Michael and I hamming it up in 2009, early 90’s senior photo style
He called me a writer long before I called myself one.
He encouraged me to take the space and get away to etch and tap words, to let my mind run free from the crumbs scattered across the counter and the little people across the floors. He told me my stories were worth telling, and that it didn’t matter what anyone thought or said or how I convinced myself otherwise because I was, in fact, a writer.
He’s a writer himself, but he doesn’t really know it.
Once I thought him a dreamer, seeking after far away visions of academia, but as the years wind on, I see that he is really a dream holder and that’s a whole different kind of story weaving.
It’s the kind unspoken and the kind in whispers across pillows and in the pantry with the door closed. When I’m doubt weary and wondering again why I plug away at this thing that causes me such joy and such angst, his storytelling is the kind that holds space and reminds me what’s true, helping me find steady ground with few words. “It’s ok, it’s only today” and “Take one thing at a time.” And he waits with me until I’m ready to go again, or not.
For the last twenty years, we’ve been writing a new kind of story, and we don’t know how it’s going to end, and sometimes we struggle to speak the same dream language, but we’ll continue setting feet in places of love and predictability while stumble stepping into spacious places of possibility.
We’ll take turns holding the lines and turns of phrase, and we’ll get bogged down in character development and plot points, and we’ll keep pressing on, heads down, eyes up, co-authors of this story.
Happy 16th Anniversary to the man who lives out for me the meaning of grace and unconditional love, of commitment and perseverance. I am changed for the better each day I walk life with you. I love you, sweetheart.