Tag: marriage

The Lonely and the UnQuiet Minds

Some of the times that I’m most convinced there is a God, there is no powerful glimpse, no experience of torrential downpour with the echo chamber of thunder to scream to me “Here I am.”  Sometimes, there is that quiet whisper and in nothing you were expecting, but in the trembling fulfillment of a promise that you have awaited for so long.

I see God powerfully and yet underwhelmingly in humans, more specifically, my humans.

Today, my husband finally came through on his promise to make me a CD of his music. HIS music that he wrote, that he mastered, that he brought from the recesses of his brilliant mind into fruition through technology. I had been nagging him to make me one, and he came through with two.

To test out the music, we hopped into my old car whose speakers deliver music more exceptionally than any newfangled add-in could, and we drove through the rural night to experience his compositions.

I’m not ashamed to say that I experienced a transcendence through time, space, and matter to reach God in these moments. Sounds idiotic, probably, but I don’t know any other way to say it.

I was an extremely lonely child, one with nightmares that regularly shook me out of peacefulness, one with visions of dead loved ones and panicked premonitions of my own death to take the joy out of childhood. I was strange and not accepted, and I was dying for God to give me someone.

I remember begging God for a new brain when I was probably 12 or 13 years old. I would scream for relief inside my own head so the images would stop, so I could just live and be at peace.

Little did I know that the turmoil inside my own safe place, the lockbox of my consciousness, was churning into something that would form Taylor. It would form the individual, and the result would be something that I’m proud to be. It’s not fun to live in a brain that experiences everything vividly, sometimes horrifyingly, and it’s extremely lonely to live in such a headspace because it’s difficult to connect with other people when you genuinely believe that there’s no one in this world that could quite get what and who you are.

I am an artist. God knew that when he molded me from stardust and breathed into me to form my writhing, unsatisfied, searching soul. He knew that my journey would be lonely, but he told me in small ways “Your time will come.”

I think God knows what it’s like to be lonely. I don’t think that I would want to worship a God who was so far distanced from creation that he couldn’t understand the most painful parts of the existence he designed. He knows. And he was there with me all the times I begged for that person who would be what I desired in a life-friend.

So, as I drove with my husband down the winding roads, often wooded, at some points shrouded in salmon light from the clouded sunset that draped over us, I touched God and I finally was able to wrap his fulfilled promise around my throat like a wool scarf at the end of a very long, frigid winter day.

I found him.

Listening to Parker’s music was like tapping into the frequency of his soul, and I, at times, felt so overwhelmed with the beauty of it that I wanted to disappear and lay on my back in it. I wanted to wade in the existence of a soul like his that I was sure, in the peaks of my loneliness, didn’t exist.



Yeah, I Got Married. Whatsittooya?

A rotund boulder has been sitting on my mind, squashing out farts of ideas as it creaks a barely comprehensible whisper…you are not good enough. You are doomed.

These pointed thoughts of self-doubt extend endlessly in all directions. I am concerned for the hardiness of my abilities, for the strength of my state of mind, for my possibilities of success, but also I fear for the failure of the most basic parts of me. I fear failure of my character and my humanity. I fear dissolution.

Perhaps I fear that the failure of things to which I devote myself is an indication of a failure of myself. Perhaps that’s always what I’ve felt, and I can’t help but think that those thoughts wouldn’t be an issue if someone hadn’t radically modified beautiful, figure-it-out-as-you-go ideas into crappy substitutes out of bitterness.

Because none of us are so good at leaving things alone, letting them flourish in delightful ambiguity, cultures and times have created stigmas out of unshaped or highly-valued ideas (love, marriage, success, identity). The cultures and the times rot away the amoeba shape into crisp, but unforgiving lines. These lines, once amorphous, molded into shapes which suit each sculptor, now seem rigid and immovable. These transformations have gone from concepts to rules, and rules are terrifying because “What happens if you break the rules?”

Transformations like: “togetherness” to “contractual obligations,”

friendship” to “bread winning” to “house keeping” to “duties,”

giving” to “trade” and “return on investment.”

The pureness of these once beautifully ambiguous concepts like marriage and all the nestled, sub-divided ideals have been totally corroded into commercial, socially and culturally acceptable, role-cementing rules and regulations.

I think to myself, “I’ve got an amoeba partnership, and how I’d love to keep it as it is.” There are no “You shoulds” and “I shoulds,” there are no, “Don’t dos” and “Must dos,” but that still beautiful unmoldedness of just “doing” and just “enjoying.” How I panic and want to cling to these moments when I think, “When will it happen? When will the ‘hard times’ come?”

I look over at my best friend, husband, the most beautiful human on God’s green Earth and I want to cry for fear that things will get bad…because that’s what people tell me will happen. We tell each other, “Things will be hard.”

But why? Why must they be hard? Because life is? I think that’s a man-created rule, and I don’t wish to believe it.

Perhaps it’s willful obstinance to believe that two best friends can go on living peacefully, laughing off blunders, passing off moodiness, and giving to each other without asking, but I was always very good at being stubborn.

I think it absolutely horrifying that the amoeba shape of love and commitment has been bludgeoned into conformity for a culture that loves rules, loves boxes, loves power structures and docile wives. The jokes, the “pity me” cries for help from married couples, the witnessed fights and dissolved marriages, they all cry loudly, they all scream at me their dominance, their control over me.

But, as I search for something louder, I settle on the faint breathing of my husband, the rustling of skin on skin as he rubs his feet together. As I search for something as domineering as these hardened voices, all I can pick up on is the light sensation of a hand on my arm, the joy of a laughing smile, the smell of a day-old-shower.

Happy marriages don’t scream as loudly as sad ones, unfortunately, and if they did, our culture would tell it to shut itself up. Maybe the word marriage is damaged beyond repair, especially for me, but the idea of me…of him…and of us, that one’s not damaged.

I think I’ll slip on a protective cover littered with “I love yous” and hugs for no real reason. I’ll glue it to the surface with sloppy kisses and let those quiet reminders overwhelm me, tired as I am of all the screaming.