My husband is amazingly confident. He walks like he knows where he wants to go and how to get there. And without tripping.
When he questions himself, it’s a crisis. When I question myself, it’s Tuesday.
If you ever should see the two of us together, this will become abundantly clear. He’ll be standing there, shoulders back, wearing a look of focus and depth. And I’ll be there too, tripping over my scarf, scraping gum off my shoe and asking for his keys because mine are locked in the car.
He thinks, and then does. I mostly just think.
I appreciate living in the vicinity of his confidence. The longer we’re together, the less it’s annoying and the more it’s contagious. Today, I said, “I’m feeling worse and worse about quitting my job,” and he said, “I’m feeling better and better about you quitting your job.” He understands that this is insane, but he wants the best for me and knows who I am and that this job is not that. He is, in my life, the voice of reason, daring, and adventure.
And he helps me understand that it is reasonable to do daring things.
For him, this is more like cliff diving in Venezuela. For me, this is more like saying which restaurant I prefer.
(As it turns out, I can declare my love for chicken parmesan, without fear of violating his equally passionate love for steak.)
Writing is a fearful thing for me. Each attempt is like six restaurant decisions.
It’s scary to delve into the depths of a clumsy and broken soul, offer the fragments found there, realize that’s all you’ve got to offer, and ask, “Do you like this? Is this helping you? Is it ok to be broke and broken and is it helping the world in the least to be who I am?”
When I write, it’s not so much to share glorious gifts bestowed upon me by God and the muses, the way I thought it might be. I do delve, but it’s more like dumpster diving (la corbeille, buddy).
Whether it’s the dark night of the soul or it’s just Tuesday, my husband is there to say, “Yes, I like this. Yes, this is helping. And I do like that broken and nonsensical shelf that you found under last week’s tomatoes, and something beautiful will probably come out of all of this after all.”