Being Married

Getting married is a peak experience. Being married is climbing a mountain.

totally unretouched
Grand Teton, Wyoming

I don’t mean that in a negative way. Standing in thin air gets boring. But the shift to day-to-day, one foot in front of the other is a major adjustment. In such times, it is essential to seek the wisdom of those who have gone before. Especially if your family history includes a succession of marriages with the sinking/explosive properties of depth charges.

We began married life with Joan Didion’s gimlet-eyed appraisal of ’60s Vegas,  “Marrying Absurd” from her astonishing essay collection Slouching Towards Bethlahem.slouching

“Dressing rooms, Flowers, Rings, Announcements, Witnessess Available, and Ample Parking,” Didion writes. “All of these services, like most others in Las Vegas (sauna baths, payroll-check cashing, chinchilla coats for sale or rent) are offered twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, presumably on the premise that marriage, like craps, is a game to be played when the table seems hot.”

My husband and I wed within 48 hours of getting the marriage licence. Our engagement (unannounced) lasted about two weeks. Why the rush? Because it passed the last day test, e.g. if tomorrow were my last day on earth, I wanted to spend it as his wife.

Here we are, then, married.

Life continues.

Specifically, he is still on the road with work. I’m staying with family, living out of a suitcase for the final weeks of his contract. Some time in the next month we hope to have a home in Spain. If everything works out. We count on things working out.

Optimism is a prerequisite for any marriage. Ours is probably no more demanding than any other, just different.

It is easy to feel alone in this new thing so I am grateful to my dear friend, the gifted writer Melissa Madenski. When she says, “you should read” I listen. Over coffee at Tabor Space — a coffee shop sanctuary tucked into a church in Southeast Portland — she recommended This is the Story of a Happy Marriage by Ann Patchett.

happy marriage

A couple years ago I read and loathed both The Patron Saint of Liars and Truth & Beauty but Melissa doesn’t give bad advice so I trotted off to get …Happy Marriage.

Among other things, it taught me to be willing to give writers another chance. Though I have no desire to read any more of her fiction, Patchett’s essay on marriage sends reverberations down the long bones of my legs. She writes of her relationship with her second husband which, for over a decade, was defined by her refusal to marry. After a disastrous first marriage she decided there was no need to ever do that again. A sensible stance, if you ask me.

Then her partner is diagnosed with a serious heart condition. “All these years I had thought to be afraid of only one potential ending: by not marrying Karl, we could never get divorced,” she writes. “By not marrying him, he would never be lost to me. Now I could see the failure of my imagination. I had accounted only for the loss I knew enough to fear.”

I know that feeling, the hammer-blow realisation that what I’m scared of isn’t what’s at stake. Fear is provocative, especially in relationships. Not fear of what is, but fear of what we remember, and what we imagine might be.

Adrienne Rich describes it as “pain… flashing its bleak torch in my eyes/blotting out her particular being/the details of her love. (From “Splittings” in Dream of a Common Language). We all have baggage, remembered wounds that flare up under the heat of common languageemotional intensity. The memory of pain become a self-perpetuating cycle of fear, if you let it. Fear is a virus that needs us to replicate. It will multiply and gorge itself on our happiness unless we keep our eyes locked on the details of our love.

Patchett recognises the consequences of letting the virus breed. “The fact that we came so close to missing out, missing out because of my own fear of failing, makes me think I avoided a mortal accident by the thickness of a coat of paint. We are, on this earth, so incredibly small, in the history of time, in the crowd of the world, we are practically invisible, not even a dot, and yet we have each other to hold on to.”

Holding on to each other is the privilege and work of being married. Writing that, it occurs to me to wonder how this will read to me when I’ve been married a year? Five? Ten? What will time tell? Should I save this post as a draft for a few years to make sure things work out?

I could. But that would be to blink in the face of pain’s bleak torch. And I can’t see the path ahead if my eyes are shut.

 

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