Shouldn't…but Do

Marking the creation or dissolution of a union, what does a piece of paper mean?

Philosophical and emotional arguments rise between, and around, couples seeking sanctity of relationship without the legal bind of a marriage license.  How can an earthly document confer justification for loving bonds that are surely the product of divine intervention in our dusty affairs?  Why do we need that piece of paper?

Of course, some do not need that piece of paper.  Living together in unmarried bliss is popular these days – but that is not this story.

And in the end – when one out of two marriage relationships runs their course before death did they part – what is the need for an earthly document to confer justification for ending surly bonds that were surely the product of demonic intervention in our dusty affairs?  Why must we wait for the weight of judicial ink to legitimize a long done deed?

I can speak only for myself.

Marriage, like any other ritual, recognizes and reorganizes boundaries–these two are together, they have certain rights, obligations, and a changed status in our society.   A marriage license is capable of taking the ephemeral nature of relationship and reducing it to dated script on a page.

A decree of divorce also recognizes and reorganizes boundaries – these two are no longer together, each has certain rights, obligations, and a changed status in our society.   A decree of divorce is capable of taking the muddy detritus of an exhausted relationship and casting it out – clean and succinct on paper that can be held, scanned, and filed.  The word is good.

But the interesting stuff is always what is in between – in the deed.  As light is both particle and wave, so relationship is both word and deed.

The deed of marriage includes the creation of space to allow energies, stories untold,  to percolate, inform, and intrude into the lives of our partners.  To watch, to support, to help another through the years – by both kind word and courageous deed of standing by as witness to their transformation.

Their struggles are not ours, but can be held by us – and we can be worked by their torment – but we may not impede, intrude and seek to extinguish their struggle because it makes us uncomfortable.

We are worked by respecting the work of another.  In this space before I have invoked the word namaste – to honor the divine life of another.  That – I believe is the shining work of any relationship.

And when the deed is done,  there is value in following strings and struggles back to their origin in ourselves, to suffer long enough to  take them back – lest we do it all over again, with or to someone else.  Some of us – like me – just take a little longer to catch on – like 20 years worth.

Neither a marriage license or a  divorce decree  touch these things – they are simply the words that mark the beginning, and a conclusion, of that deed.

Because relationships are energetic, they can never end, they only change – both documents recognize that.  But the decree of divorce terminates time with the masque, while leaving the good work done with the energy.

I will celebrate the day I get the word I am divorced.  Not with a bender, or with grim, resolute triumph – but with a broad smile, and a balloon I think.  A yellow helium balloon.  And I will take that balloon somewhere pretty, and I will let it go.

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I thought I would be divorced by now.

But I am not.

A six-week wait for a draft Divorce Decree from counsel for X yielded a sketchy, incomplete physical rendering of a document that must capture every single detail to avoid more…confusion.  Just today, the Very Expensive Lawyer transmitted a proper draft Decree after starting the document anew.

I thought the occasion of the Great Trial settled things.

But it did not.

Shortly after the Trial, a disagreement arose over a seemingly small detail that is actually very large.  The matter may itself be heading back to a courtroom.

I thought my small home might be refinanced free and clear by now.

But it is not.

Transactions to clarify and confer new home ownership cannot occur until Divorce Decrees to clarify and confer new life ownership are signed.  Shortly, pertinent dates will pass and the refinancing must be started again.  More money, time, and effort thrown away.

I thought the spring would come.

And it did.

My presence in my bog has been slight in past weeks.  Fatigue, for me, proffers observation, not expression.  As such, one of the richest gifts of this now almost two-year ordeal is understanding the greatness of  friends associated with me.  Each one unique, yet each a dazzling thread in a luminous tapestry that stretches just far enough to catch me, each time I fall.  Tempering touch  keeps me between heaven and hell – suspended.  It is a place to Be.

So many years ago, I thought I wanted to know.

And I do.

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Driving along, singing a song, button punching on the FM dial.

Life in the fast lane – life once lived.  Friends, interests, pleasures pursued, laughter, so much laughter.  The so-trivial pursuit of falling in and out of love – who is with who – and oh, that was last week.  Restaurants, champagne, night drives in the desert, moonlight, star bright, ocean deep – so much.

Struggling to keep up – a mirror – it never occurs.  Flashing school bus lights, battles over custody rights.  Friends – let that go too, what was then is not now.  The so-trivial pursuit of escape from matrimony.  Coupons, cold sweat at the cash register – too little of too much.

Funny how an old song – tune, words, time – gives back so much more than memory.

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Seasons change.  Winter’s grip eased with trial and time, spring is undeniably here.  Today I took off my gloves.

Each winter, each day, inside or out, I wear knit gloves.  My hands chill quickly, chilblains, unsightly,  gloves help.  This winter into spring, the fahrenheit fell with my child support.  When alone, turning down the thermostat was an economical, albeit cold, measure.

Gloves are useful, especially mine.  Stretchy, conforming, let me navigate a lot of the world without actually touching its colder surfaces.  Protection.

But gloves leave me out of touch.  Leafing pages is difficult,  a warm handshake unfelt. Correspondence, interchange, presence in the tactile world is difficult.  Limitation.

Like many people these days, I am looking for work.  These words, and the hands that form them, must touch the world, and help me find my way.  Time for these gloves, those habits – that protected so faithfully – to yield to a warming world.

The gloves are off, my hands are healed.  No longer covered, they traffic in this world, and so I hope, will I.  Seasons change.

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