We love the things we love for what they are.
― Robert Frost
I think I have fallen in love with my husband a minimum of a thousand times. And by fallen in love, I mean the wild, distracting, obsessive, and hopeful kind of love. And if you’re not in that kind of love, apologies. Sincerely, a love like this is worth waiting for and then nurturing and cherishing on the regular. And to be clear, it’s not a perfect love. Because love, in all its best forms, is messy magic. This is not a love of polish or pride. It’s humble and hungry. It’s big enough to grow yet still remembers its small origins.
I’m not writing the whole love story to date. Trust me, it’s a story that deserves its own moment and one day it’ll be time. But in 19 years, 12 of which we’ve been officially wedded to one another, I’ve learned one important thing takes the cake. It’s the phrase slammed around for so many things, but it’s best saved for love. Are you ready?
“Evolve or die.” I know, it’s not lovely to utter die when describing love, but please be patient with me while I explain.
Love cannot stay the same. My husband and I are not the same people we were when we met. We met in the basement of a frat house. So much of who we were when we were introduced to one another that night is still within us, but so much has also changed. It’s supposed to change.
Evolving as people, and allowing it to happen, is one of the most necessary, exciting, and yet challenging components to life. For love to exist and be sustainable, it has to evolve.
I think of this whenever I see love in its various stages. From the much older couple in church who clings to each other for stability and solace, to the youthful duo making out in the mall parking lot. In its best form, love takes us places.
My current place of love is the reading chair in the corner of my bedroom. I’ve taken to having a cup of hot tea before bed while I read or write. I refer to it as the most middle aged thing I do. Every night, after we tuck the children in, my husband brings me my tea. It’s a simple ritual, but I’ve made it a point to celebrate this act loudly and lovingly.
When I met him I never once closed my eyes and dreamt of such a thing. There was no tea time in our vows, but yet it has become the best honor and display of our evolution. Middle age life is wild. We see our children growing at uncomfortable paces, our own skin and hair showing marks of time, our parents wrinkles deepening (love you, mom), and the brevity of everything coming into focus.
I choose to fall in love in the messy magic of this stage, and at tea time, because to not choose would mean we stay the same. To me, that sounds awfully boring and against the grain of what we know life is about. What we were should be remembered, who are are should be relished, and who we want to become must be revered.
And so my beloved, thank you for the tea. It’s an absolute privilege.
The Forty Files 