The First Letter

Dearest Future Wife,

I know we haven’t met yet, but I wanted to start writing to you anyway. I’ll confess straight away that these letters aren’t really for you; they’re for me. I think about a tremendous amount of stuff: us, what we’ll be like together, how things will work. And, really, it all seems so hazy.

Once upon a time, I thought I understood relationships. “Love theory,” like “music theory,” I guess. I talked about my ideas a lot with my roommate freshman year. I’m convinced that he thought my idealism was folly. (Or at least that I was an idiot.) And, to a certain degree, it was (and I was). Raw idealism never gets anyone anywhere. Not in politics. Not in relationships.

It’s not that I’m not an idealist; rather, I’ve decided that things just aren’t going to work out the way I want them to. And that’s fine. Our story won’t be a fairy tale. It will be us, our friends, our families, and God against the world. But I don’t think I would have it any other way. If I’m going to pursue God with you, I’m not sure that I want an easy path. I want the blistering heat to forge our bond stronger. I want the long road to give us great endurance. I want the cliffs to teach us trust.

Those are my ideas of what a relationship is, and I want them out in the open early on. We’re going to need to talk early and often about what we’re doing, why we’re together, and how we’re going to run this thing. I’m not talking some strategic micromanagement (“On Tuesdays, we drinking strawberry icecream floats and try to comfort the other while having a brainfreeze of our own.”).

But part of me also wants the whirlwind. I want to be that cute couple that makes people puke when they see us. Not the PDA kind. That really is puke-worthy. Just, you know, a couple of genuinely caring people, that others might say are “in love.”

But I wouldn’t say that. At least not in the beginning. You need to know that. I’m not going to say “I love you” until I mean it. Until I really mean it. Love isn’t just some feeling of connectedness. Love is an action, a commitment, something way beyond people at the beginning of a relationship. So, don’t say it to me a few weeks in. That’s a bad move. I won’t say it back. You’ll get offended. It’ll just be bad. Actually you won’t say it. Because you’re my future wife, and we will have already talked about this. Probably at length. I tend to ramble. A lot. Which brings me to my last point…

Lastly, at least for now, you need to know that I’m flawed. I’ll tell you up front, I’m definitely not perfect. Not even close. And you’re going to find these flaws. And it won’t be pretty. I’ll need your grace when they come up. Repeatedly. I’m sorry. You’re going to marry a very imperfect dude. The good news is that you probably feel the same way about yourself, and I’m going to marry you anyway. No illusions. We’re both crappy at this “life” thing. But we’ll slog through the mud together, and we’ll be happy doing it.

I have a lot more to say, and I look forward to writing to you again next week.

Sincerely,
Your Future Husband

a bit of music

two four six oh one

Sometimes, he guesses, a person can lose his identity in an unexpected place.

another order

He feels trapped inside sometimes. Everything here is so orderly. Computers in rows. Armrests under the desks. And windows. The windows are insufferable. They taunt him daily, showing life outside. Trees. Grass. A pond. Sculpture. It’s all there. He’s in here.

But today, he gets to see different order. A strange order. Not his workplace, but another. And the order is tremendous. He doesn’t know how to capture it. That’s his job right now. Capture it.

He wonders if those trapped in here long for the life beyond the glass. Or even just a different order.

Maybe his?

Hello

He makes it out to these things every once in while, but he never wants to stay for too long.  This is a special occasion: the last cooking before a friend crosses the pond.  That’s why he’s here.  To say goodbye. For now.  But friends come home or back eventually.  He says goodbye more than once, never knowing which will be the last.

But now, he places emphasis, perhaps undue, on the first meetings.  He only gets one of those for everyone.  And it might be the last goodbye.

west to east

He looks in the mirror and sees mostly blue skies behind him. An odd occurrence, to be sure, as he remembers the sky’s fury. He knows he was just there, and his hair is still wet. But yet, blue skies and one fluffy white cloud. But then he remembers something else: west to east. One storm has passed, sure. One storm rained and moved on. He idly taps fingers on an umbrella as he sees the next thunderhead. This time, he’s ready.

sunsets in due time

He dislikes the idea of a fallible memory, that a memory can be sweeter and more perfect than the reality itself was. As he looks out off of the balcony, he knows the memory will be nothing like what he’s experienced tonight. Parts will be exaggerated, parts cut out entirely. And, when he sees the same scene again, it might be disappointing.

But he hopes not. Maybe this time, his memory is dead on. Maybe the next time he looks out from the balcony, the scene will be just as sweet as he remembers it. But then the sun will set again, and he’ll have to wait through another long day.

But he’s got a hunch: it’s worth waiting for.

who can say?

The trail is crowded today, but that doesn’t matter. The rocks and trees don’t care, and neither does he. Nature is gorgeous and pleasantly cool. Climbs through a cave a couple of times, one that nobody knows about. He enjoys the exclusion. Also the community. Then he sees it.

He wonders why they did it. Perhaps it was too close to the path? He’s unsure. Either way, the caretakers of this place said it needed to come down, so it did. Maybe they didn’t want to cut it? But they had to. Maybe it was hard to change the path so much? But they did it. For the better? He doesn’t know. For good, though.

every season

Old and new. Together. That’s something to see. The solid stone of the past with the new flowers of the spring. Beautiful symphony. He always wonders about that. Why do people run from who they are? He hides from his past, to a degree, sure. But he has never changed himself simply because of a new geography. Maybe he values the past too much? Maybe that stone building shouldn’t have the high esteem that it does? But he knows this: the past is something to learn from, even if it’s something to run from.

chemicals and photons

By his own account, he’s paint. He walks out his apartment for the penultimate time, and he stops. He’s definitely paint. Light and paint. Mixing the spectrum, they are very different. Paint, an ugly, brown slurry. A milkshake of strength and weakness.  Light, beautiful radiance.  Pure.

He’s jealous of light, how effortlessly it separates. How it can bring out the best with a soft glow or the truth with its power. But paint is life. A concoction of events that he’s seen before. The same ugly shade of brown. But he’s never seen blue like this. Twenty seconds, and he moves on. At least his feet do. He lingers on separation. A chemist, he knows that separating the slurry is not trivial. Light needs just a prism. Paint, a lab. He’s definitely paint.