Turn

November 2015

What is this life if, full of care, / We have no time to stand and stare. . .

No time to turn at Beauty's glance, / And watch her feet, how they can dance. . . 

Leisure – W. H. Davies

This month my husband and I celebrate 20 years of marriage - to each other. 20 years and - three children, four houses, one dog, six fish, nine birds, a million fights, a billion meals made, and one romantic trip to Italy. What have I learnt in 20 years of marriage? That numbers do matter: three children is a lot more than two. 20 years is a lot longer than ten. A diamond solitaire is a single promise that holds a thousand fractured rainbows which sparkle as you turn.

I’ve learnt that time is divided by the number of heartbeats which race in moments of heightened emotion, and slow in the aftermath of wild explosions. The numbers of sunsets watched together are important. Noticing details is important. Messages that say ‘I love you’ for no reason other than saying it, so you remember it when you don’t feel it, are important. Praying together, eating together, walking together, and listening together: it all counts.

I’ve also learnt that keeping track of all the mistakes, the lost moments, and the accumulated pain makes for an ugly ledger. It’s better not to remember how many times I have been hurt. These are the numbers that damage. These are the big numbers that loom and overshadow the quiet number of shared heartbeats, sunsets, toddlers’ first steps, dinners out and morning sleep-ins.

I count the days of good that dance. And I’ve noticed something about numbers that turn on the moments of good. As the years pile up, there are fewer numbers. It becomes simpler and clearer: the two become one. The decision-making is halved. The arguments decrease. The children’s generous kindness multiples moments of wonder in ways that can’t be quantified. We tell them we love them to infinity and beyond. And we do.

My husband of 20 years has said ‘I love you’ more than 7,300 times. But the commitment turns on how the many words have created one love. It’s not good maths. But I was never fond of maths at school. I do think the numbers matter: the issues matter. I also think all the choices are reduced down to one choice and all the days become about one marriage. I turn. He turns. We stop measuring and trust to eternity in the two hearts, become one.

Photography of Manarola, Italy by Lucinda Coleman, reprinted with permission.