[thenightwriterblog] The Night Writer: A balm in Gilead, part 2

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Posted by The Night Writer:
A balm in Gilead, part 2
http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1198116731.shtml


      The second in a series, part writing exercise and part year-end
                                reflection,
      about the "balms" in my life, inspired by the book, [1]Gilead by
                            Marilynne Robinson.

   "We should talk more," she said, her bare foot lightly brushing mine.
   She's logical and practical in a way that some men say they wish women
   could be more like. There's wisdom and concern in her words, a concern
   that perhaps we're becoming too autonomous, rising and setting like
   the sun and the moon covering the same familiar ground but at
   different times, our orbits barely overlapping. Nevertheless,
   sometimes during the day, you can see the moon.
   Earlier in the evening we had talked, sitting in big, comfy chairs in
   front of a too-hot fireplace at a local coffee shop. Then her motions
   had been gamine-quick, almost coltish as she reached across the small
   space between our chairs and stroked the arm of mine, or raised up to
   draw her legs underneath her, or raised her arms to take off her
   sweater when the fire became too uncomfortable even for her, the one
   who shivers almost non-stop from Labor Day to Memorial Day. She was
   telling me about her dreams, literally. Those fast-asleep dreams she
   had had recently, round and portentous, dripping with symbolism and
   still crystal-clear upon waking. To some extent they were also Dreams,
   having to do with what she wanted for the future, to pursue.
   As for myself, the one who used to never be able to shut up, I had
   leaned back in my chair meditatively, parsing the symbols and
   conjuring context. Leaning back is something I've found myself doing
   more often the last few years; I'm not as concerned about letting
   silence into the conversation anymore, whereas before I often couldn't
   wait to careen in and even high-jack it, not daring to leave a space
   where someone else could take it away.
   Now, later in the evening, when she says "We should talk more," it's
   not so much to say that the talking earlier was fun, but that we don't
   have as much fun as we used to have, or could have, and she sees the
   need to stay in practice. She looks ahead, imagines the inevitable
   empty nest. I imagine her considering the old buzzard sitting on the
   other side of that nest. What do the sun and the moon do once what has
   been your world goes away? "Ummm..." I say.
   When we had first gone out I was nervous and had babbled, which I tend
   to do if I'm nervous. Fortunately, few things make me nervous anymore.
   Then, however, I had nearly blown it with my chatter, trying one
   conversational gambit after another looking for a favorable response,
   some traction. My best stories and jokes, my wittiest observations,
   littered the top of the table at the restaurant like dirty dishes. So
   I shut up, and things got better, because she had some things to say,
   too.
   One of the things she said, some time a bit later, was, "Look, I don't
   want to lead you on. You're nice, but I believe God is preparing Mr.
   Right for me, and when he comes along, you're out of here."
   Okay, so I have been nervous.
   In Gilead the Reverend Ames reflects, with some wonder, over the
   circumstances that brought his young wife -- and ultimately the son to
   whom he is writing -- into his life. A widower who lost his first wife
   in childbirth and his infant daughter shortly thereafter, he had lived
   most of his adult life as an outside observer and counselor of the
   family dynamics taking place around him, covetously (he admits)
   watching the relationships that appeared to be denied to him, until
   these, too, overtook him.
   I have only half-jokingly said that I was smart and got my trophy wife
   first. I didn't have to wait until old age, like Rev. Ames, to know
   the comfort of a wife and family. And it is a tangible balm.
   My wife and I first met in April, 1986. We went on our first date in
   June. By late September we were engaged (though we didn't marry for
   another year). Once, as my she and I were clearly getting serious in
   our relationship, a concerned friend of mine (who had known me for
   years) drew her aside to urge caution, warning her of the dark moods
   that were known to come over me from time to time. These moods were
   not imagined, and during those times, I confess, I was not a good
   friend. I remember these moods well. Strange, I don't remember having
   one since I married.
   Once, not too long ago, I was teasing her. "Oh, you're definitely
   high-maintenance," I said, citing how particular she is about the
   ingredients in the food we bring into the house, her taste in clothes,
   the way she likes things that concern her to be "just so." She was not
   amused, which suggests that there are still times when it is better
   for me to keep my mouth shut, especially if it gives me time to think.
   And as I thought about it I quickly realized that almost all the
   maintenance she requires is handled by her. She rises early for her
   physical and spiritual exercise, the burdens of selecting and
   preparing the foods we eat fall upon her, her fastidiousness in her
   appearance reflects well on both of us with little involvement from
   me. About all I have to do is avoid shrinking her jeans in the wash
   (difficult, because I like tight jeans on her) and bring her favorite
   towel up from the laundry on Saturday night and hang it on the rack
   above the bathroom radiator (I've also ceded this premium towel
   position to her). Further, since I am almost pathologically
   detail-averse, she manages the details that keep our household running
   smoothly, from balancing the checkbook, paying the bills and (usually)
   putting the things I need out where I can find them or won't forget
   them.
   She does all of that, and somehow still desires my attention and
   conversation.
   We should talk more.
   Related Posts:
   [2]A Balm in Gilead, Part 1

References

   1. http://www.amazon.com/Gilead-Novel-Marilynne-Robinson/dp/031242440X/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1198963205&sr=8-1
   2. http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1198706398.shtml