DETONATE THE GUNK-BALL
Ah, expectation, what a fickle fucker.
At the beginning of last week, Joel and I drove to Umbria in expectation of a peaceful 5-day vacation; a few days away from the routines which since Covid have proved both grounding and claustrophobic. The photograph at the top of this essay is near to where we stayed and represents the beauty of the area. However, out of courtesy to the owners we will name no names because all the staff were absolutely wonderful and the place itself was obviously a labour of love. For that alone they deserve anonymity.
We arrived in time for a delicious lunch surrounded by peace and beauty, immediately relaxing into what we assumed to be the manifestation of our expectation. We had forgotten that here in Italy everything and everyone stops for lunch at 1:00pm. So it was jarring, to say the least, when at 2:30 the sound of jack-hammers, electric drills and saws and a cement mixer started their post-prandial serenade some 150 yards from the hotel. And then there were the dogs. From the various octaves and tones of their individual vocal cords I would say there were 6 of them. Penned hunting dogs…also 150 yards from us…and with a persistence rarely known to man, they kept up their howling and barking cacophony day and night with the occasional 15 minute break, presumably for the food and water needed to refuel their canine chorus.
I’m all for denial…when it works. We told ourselves, oh, it’s just for today. At some point the construction will stop. The dogs will sleep. The construction did stop at 5 pm. The dogs? Not a chance. We spent the first night jolted awake every half hour until dawn when the bloody animals decided to have a big of a snooze. Only to be awoken at 7 by the re-commencement of the construction. Denial still intact, we decided to go down to the pool for a swim when the constructions stopped for the day only to have a weed-whacker keep time with the dogs. For two nights we tried to outwit it all by closing all the windows and wooden shutters not only to no avail but with the added discomfort of stifling air and sweaty sheets. We decided to leave.
Maybe it was the two days of agitation and disappointment that caused, at 7:30 in the morning of the day we were planning to escape, a matrimonial contretemps that nearly blew us apart.
Since starting this blog 11 years ago I have tried to maintain a balance between intimacy and privacy. In honor of the latter there will be no details provided of said contretemps. Suffice it to say it was a shock to both of us, of the type we have rarely, if ever, experienced in our 31 years together. Sure, we’ve had tiny moments of hatred. Yep, I have been known to stick my tongue out behind my beloved’s back. But we’ve never had the type of explosion that leaves both people emotionally shattered to the point that we didn’t even have the energy to pack our bags.
We breakfasted in silence and then I went off on my own. And I swam. Long, slow strokes. Watching the water ripple the tiled floor of the pool. The breath, in and out. Lap after lap. Alone. Breathing. In and out. Alone. And so it came to me, that for the last 18 months Joel and I have been together 24/7. My own denial started floating to the surface. Denial of my own needs. Denial of my resentment of Joel’s success and my own failure to achieve what I had wanted. Denial of my lack of courage in taking charge not only of my own needs, but in voicing concern about some of the ways in which we were not in agreement, or in step. And denial of the ways in which I haven’t always claimed my own wisdom with regard to taking the lead in ways that would benefit both myself and the marriage.
We have a good marriage, my Joel and I. We’ve worked hard at it and been rewarded with ever-deepening love and respect, shared adventures and solid teamwork when it comes to the daily business of life. In the moment of the explosion all of that seemed as naught. But who wants to stay in that moment? We made a pact to just be kind to each other and stay quiet for a few days before trying to talk about it. And that we did. Chagrined, a little scared, we held hands a lot. And on the third day, now safely home, with only the occasional baa from the sheep, we were able to sort it all out.
So, here’s the great thing about an explosion…as long as it doesn’t kill you! It blows apart the thing you took for granted as being solid and scatters it into many pieces. Frightening? You bet. But also, if you’re willing to look, most informative. You get to take a look at all those pieces; what they consist of, which you want to discard; which are worth keeping in order to restore and renovate a new structure full of new possibility. Of course, you need a good foundation on which to rebuild. And that foundation is best put down at the beginning of a relationship, the footings of which are honesty, trust, and the willingness to accept imperfection.
All of us get to a certain point in life – and for sure the pandemic has underlined this – when we want to just stop; to take it easy. When we just don’t want to have to bloody well peel back the next layer of the onion. When we’d really like to stay in denial and call it something else: graduation, retirement or just plain enough. But the great thing about continuing to do the work on ourselves and our relationships is that when we do, the universe always rewards us.
And so it was that the next day an invitation arrived, addressed to us both, to be part of a collaborative project with another couple. I am not at liberty to tell you more right now, but will for sure do so when the time is right. Until then, I say welcome the detonation of your own gunk-ball. And rejoice in the bounty of your life as it rains down on you. Sift well. Mix with tears. Stir with courage. And knead with love.
As always, I send you all my love.
Maggie
