Scribbler's Cafe

Fidelity and stuff

Today longing overcame fear. I now sit at the keyboard and type, despite my insecurities and the dread that nothing I ever write will matter, or that I am a selfish fool to spend my time with words when I could be spending quality time with my daughter, or learning Japanese or even simply cleaning our messy apartment.

When I was finally able to declare out loud that I wanted to be a writer, my first step was clear. I needed to go back to college and learn more about my chosen craft and the world around me. Now I am finished with school. I should be producing. I have no good reason not to be churning out great pieces of mature writing.

I am not a mature writer. No matter how much I desperately want to believe I am. Despite my shining years at college, I have a long long way to go before I even approach the level I want to write at. Level. That’s not the right word. I am more looking for a convergence. A convergence of what I want to say meeting well crafted prose. A clarity of ideas and a memorable style of writing. The pressure is on. It’s my own dreams and desires that cause me anxiety. That, and the fact that I’ve declared that I want to be a great writer out loud and often. Not just a writer – a great writer. Ambition paralyzes me. Flattens my enthusiasm.

But today, longing over came fear and now I sit at my keyboard and feel the familiar rush of my words flowing from my fingertips. Sweet oblivion.

Meanwhile – I am searching for an answer to maintaining love and fidelity (a charming pastime I assure you) I came across a wonderful chapter in Madeleine L’Engle’s book “The Irrational Season.” She is a writer (a WORKING writer) married to an actor/playwright/director. Their marriage is long. At the books printing – their marriage was going on 30 years. That was 25 years ago. She is still alive and (I think) still married. Very impressive. I always look with wonder at the couples who manage to stay together that long.

Anyway, L’Engle has many wonderful insights and things to say about love and marriage in this chapter. Yet what struck me most was a poem.

LOVERS APART

In what, love, does fidelity consist?
I will be true to you, of course.
My body’s needs I can resist,
Come back to you without remorse.

And you, behind the floodlight’s lure,
Kissing an actress on the stage,
Will leave her presence there, I’m sure,
As I my people of the page.

And yet – I love you, darling, yet
I sat with someone at a table
And gloried in our minds that met
As sometimes strangers’ minds are able

To leap the bounds of time and space
And find, in sharing wine and bread
And light in one another’s face
And in the words that each has said,

An intercourse so intimate
It shook me deeply to the core.
I said good night, for it was late;
We parted at my hotel door

And I went in, turned down the bed
And took my bath and thought of you
Leaving the theatre with light tread
And going off, as you should do. . . .

To rest, relax, and eat and talk –
And I lie there and wonder who
Will wander with you as you walk
And what you both will say and do. . . .

We may not love in emptiness;
We married in a peopled place;
The vows we made enrich and bless
The smile on every stranger’s face,

And all the years that we have spent
Give me the joy that makes me able
To love and laugh with sacrament
Across a strange and distant table.

No matter where I am, you are,
We two are one and bread is broken
And laughter shared both near and far
Deepens the promises spoken

And strengthens our fidelity
Although I cannot tell you how,
But I rejoice in mystery
And rest upon our marriage vow.

This poem is lovely as poems go, but it spoke to me very directly, giving a partial answer to my immense question. I have sat across from dear new faces and found a connection that has shaken me to the core. I ask how can Matt and I survive if I find myself drawn so strongly to men who are nothing like him? I know in those instances that here in our earthly lives Matt will never understand or know me in the way some rare people do. Some things I value most about my heart and mind, Matt can’t seem to reach. Still, I love him, and he loves me. How is this possible?

I was walking home from work with my friend Dan (OUR friend actually, one who has known us both since we were simply Matt and Kelsye and not MattandKelsye), and he was talking about a nice couple we both know and how it delights him how they are so well suited for each other. He said that it gives him peace just to know that people can match like that. I grimaced and furrowed my brows and asked, though I knew the answer, “Do you think Matt and I fit together like that?”

Dan scoffed and laughed and said hell no, but we seem happy so what does it matter.

My feelings were hurt. I consider myself insanely rich and lucky in love and expect everyone else to think that way too. When I write these words I realize it’s more than that. I guess I am shocked that we are not envied. Don’t you envy me, my friends? No, they do not.

How strange. What a confused picture we must make from the outside. I have no perspective. I only know what it is like to live within our love. Our love – though bizarre and probably mis-matched, is enduring and strong nonetheless.

To fall in love is a risk. To make vows of eternal faithfulness is an even bigger risk. I knowingly and happily tie myself to this man who is so completely different than me. I know that the odds are stacked against us, but still I say to him, “I love you. I am striving to always be with you.” It’s a bit like the much smaller risk I take when I say out loud that I want to be a writer. I know that my chances are slim, yet still I have publicly dedicated my heart to this pursuit. A broken vow is so much more painful than a hope never voiced. The promises we made to each other in front of our friends and loved ones exposed us to the possibility of a great failure.

When the doubt gets to me – and it does, like when I meet a dear soul over a table and our minds race along in surprising comprehension – I simply image my life without Matt, and I am reduced to whimpers and remorse. The daydream of a new romance is light and delightful, but the nightmare of life without Matt is horrific. The easy response would be to say that our attachment is just neediness and familiarity; ugly, unromantic co-dependency. But if it were merely that I were afraid to live my life alone, then I could have easily attached myself to many of the willing men that came after Matt and promised me an easier, more joyful life. (As if it were theirs to give.) I grimace when I consider what it would have been like for me to abandon my relationship with Matt. For all the temporary distractions that come my way, the future I imagine for myself always includes Matt. Matt may not be my match, but he is most assuredly my partner.

While this amazing man may not ever completely understand me or find pleasure in all the pursuits that fulfill me, he is the soul on this earth that knows me best. Matt knows the very worst things about me on a very intimate level. It’s in the areas of my mind that I consider to be the best of that he doesn’t quite comprehend. Here is where my danger lies - when I meet the people that do communicate in those more flattering areas of self. Yet, for knowing so well the ugliest parts of me and only some of the good – this man loves me fully and truly.

That blows my mind.

I’m rather psychotic and demanding, you know. You still want to live with me forever and ever? “Yep.” I’m not very fair and sometimes think I’m much more special than I really am. You still want to spend your days with me forever and ever? “Yep.” I can be stunningly selfish and critical of others. You still want to share my bed forever and ever? “Yep.”

Huh. That’s interesting….

Matt turned 27 today. We became a couple when he was 17. I fell in love with him in that all-consuming, idealized way that only teenagers are capable of. I can’t believe how much he’s changed since then. I can’t believe how much more I love him today.

posted by Scribbler @ Friday, November 12, 2004