Griz and I have been married for 27 years. This week we sort-of celebrated with a dinner out. But the truth be known, the celebration was coincidental to our anniversary date. We were in the mood for a dinner out, and – behold – it happened to be our anniversary.
More often we celebrate our first date – which was also the day Mount St. Helens erupted, May 18, 1980. We weren’t in the path of volcanic destruction, but you could see the ash plume from Seattle (150 miles north). There is great symbolism in having started our relationship on such an explosive day.
The reason we rarely celebrate our anniversary, is we actually “got married” for practical reasons, not romantic ones (no, I was not pregnant). We’d known each other for 21 months and lived together for 18; but we’d both been married before and were convinced the success and romance of our bond rested at least partially on our unmarriedness.
There was no entreaty on bended knee, no flowers, no diamond ring – there was simply a mutual discussion resulting from Griz’ acceptance of a job on the opposite coast. Would I go with him? Of, course.
Should we get married to salve the concerns of my parents and legitimize Griz’ image with the conservative organization he’d joined? Perhaps.
Should we get married so I could receive health and flight benefits? Probably. [This pre-dates domestic partnerships qualifying for spousal benefits.]
Griz and I waxed philosophically at least several minutes after addressing the practical matters. Neither of us had fond memories of being married, but in the end we concluded we should marry – at least legally. Our objective was to not allow marriage to change our relationship: there would be no big wedding, neither of us would wear rings, I would not change my name. We would try to limit the marriage part of our relationship to “just that piece of paper.” We would call each other partners, not husband and wife – we were driven to avoid the roles.
It was a very small wedding – Griz and me, my parents and my first cousin. It was a cold February day in south Seattle, but the sun was out – so we walked outside with Justice-of-the-Peace Rev. Zady Evans to her muddy garden. Her chapel, the AAA Vagabond Ministry, was in the basement of her home where she also ran an answering service consisting of a bank of phones that actually rang. It was quieter in the garden, even though the view overlooked a freeway.
We wrote our own vows. When a friend of mine read them later, she said they were more like “un-vows.” She’s a big wedding person – she’s had several more weddings since then. Here’s what Griz and I committed to (and what we didn’t):
“I commit to you my love, friendship and support, deeply and sincerely; and I value as highly the love, friendship and support which I receive from you.
“Your well-being, growth, fulfillment and happiness are as important to me as my own. My well-being, growth, fulfillment and happiness are enhanced by your presence in my life.
“I commit to always honestly confide in you my innermost feelings, desires, fears and ideas as they evolve through time and circumstance, that no barrier to our closeness may develop through lack of knowledge in one another.
“I commit my best understanding and consideration of your innermost feelings, desires, fears and ideas as you honestly and openly express them to me.
“I commit to share my life with you in love and respect, facing together the demands and rewards, joys and frustrations of this lifetime; so long as our mutual and individual happiness is promoted by this union.”
Has it all been bliss? Of course not. Put two “smarties” under one roof and sometimes “there will be blood“ - at least emotionally. Most of the dangerous explosions took place in the first 10 years. We learned that “open and honest” communication is much harder than it sounds. We discovered we actually spoke quite different languages. Griz spoke precision male engineer, I spoke fuzzy female artist.
We learned the rhythms of each other’s language, but we also learned how to hurt each other – and ultimately how to choose not to. I learned how to fight, and why sometimes it’s necessary. Griz learned how not to fight and why volume sometimes diminishes the effectiveness of your message. We both learned “winning” is always a shallow victory between lovers.
At one point during those first 10 years, while living aboard, with both of us working way too much and spending too little time together, we actually faced a cusp in which ”our mutual and individual happiness” was not being promoted by our union. It hurt to admit it; but rather than fleeing, we honestly addressed why and we got through it – individually and collectively better for the crisis.
I don’t believe there is any one formula for what works in a spousal relationship. But what works for Griz and me is love based on open communication, mutual respect, shared laughter – and especially critical early on - engaging sex to fall back on when all other forms of communication fail.
“A difference of tastes in jokes is a great strain on the affections.” - George Eliot
For us, the shared laughter is critical. It continues to fortify our bond. You have to be able to get over yourselves and experience mutual joy – stimulate each other’s sense of humor – face together the ridiculousness of your common predicament. We fall back on laughter even in the worst of times.
Sometime after those first 10 years, and I can’t pinpoint exactly when, we wandered into “ the comfort zone.” Anyone in a long-term, successful relationship understands this. (I know, it sounds like a horrible condition to the very young. When I was young, I too considered comfort a disastrous relationship outcome. “Comfortable as an old shoe?”)
But it’s not that kind of comfort. It’s the point where hostilies end, competition is over. It’s the point where you start empowering each other - stimulating each other’s creativity. When you get there, you also notice it’s happening without having to work at it. There’s an ease between you – that’s the comfort part. The rough edges are gone. You are a well-oiled, spontaneously occurring, mutually supportive team.
I’m sure it happens faster for some people, and never occurs for others. It’s the point when the word “family” truly represents you and your spouse (and sometimes your children). You still value your extended family and friends, but you wake up one day and realize your primary bond is clearly the gestalt between you and your mate; and whatever is promoting this gestalt is relatively effortless. You truly “get” each other. You prefer each other’s company over that of others. When you see each other across a room, in or out of a crowd, you emotionally experience a reassuring, uplifting, positive “Ah!”
“Love from one being to another can only be that two solitudes come nearer” – Han Suyin
Our relationship gestalt also incorporates our mutual respect for each other’s alone time. Our common hermit natures require this. We lived on sailboats for half of our relationship, and we have also run several small businesses together. We have probably spent more time in proximity than many couples who’ve been together for 50 years. But we also know how to be in each other’s proximity without intruding on each other. Our interdependence is strengthened by our independence.
We have many things in common, but we’re different enough to maintain a healthy and stimulating friction. Yes, we still argue over some things and even get angry with each other from time to time, but our recovery time from any disagreement is spontaneous and now almost instantaneous.
For me, this is the gravy of a healthy, long-term relationship. The simplest way I can think of to describe it is “loving peace.” It’s a relationship status I feel very fortunate to have reached. I hope everyone who desires it experiences it at least once in their lives.
I hope the world learns to desire it and experiences it someday.
