I watched my mom get married this last week and I was proud of the exposed choice she made. Marriage can be a source of strength. It helps us deal with disappointment and heartbreak. It teaches vulnerability. It creates familiarity, of the most intimate kind.
Choosing to get married is a very personal act done in a very public setting.
It is choosing to believe in love.
Choosing to make it last.
Choosing to commit ourselves to another.
I recently read an article online that a man wrote about being married to the same person for life. His point was that with in monogamy you aren’t with just one person but with several people, as that person grows and changes in life.
I asked Derek about the different person he has been with within our marriage and his response,“First you were an adventurer, then I was with an artist, next a mother, and currently an absolute crazy person.”
He said the last part with a laugh…but a truthful laugh. I love the warmth of him and our marriage. It’s a flame that flickers around me.
Everything I want the world to be is now coming true especially for me.
And the reason is clear it’s because you are near.
With uncovered hair and bare feet I am at my best. With my family beside me, home on the range at the Bar B Ranch. Being at the ranch feels healing. It takes my life scars and current mode of being and lets them run free through the trees, tail swishing behind me, dusting off a few years of living at a time.
It has been a year since I was able to ride a horse. I spent nine months of that year being pregnant.
My life holding womb that I’d nurtured, talked too, and trusted. My body now knows about work, change, and acceptance through this process. The acceptance only a mother’s womb will change and make room for. This is the shameless beauty of a woman.
Scars of sadness
Scars of wrinkles
Scars of living
Scars of a woman
Reminding me that these separate parts are my best things and have stories that are stories to pass on. I want to put my story next to theirs and yours next to mine. The pieces I am, broken collarbone, scarred knees and hands, are the parts of me to hold. So, love your scars. Put a hand on them and stroke them. You’ve got to love them, this flesh that weeps, laughs, and dances.
I will sing to the woman I know, the pieces that I am. Using the crisp outside air to fuel my voice to be in tune with the makings of a traveler.