What To Do When It Gets Awkward

More shades of beautiful

Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and being alone won't either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You have to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. ~Louise Erdrich

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I hug Gregory as he tears up. His feelings of vulnerability, fear, despair breaking through the stoic surface

“I’m such a blubbering idiot,” he whimpers.

“You are not an idiot. You are sick Gregory. Your feelings are normal. This is hard.”

“I’m sorry I have to drag you through this.”

“You are not dragging me. Life is.”

A few days later, I lie beside him in bed, smooth the underside of his thigh with my right hand. His eyes close, head rests on the pillow. I feel his leg, smaller now, fleshy, under my hand and I remember how much I love to touch.

I first learned Swedish massage, in Vancouver, mid 90s, I was studying aromatherapy, and massaged hundreds of bodies my first summer living on Salt Spring in my job as a spa practitioner at Salty Springs Resort. It felt beautiful. Not having to say anything and still giving so much. How beautiful it felt to touch them, and receive their praise after.

I used to pick my fingers then. Sometimes when I was massaging others there were cuts in my cuticles, raw slits of reddened skin. Still my hands drew stress out of peoples’ bodies. Revealed the peace underneath.

Quiet most of the winter, recently I have made some cuts, tears. Yet I type, print in my journal, get all the words out, enjoy the sumptuousness of language. The tender hearth of telling. Richness of reflection.

I smooth his glutes, run my palm up his spine then over his chest. Linger. My face close in on his pillow, I stroke the tips of his toes with the fronts of mine. He starts to talk, expresses his confusion, discomfort in those moments when we conflict.

Later, aseat in the sun, his favourite place to be, I ask him, “Can you be okay with awkward?” Raise my right hand in a fist and press it into the open palm of my left, to show the friction. Then I spread the two apart to show the possible resolution of peace.

It is possible, and available, the peace. Tension is just a moment. Not a problem, only a place for us to notice, watch for, grow from. Something to help us move forward with more wisdom, understanding.

I lie there, my eyes sighing, my hands searching out his as I notice my heart become tender to his confession. Underneath, there is a certainty of what is important in this life of ours, what matters: This intimacy, of hands and hearts and telling. These words, fleshy, handled with care, storied in cuts and bleeding.

Sometimes, I would rather move away. But I have learned to pause, move closer, remind myself how these moments matter, between a man and a woman, a husband and a wife, a writer and her muse.

It takes two hands to tell the whole story. Four hands to live it. (Even if they are weak, wobbly). We need each other to tell the whole story. Though sometimes it seems it would be easier to leave, to say no, I can’t live with you anymore, or can’t live with me anymore, this pain, this tension, this difficulty, this disease is too big, too strong, too overwhelming, frightening.

Still, there is room for it, our hearts can hold the whole story if we work together. The man and woman can navigate the journey of marriage and illness and challenge, can learn to come closer. To be present. Muster courage and strength. Listen deeper. Wider.

Twenty three years we have been growing into this, practicing through lesser difficulties.

Will we drown or fly?

We want to fly.

How do we fly?

We say “We will fly.”

Then we spread our wings.

Savour the wind’s touch, the moon’s gaze.

Drink in all the earth’s shades of beautiful.