Two weeks ago, I was quietly attending to household chores while my husband was out of town. All the Colbert pets were sleeping and the only sound in the house was the gentle humming of the furnace fan, doing its 24/7 work of cleaning our air through its allergen filters.
I was washing dishes, slowly and deliberately. Not in the rushed way that tends to be my style -- but peacefully and in absolutely no hurry. I was taking the time to enjoy the feel of the warm water, the surprise when a soap bubble escaped the sink and went floating into the living room, the sound of the water running across ceramic and glass and silver.
Our kitchen sink has the most beautiful view. It abuts a v-shaped breakfast bar so the washer of dishes can see the entire heart of the house -- the living room with its cushy couches and curio cabinets, the breakfast nook with its windows facing the pond, the hallway leading to my office with its welcoming French doors, and just a hint of the family room with its afternoon sunshine and the piano that has belonged to my family for generations.
I have no idea how many minutes I spent washing those dishes -- those special or pesky items that don't go into the Whirlpool dishwasher. What I do know is that while I was accomplishing my task, I enjoyed a special kind of meditation. I let my eyes ponder each detail within view, remembering its significance. Every wall in our house has a story and, next year -- there will be more stories yet.
Robert and I built this home together in 2007. And it was a labor of love. Visitors see drywall and furniture and artwork. But I see collaboration, and adventure, and passion. I see the colonial white trim around the powder room door, knowing that beneath it is a 2x4 piece of lumber with Sharpie marker handwriting -- announcing the date upon which our house passed its electrical inspection. I see the ceiling fan that was hung with care by Robert and my cousin Paul. I see the ceramic tiles that create the fireplace face, and that were selected by my sister-in-law, who served as our interior designer. I see wall colors inspired by our love of vineyards and our desire to visit Napa (which we did -- on our first anniversary). I see all the decisions and musings that made this house possible. I see two people who believed that building a home together could be the beginning of their life's story.
Until very recently, I thought the expression "our life's work" referred to a person's career or their avocations or the volunteer work about which they are so passionate. I would have told you that my life's work involves helping other people (and organizations) advance their missions through the strategic use of words and other communications tools. But that's not my life's work. It's my career's work -- which is just part of my life. This house -- and what it stands for -- is "OUR" life's work. The combined efforts of my husband and me. And a marriage is not just the merging of two people's interests -- it's the creation of something that isn't possible without the two of you together. It is greater than the sum of its parts.
I've been married twice, and have had a colorful dating history. I've loved well and deeply. I have chosen mates who taught me much. But I've never before shared my life with someone who made me understand that being in a relationship should have a purpose. (And I've never been ready to learn that lesson until recently.) Beyond the abeyance of loneliness, the creation of excitement, or the strategic merger of two bank accounts, a relationship should hope to serve the world in some way.
I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I've never thought about this. I always thought a relationship was simply about falling in love. I'm even more embarrassed to admit that what got me thinking about it was a recent interview on Oprah with Will and Jada Smith. They suggested that a marriage should have a mission and vision -- just like a business. It should have a reason for being.
Hmm. That just makes good sense. So what's the master plan for my marriage? In the end, it's pretty simple. Robert and I have joined our lives so that we can create peace. So that we can share a gentle energy with others in a way that makes us -- and the people around us -- feel good. We've promised to help each other eradicate drama and anxiety. And we renew our dedication to this every day. It means our house is typically very quiet. That it's filled with books and comfortable napping spots.
How will we know if we've achieved our goal? Pretty simply, I think. We'll know we've accomplished much if children (nieces, nephews, neighbors and friends) are happy in our home. If visitors sleep deeply and at length in our guest bedroom. If the hours around a backyard fire are less about the s'mores than they are about losing track of obligations and anxieties, and enjoying the pure music of a loved one's laughter as it floats over the pond and disappears into the trees after sunset. If holiday traditions are created and kept within these walls. If visitors, too, can get lost in the sound of the furnace fan or find themselves mesmerized by soap bubbles floating over the sink and popping on their journey toward the sun-soaked living room.
