I spent yesterday, sitting by the ocean’s edge, reading, thinking, and making notes.
I thought about the questions Gary Chapman asks at the end of The 5 Love Languages chapters.
“There would be fewer divorces if only people _______________” would work harder to compromise, to understand one another, and be willing to make the first move.
“Has there ever been a time when you did something because you ‘meant well’—that is, out of loving motives?” All the time. “How did it turn out?” Sometimes good, sometimes not so good.
“Look back on that point in your marriage when ‘reality’ set in and the initial romantic feelings faded. How did this affect your relationship, for better or worse?” It both tore us apart, which forced us—through choice—to find a way back to one another.
I suppose we each have storied realities that set in, those moments, as Dr. Chapman says, when the euphoric in-loveness is replaced by things like dirty toilet seats and bills and duty and death.
Our first dose of reality came less than a year after we stood at the altar, starry-eyed and full of hope and promise in front of our closest friends and family.
The death of our child breathed Failure into our ears, Shame into our veins, and Life into our lives.
I, a person Dr. Chapman describes as a Babbling Brook, begged and screamed and pleaded for answers to the questions that ultimately were housed only within me.
Warren, the Dead Sea to my talkative nature, retreated into himself.
I’ve been longing for the time to sit down and delve into this book since January, when Fave introduced me to the topic.
I’ve much more reading to do, but I can honestly say that these pages speak volumes to troubled marriages.
I’m betting that there’s something in it for every individual who dares step in between the book’s covers.
I thought about me and Warren and how I should make a daily attempt to spend more time focusing on the tree of our married life.
I thought about my recent post on depression and the people I’ve recently encountered who are suffering from depression.
And I thought about how difficult it can be to secure the things that help us heal, those things that bring us a little bit of light or joy during some of our darkest times.
I thought about my belief that moxie, described as courage combined with inventiveness, has been one of the greatest assets in my own healing.
And I thought about you, those whose souls are also refreshed a little by the soothing sounds of water and waves, but for whatever reason can’t be there when you feel the need to be.
I can’t give you Courage, though I do hope you find it in my words, for there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t hold on to her with all my might.
And though I can’t bring you to the shore, I can, with a bit of resourcefulness and my handy-dandy, itty bitty iPhone, bring the beach to you.
Many years ago, when depression and chaos kept me from slumber, I trained my mind to go to the beach.
It took months of sleepless nights and thousands of repetitions, but I finally won the ability to cue sleep by bringing the beach to my bedroom.
I’d say the word beach and then focus on conjuring the image in my mind.
Eventually I came to hear the waves and feel my feet wiggle their way into the warm sand.
Resourcefulness.
Using what we’ve got.
Pretend those size eights are yours.
The water is just the way you like it.
Come on in…
Hugs and healing, Journeyer…