A Midsummer Reverie

Reflections on twelve years of marriage

There is something about the summer equinox which provokes a hungering state of remembrance for me; a remembrance which comes in times of quiet, like a familiar bell tolling suddenly with long, reverberating tones. I find myself seeking quietude in anticipation of this seasonal reverie.

I tuck my children in bed - pull up the ticking sheets and waffle blanket, draw the curtains, straighten the slanting books on the shelf - read them a book - tonight it’s Best Friends for Frances - say prayers, reminding myself to enjoy this moment although I look forward to my solitary evening routine. After the children have been set up for the night, I hurry outside to walk in the cooling evening air before the sun sets. Our road is quiet. Huge sky vistas of sunset clouds lie resplendent on either side, before and behind. The rhythmic steps and caressing breeze wash over my mind, leaving it clean of the day’s stresses and agitations. I exist as a being of movement and thought. Forgotten memories surface and linger, flooding my mind unbidden with the words and sensations of experiences past.

I do not know why midsummer brings such a poignant feast of memories to savor. Perhaps it is the fierce light of the sun, drenching my body and spirit with energy towards restoration and integration. It may be the nature of the high season of the year, which rings like a musical fermata, prolonging the liminal space in which the passage of time is blurred; in which the past and future feel merged into one lifelong summer. Whatever the reason, I welcome this state of remembrance and settle comfortably into the undulations of my mind’s stream of consciousness.

Tonight I am considering, remembering my marriage. Our anniversary falls in June. How does one describe a marriage? A happy partnership of souls, forever embarked on a voyage through life. A contract of wills, like “going to war,” as G.K. Chesterton famously said. A struggle for and against oneself and each other. The source and summit of personal growth, cut with sharp sorrows and elevated by piercing joys. I reflect on all these and such descriptions of marriage. As I wrote in my previous essay, time often feels non-linear. The moment we promised to love each other for the rest of our lives seems so long ago, and also like yesterday. My body readily recalls the utter elation, the rush of happiness we shared privately in the moments before processing out of the church on our wedding day. At the same time, my heart recollects the crush of desperation and anger which characterized our worst arguments over the years.

My walk takes me beyond the boundaries of our property, and the nature of my marriage is reflected back to me through our home and the surrounding landscape. Our little farm has seen thousands of hours of labor: quite literally, the proverbial blood, sweat and tears in its construction, restoration and improvement. As has our marriage. Alongside the building of new structures and improvements has come a fine maturation, in spirit and quality, which lends a hint of wisdom and expectation to both our land and our marriage. We know where we’ve been, we know where we are, and we have some idea of where we’re going. Lots of plans, always. The footpaths are well trodden and beautiful. Perennials have taken root and flourished, season after season, so that we anticipate their presence while recalling the labor required to establish their growth. Years spent dissecting our past, healing from traumas, uprooting negative habits, building positive frameworks and qualities which lead towards a productive future. Learning to love, learning to parent, learning to lose. And yet there’s always more to anticipate. Marriage requires a constant presence, a perseverance in attitude and heart. I know enough now to know that I don’t know much, and that is a security and a guide. I still haven’t figured out how to get my squash plants from cross-pollinating.

winslow homer

Comfortable familiarity characterizes both the farm and our relationship. I know that when I walk into the barn, I’ll find the spades in a particular place, and the tomato cages stacked upstairs in the loft. The raspberries predictably offer their abundance soon after the 4th of July. We are assured of certain ruts in the driveway reappearing each spring with the deep thaw. Similarly, I know the feeling, the ready response of my husband’s embrace. He knows which herbal teas I like to sip. I can rely on his resourcefulness, his kindness, his patience. We know which subjects often devolve into painful conflict, and either avoid them or delve in with trepidation.

As we constantly assess our situation on the farm, so does the internal eye take stock of our relationship. We check the temperature, notice hidden decay, make plans for augmentation or supporting structures. And of course, the inventory-taker relies on memories to scaffold their present frame of mind.

I remember the color green we painted our first bedroom in our little apartment. Our miserable night spent camping with biting gnats on the shores of Lake Superior - part of our honeymoon excursion. Barbecues on fragrant summer nights at my in-laws’ home, punctuated by an intense sauna before retiring to bed. Six births, of all stripes. Some were traumatic; others were transcendent. A particularly good shared meal of steak, garlic scapes and strawberries. Ugly fights. Painful silences. Endless series of Masses shepherding squirrely toddlers. The same sweater my husband has owned since his teens that we both like to wear. Life-changing books we’ve read together, and fervently discussed. Such are the memories which spring unbidden to my mind as I breathe and walk in the close summer twilight.

winslow homer

I contemplate the dual nature of our marriage - as a closed, self-sustaining entity, and as a reticulated member of others’ lives. How many people have contributed to our relationship? We are, in a way, dependent on the lives of others for our very meeting and joining. Friends and family support and enrich our life together, weaving in and out of our time together. Other individuals have challenged us, provided a tempering influence and opportunities for improvement. Similarly, our farm exists as its own organism, but would not survive and thrive without the materials and help of community.

Fireflies spark yellow and green across the fields. The sun is down, and my steps turn towards home. Viewing our home from a distance, I am struck that its whole is greater than the sum of its individual parts. What is a farm but some little land, clustered buildings, animals, and the people who care for all? And likewise, what is a marriage but a man and a woman moving through life together? No, the spiritual and material essence of our relationship cannot be quantified in a mere list of characteristics. A marriage and a farm take on a life of their own, with a soul to be tended and nurtured. They loom large from afar, with the inside jokes, private joys, weathered boards and clumps of clover only visible with an intimate eye. We have become one with each other, a seamless being brought to function through our persevering individual gifts of self.

Approaching our slumbering home, I see the light on in my husband’s shop and I turn to stop in for a visit before returning to the house for evening chores. He’ll want to talk, as we almost always do. As we almost always have. As we almost always will. And I want to hear what he has to say, because he is the other half of me.

“But it is who you are,

And you are what it is.”

—Wendell Berry