Thirteen

At the shore of Lake Michigan, 2002, just after we were married.
Today is Iain's and my thirteenth wedding anniversary.

We were married at a courthouse, with our friend N (Lottie's dad) the only guest in attendance, and afterwards we went out for burgers. It was a good day.

We are fortunate to have lots of good days. A combination of luck and privilege and working hard to make days good for each other.

It's not that we don't have struggles; it's just that our struggles don't turn us against each other, but bring us together.

It's not that we never hurt each other; we do, regrettably. But it is, inevitably, because of a failure, not because either of us ever deliberately tries to harm the other. We know each other's vulnerabilities all too well, and we protect them, not exploit them.

It's not that we don't bicker; we do, but we don't want to bicker, we don't enjoy it, and neither of us endeavors to prolong it. The last time we were in the middle of a row about something I don't even remember, Olivia came prancing out of the bathroom with an entire roll of toilet paper in her mouth, mewing triumphantly, and we both collapsed in fits of laughter, and set aside whatever it was that had caused us to not be laughing in the first place.

We both want good days with one another, and we do our best to make them.

That might not sound as meaningful as it is, but there have been times in both our lives where people keen to make good days with us were in short supply.

This is much better. This is everything.

I often say, as I did here recently, that I am contentedly married. Sometimes people react to that with derisive snorts or laughter. "Oh, contentedly married," they might say, with sarcasm in their voices. "That sounds fantastic."

They think that I mean to suggest something lesser than the more traditional "happily married."

Which couldn't be more wrong.

Lots of things make me happy. Being happy is easy (for me), but contentment is much more elusive. Especially the deep, abiding, succoring contentment I have within my relationship with Iain, where I find a way to leave restlessness aside and instead sit with a stillness in which I am able to love abundantly and allow myself to be loved.

I'm not afraid to be alone / But being alone is better with you / Life is better with you / Some days are better than other days / But these days, life is better with you.

Happy Anniversary, Iain. I love you. Thank you for loving me back.


At the shore of Lake Michigan, 13 years later, with the pups.