The Waiting is the Hardest Part
A year. It's been a year. I'm sitting here at my laptop, the quiet of the day settled around me. My husband is asleep upstairs. My big, fat, orange cat is laying on the window perch, stretched out with his speckled belly sunning. It is silent save for the occasional sound of life from one of the neighboring apartments. Life is good.
Funny how happiness sort of comes along out of nowhere. In the airport, it sidles up and puts its arm around your waist and settles there. You didn't notice because it's been right there, so close, for so long,that you just sink into it without much thought. You're far too busy to be actively looking for it, and then you have a moment, and you realize, it's here.
It's not that ecstatic joy of finding it after an absence, or the stomach-dropping giddy glee of roller coasters and first sights. It's much quieter, much more elusive. Don't let it fool you though. That ease of moment, that soothed soul space – that's it. Believe it or not, when it comes down to it and you need that happy place, it's like that. It's soft and easy.
I got married. I got married to the perfect man. He doesn't know how to load the dishwasher. He doesn't clean the hair out of the sink when he shaves. He leaves piles of books and mail and pocket contents all over. He cleans the litter box. He takes out the trash. He thinks I'm beautiful. He wants more than anything to please me. For me to be happy. I am. You should see his face when he really gets it right. He's the most beautiful thing on the planet in those moments. I want to be happy if for no reason than it makes him happy. Something in the depths of his dark eyes gets sharp and dazzling in those moments and as long as I get to see those every once in a while, I'll never forget that he's perfect.
In all of this I think I learned something about love. All kinds. If you want love, make it. Create something you think is beautiful. If you aren't sure that you can, try. And then wait. The waiting really is the hardest part. Wait for the people who come along and tell you that your thing is beautiful. Even if you didn't make it exactly the way you meant to. Those people, who see the beauty in the thing that your mind saw beauty in, those are your people. Then hang on tight. I don't mean suffocate them. I mean, be your most authentic self. Be all of yourself. They'll see you. All of the mess and the soul and the gorgeous, luminosity. Really, hang on tight isn't right. Let go. Love in them the things that you can't love in yourself. See that vulnerability and sharp edges and ragged soul and love that hard. And when you start to love people who are flawed and raw and real, you'll see that you are the same. Before you know it, you'll see yourself in them. And then you'll realize that these stunning examples of humanity that you hold so dear are you. Little slivers of you. One day you'll wake up and one tiny thing that you saw in yourself as unlovable is what makes you real. That's your Velveteen Rabbit parts. And those vulnerabilities are what makes you lovable. You can't love perfect. For one, it's not real. No one and nothing is perfect. And if it's perfect, it's not real. Especially people.
And that's how I woke up married to this perfect man. So much of him is not what I thought I wanted. In the mind, I had an idea. My idea didn't dry his hands on my face towel. But my idea was a big ole fraud. The real man is something else entirely. He is flawed and he is damaged and he is real. And somehow, he's also absolutely perfect. And I thank the universe for him every single day. Sometimes, even as I'm irritated by his "being difficult" as he calls it. I can be quite difficult too. And while I want to be perfect for him, I know that as we get better together, that we do it together. We never have to struggle through anything alone again. And that's the part that makes the perfect even sweeter.
We're six months in. I look forward to living some life with this man. We do that part pretty well together. As much as I love the "new" I know it's the parts that come out of nowhere that make the whole forever thing work. It's the soft, easy Grace that curls up at your feet. And that part we have down pretty well.
Funny how happiness sort of comes along out of nowhere. In the airport, it sidles up and puts its arm around your waist and settles there. You didn't notice because it's been right there, so close, for so long,that you just sink into it without much thought. You're far too busy to be actively looking for it, and then you have a moment, and you realize, it's here.
It's not that ecstatic joy of finding it after an absence, or the stomach-dropping giddy glee of roller coasters and first sights. It's much quieter, much more elusive. Don't let it fool you though. That ease of moment, that soothed soul space – that's it. Believe it or not, when it comes down to it and you need that happy place, it's like that. It's soft and easy.
I got married. I got married to the perfect man. He doesn't know how to load the dishwasher. He doesn't clean the hair out of the sink when he shaves. He leaves piles of books and mail and pocket contents all over. He cleans the litter box. He takes out the trash. He thinks I'm beautiful. He wants more than anything to please me. For me to be happy. I am. You should see his face when he really gets it right. He's the most beautiful thing on the planet in those moments. I want to be happy if for no reason than it makes him happy. Something in the depths of his dark eyes gets sharp and dazzling in those moments and as long as I get to see those every once in a while, I'll never forget that he's perfect.
In all of this I think I learned something about love. All kinds. If you want love, make it. Create something you think is beautiful. If you aren't sure that you can, try. And then wait. The waiting really is the hardest part. Wait for the people who come along and tell you that your thing is beautiful. Even if you didn't make it exactly the way you meant to. Those people, who see the beauty in the thing that your mind saw beauty in, those are your people. Then hang on tight. I don't mean suffocate them. I mean, be your most authentic self. Be all of yourself. They'll see you. All of the mess and the soul and the gorgeous, luminosity. Really, hang on tight isn't right. Let go. Love in them the things that you can't love in yourself. See that vulnerability and sharp edges and ragged soul and love that hard. And when you start to love people who are flawed and raw and real, you'll see that you are the same. Before you know it, you'll see yourself in them. And then you'll realize that these stunning examples of humanity that you hold so dear are you. Little slivers of you. One day you'll wake up and one tiny thing that you saw in yourself as unlovable is what makes you real. That's your Velveteen Rabbit parts. And those vulnerabilities are what makes you lovable. You can't love perfect. For one, it's not real. No one and nothing is perfect. And if it's perfect, it's not real. Especially people.
And that's how I woke up married to this perfect man. So much of him is not what I thought I wanted. In the mind, I had an idea. My idea didn't dry his hands on my face towel. But my idea was a big ole fraud. The real man is something else entirely. He is flawed and he is damaged and he is real. And somehow, he's also absolutely perfect. And I thank the universe for him every single day. Sometimes, even as I'm irritated by his "being difficult" as he calls it. I can be quite difficult too. And while I want to be perfect for him, I know that as we get better together, that we do it together. We never have to struggle through anything alone again. And that's the part that makes the perfect even sweeter.
We're six months in. I look forward to living some life with this man. We do that part pretty well together. As much as I love the "new" I know it's the parts that come out of nowhere that make the whole forever thing work. It's the soft, easy Grace that curls up at your feet. And that part we have down pretty well.
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