don't, which is why I pinch myself, or alternately lie down under my desk after work (the one place in my daily life which has remained the same) and close my eyes and pray.

I'm in Hawaii to get married for the second time to the same person (Charles and I got married at NY City Hall on December 31st, 2007). Fr John Schroedel will be marrying us in a few days in Kona, Hawaii, and then we plan on getting married to each other at least two more times in the next few months. It's occurred to me that these spaced-out weddings actually serve to soften the intensity of the change, not to mention that small events are easier to plan and offer a charming spontaneity.

There are so many things to write about--the beauty of finding the "next right thing" to which to address oneself, the difficulty of having to make decisions with another person who doesn't always naturally agree with me, the surprising ease of being married to a man who regularly makes wise decisions without worry, my unease about having a doorman or a cleaning lady. It all, quite honestly, seems unreal.

I was pinching myself again last night when we arrived at our hotel. We drove into Waikiki at sunset after having spent the day touring the parts of the island where Charles' grew up, went to school, body surfed. Waikiki is different from the rest of the island and I was lamenting having to stay at a hotel here. "It's so touristy. Like a big mall, " I complained. Charles said nothing. We passed yet another Louis Vuitton, another glittery hotel. Sigh. And then we pulled into the most magnificent building I've seen since arriving in Hawaii. A historic landmark, the beautifully restored Moana is the oldest hotel in Hawaii. Built in 1901, it holds a grace and elegance that instantly shut down my whining. Our room has a balcony overlooking the ocean, and from where I sit at my computer all I see is blue waves, the tops of two palm trees and a handful of morning surfers bathed in early sunlight.

I'm adjusting.