My marriage is a mystery to me. What keeps it going forward, and without any real agony. My marriage has been one of the things in my life that has lead me to believe in a sort of destiny, or karma. This mystery is something I tread on lightly. Why fix it if it isn't broken? But our recent move from my husband's homeland to my own has added a new wrinkle to this mystery. Where once I was the foreigner, now it is my husband who is the straniero. This brings with it a diffferent set of roles and rules that we are both grappling with. As any of my regular readers have probably gleaned from my writing, I am a bit of a spoiled brat, and I regularly make ample use of my husband's broad shoulders. When I first arrived in Italy so many years ago, I remember the terror, or comedy, of doing just about everything. I got through those years by leaning heavily on my husband, and now I am trying valiantly to offer him the same support.
But my husband and I are different creatures. Men and women are different creatures. He is fiercely independent, one of the things I love about him dearly. So he is plowing forward alone, the eternal lone ranger, dust in his wake.
I wish he would let me help him more.
One thing I have learned about marriage is to let things ebb and flow. Relationships have seasons that are eternally changing. Relationships have peaks and valleys.
In between is the inner sanctum. The part we don't talk about.