I Do

I married Mr. Curry on the beach you see us standing on above, La Jolla. A gorgeous wedding, perfected by the great wedding planner Nature, and her ocean roar, sun glimmer, sand dune backdrop, sweeping blue sky, enroaching sunset and shore of winking diamonds. I carried in my hand a pastel bouquet of flowers from my Mother's backyard garden, my dream bouquet, absolutely gorgeous and lush and fragrant. We married for the wrong reasons, probably, we were in love, but we were also harried: life had been very hard for both of us, and in our excitement in finding that a best friendship had turned into passionate love, we rushed into each other's sanctuary without practical life stability. Ha! Anyone who knows me knows I have never had practical life stability, so perhaps waiting for it to marry wouldn't have helped sturdy the boat at all. We married into the eye of the storm. We made love every day. We laughed with the intensity of those who are slipping and know the fall is going to be more painful than pratfall.

Days slipped by easily, Mr. Curry and I on our king sized bed lain on the floor, Lola the baby in between us, sleeping, as we watched The Sopranos. Mr. Curry and I making love on the orange carpet next to the bed with the sleeping baby as rain sluiced the windowpanes. Mr. Curry and I listening to Tom Petty, dancing with the boys. Mr. Curry wrestling with the boys on Friday Night Family Night ( which we still do ). Mr. Curry and I at Rubios with the three kids, Mr. C putting the " Shrimp Burrito " sticker on toddler Lola's shirt, every time. I have one in her baby book. Meanwhile, life moved swiftly. Mr. Curry built and lost his business, and my mystery illness began, with it, the chronic pain and fear as a diagnosis eluded me. We entered into medical debt that has bankrupted me, after three surgeries and countless tests and treatments.

We struggled with blended family issues, and family of origin issues. We struggled with personal issues, the ones that threatened to disguise who we were, and who we were meant to be.

It all could have ended there.

Marriage is a hot commodity in this time, bandied about in the media, debated and discussed vehemently in books and essays, it's very existence called into question: is marriage even relevant these days? Statistics are picked apart: men fair better than women in marriage, they 'get more out of the deal' and live happier and longer in marriages, while women are more stressed and encumbered by the unequal and overwhelming amount of domestic duties we take on. Divorce erupts as a pulse for our domestic heartbeat: Why do we marry, why do we divorce? Should less people get divorced? Should more people get divorced? Does divorce destroy children? Does divorce leave us empowered, or adrift? Is marriage a setup for misery in a society plump and silicone filled with sexual opportunities? Why fight for marriage, anyway?

I fight for mine. This is why.

After my first surgery, I could not urinate for two days. Finally, I felt a trickle threaten. I could make it to the bathroom, but barely, and once there, could pee, but all over the toilet, the floor. Except for Mr. Curry. He walked/carried me half naked to the bathroom. He sat me gently on the toilet, and rubbed my back as I leaned forward, moaning softly. He did this many times, all day long, and many times at night, when I woke him for help. I woke in darkness, in pain, a little confused and afraid. I could not think where the light switch was. I was heavily drugged. I said his name. I felt his hand on my arm, steadying me, and then a light switched on, and there was dark in the perimeter all around us, in the silence and the quiet mustiness a room builds. I had two more surgeries after this. The last surgery, we flew to San Jose because I had found a specialist. We flew for a consult, flew back, and then flew again, for the actual surgery. We waited a day, I had surgery. Waking, I was told I needed another immediate surgery. So I had the next operation. After two days, it was time to fly home. Only. I was terrified to fly. The anxiety and stress caught up with me, and I felt the grip of cold panic every time I pictured flying, again. I told Mr. Curry. And he drove me home. He drove for hours and hours and hours- after taking care of me, drove me home, to care for me more.

It is not that you cannot receive this kind of unconditional love if you are not married. It is that there is something about the human being that craves symbol and ritual and statements of purposeful intention. There is something about me. And there is something about the ritual and intention of marriage that helps me to stay longer, dig deeper, look harder, love fiercer and grow larger. The 'we' that Mr. Curry and I became when we married is almost a thing of itself, separate from me, or him, it is the 'higher power' of our union, the connective force that is comprised of past, present, future, goals, dreams, promises, our children, our parenting, our larger families, our community, our sex life, our mutual friendships, our animals, our shared and common goal to have a life witness, who loves. When I fail to find what is necessary to work through the hard times inside myself, I reach for this ideal 'marriage'- and I find it there. When who I am is not strong enough or smart enough, I fall into the connective tissue of marriage; let it hold me while I figure things out. Watching the media portray an ideal as a joke sours me. It's not a joke, or an impossibility. Because it is not possible, or desirable for everyone does not make it worthless. If ( knock on my heart ) Mr. Curry and I should ever divorce, I still won't think it so.

I desire the work of marriage. This is why.

I am deeply flawed. I had a terrifically painful childhood that left scars and brought me to the brink of complete despair, before I began the long labor of birthing myself back into the world. Mr. Curry has a similar yet simultaneously wildly different story. We are not shining examples of human beings with glorious souls ablaze in beauty. We are human beings who have momentary states of grace, but often reveal with startling brutality our faults, our weakness. Walking this road of healing with Mr. Curry is an honor. Seriously. To see that deeply into a person- to be allowed to see- and to have them see you as well this way, all fucked up and ugly and small, and to still be loved? That- that is healing. That is healing that only love can do. Where I cannot love, where I find myself flailing at Mr. Curry in anger or in bitterness, finding walls where there could be openess, this is where I am feeling with my hands the very limits of my own heart. That is where my work begins.

I desire the benefits of marriage. This is why.

When I am angry at Mr. Curry, if I am hurt, I might want to hold back, to not reach out, to hold him, touch him, make an motion, physical or emotional, in his direction. I often think to myself " We're married. I'm not going to divorce him, so I might as well love him. " When leaving does not feel like an option, the small and large decisions err on the side of love.

My mother left my father. I celebrate this. She needed to, absolutely. I would never change the freedom that divorce gives to people to claim the right to their own life, their own happiness, myself included. I would not stay married year after year after year if no hope was present, or if abuse of any kind, including emotional, was present. It takes two people willing to love and to change to make a marriage a living, breathing entity, worthy soil for planting two human beings.

Mr. Curry and I both hope for our children a kind of marriage we were not able to have- one that is possible, a marriage begun in joy by two people who can communicate well, love well, who know each other and who have a strong and solid foundation as individuals to base a union on. We are having a reverse osmosis marriage, one that is growing stronger, more meaningful, more joyful, more innocent as the years go on, a Benjamin Bunny marriage, where we began beaten and battered, and are growing younger and stronger and lighter every year that passes.

The weights we carry are heavy ones, serious and intimidating in their enormity and complexity. We have had very hard and lonely patches in our marriage and we will again, for reasons I discuss here and one that I do not. I make lists in my mind and jot them in my journal. These lists are the fruits of our labors, and mawwage is the weason we are gathad here today. ;)

My wife is immature. Whenever I take a bath, she sinks my boats. -Woody Allen