“Love is not about being the same. Love is about two humans appreciating one another. We will work it out, without compromising. But we will each be the first to give an inch, many times over. The key is not to take it personally, because I know your bedrock, and you know mine. The key is that you and I would like to be gentle more than we would like to be right. I would like to talk with you, which includes listening and talking and not talking.”

~ Things I would like to do with You.

Things look good—nay, beautiful, on the outside.

But don’t be fooled.

On the inside, life is hard but good but hard and painful. Money is tight, couple counseling is helpful, each morning and evening I meditate “as if my hair is on fire,” our messy new old house is coming together slowly, my brilliantly eco and creative and dear Boulder home is empty yet the mortgage keeps on tick-tocking. Love and friendship with my dear wife are always there, we always come back.

But communication or lack thereof determines whether we can connect in any given moment, hour, week, year. Nevertheless, I dedicate my energies to my dear wife and our coming child [update!] and our family to-dos. I dedicate my energies to work, too, which pays for all of this transition and grounding: ah, my work is a path of service and exertion and joy—writing, and relating with community in running Elephant is tenuous (times are hard for indie media, what little is left) but thoroughly fulfilling. I half-work until 2 or 3 am most nights.

Sometimes 4 am.

Winfield, my rescue dog, is with me now, a sweet feisty silly joy. I bike during the day, work a little, relate with house unpacking (a mountain of cardboard boxes) and issues (termites, mold, a funky washing machine, funky hard water through lead pipes, a half dozen other plumbing issues, a roof in need of repair, broken windows, doors that don’t quite work…you name it). Our nursery, thanks in large part to friends, has come together with lovely secondhand eco elegance.

The hours in each day are too few.

Times are good, bad, hard.

I am hanging in there. That is my practice: hanging in there.

On the outside, it might all look good. But don’t be fooled. On the inside, it’s a time of growth, discomfort, awakening, service, suffering, loneliness, homesickness (read more here), and joy, and fun, and exploration.

Commitment, like building an airplane in the air while falling, is not something you can do ahead of time, even by saying “I do.”

It’s something you learn about as it’s tested.

When things are disconnected, you work on the reconnection.

It’s not theory. It’s mud. It’s grit. It’s coming back to the goodness of friendship and love, again and again, when everything in you screams to turn left or right or back.

But as Trungpa Rinpoche talked about it, in a relationship it’s like we’re a snake in a bamboo tube. Forward is all we have, and that’s when we finally learn a thing or two about life and presence and breathing in, and out, and doing our best, and the helpfulness of counseling and community and true friends and, sometimes, family, and, sometimes, a good cup of coffee, or a good healthy meal with hot sauce or the simple magic in laughing and playing in the midst of it all. Sometimes bicycling is our therapy, and sometimes it’s doing the dishes, and sometimes it’s working late and sleeping deeply.

And while it all may feel like a nightmare, endless, Sisyphean, I wake and it’s “good morning, sunshiiiiine!” again.

Photographs by Michelle Lynn 

@themotherlylens

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