I have just returned from dinner with a dear friend, one who is going through similar circumstances (although his separation occurred months ago). It was wonderful to sit with someone I could feel so safe with - we have been friends for many years, and I have always considered him the most kind and decent man I know - and tell the story of what happened in my marriage. He shared some of the details of his story, as well, and we both marvelled at how we were both so shocked to hear of each other's marriages ending (that we knew each other so well, yet knew nothing of the troubles we'd had). Our dinner lasted hours, and as we said goodbye at the end of the evening, I felt a pang of optimism. I knew that my husband was the anomaly, and that most men were good, and kind, and loving like my friend.
During dinner, we had a remarkable discovery. Our lives have taken parallel paths in so many ways, and here we are again going through something similar. But we discovered something else. I had just re-read one of my very favourite poems, and was reminded of how this beautiful piece of work has hovered around my life until the moment I needed it. When I was a young intern back in 1984, someone passed this newly published poem to me - "The Journey", by Mary Oliver. I loved it. It spoke to so many of the clients I was seeing in my brand-new practice and field of work, and I shared it with many clients and colleagues alike. It did not apply to my own life at all, yet it resonated with me so deeply that I could not ignore it nor could I fail to see how it somehow connected to something within me. It has resurfaced over the years many times. When I mentioned it to him, it turned out to be one of his favourite poems, as well. He has always been very dear to me, so there was something kind of special in finding that "my" Journey was also his. Here is that beautiful poem, from Mary Oliver's collection of poetry entitled, "Dream Work" ...
The Journey
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.
~ Mary Oliver ~
On and off over the years, this poem has resurfaced for a whole new reading. Each time, it touched me and each time, I shared it with others who were going through something that made the words seem so right. Still, it did not resonate specifically with me, as I continued to stumble through the fog and miss the fact entirely that I was not doing what I had to do, that I was not letting go of those voices.
When my husband turned 50, we were in the midst of our "trial separation". I will always feel terrible that we were not available to him for his birthday, no matter that I was in the classic space between a rock and a hard place. He hadn't seen the kids for several weeks, and they did not want to see him at all. He was very emotional about having missed their first day of school (for our daughter, her first day of high school). Things between the two of us were not good; it had come to my attention that he had said some very negative things about me and the kids to our very dear friends, and that as a result they would not see me ("they'll be happy to see us when we visit them as a family of 4"). The clear loss of that friendship, especially given the unfair circumstances, was enormously painful to me. I could have insisted that the kids come and we all go out for dinner. He would have had the highly charged experience of seeing them for the first time in quite awhile, other than one therapy session he had with each of them (in which they held him firmly to account for his very significant role in our family situation as well as in the destruction of their relationships). In addition, he would have been very distraught at seeing their ambivalence (at best) or anger at having to be there. But on the other hand, for him to spend his 50th birthday alone, or with a few friends and his own family when he would be so missing his children, just seemed impossibly sad.
The only thing he asked for his birthday was to spend the day in our home by himself with the dog. I left him a big box of his favourite cookies, baked that morning, along with a book of poetry - "Ten Poems To Change Your Life". In the store, I'd flipped through them from back to front, never reaching the very first one but impressed by the others in the book and knew it was the one I wanted to give him. It was not until months later, when I struggled with my decision and explored all the reasons that I could not do what I knew I needed to do, that I picked up that book again and read it from the very beginning. The very first poem in the book? "The Journey" - I had no idea it was in there, let alone the opening poem in a collection selected "to change your life". Here I'd thought the messages in the book were for him; turns out, they were equally important for me. Reading that poem again, at that time, made me realize why it had hung around the edges of my life for so long.
It was waiting for that very day.
During dinner, we had a remarkable discovery. Our lives have taken parallel paths in so many ways, and here we are again going through something similar. But we discovered something else. I had just re-read one of my very favourite poems, and was reminded of how this beautiful piece of work has hovered around my life until the moment I needed it. When I was a young intern back in 1984, someone passed this newly published poem to me - "The Journey", by Mary Oliver. I loved it. It spoke to so many of the clients I was seeing in my brand-new practice and field of work, and I shared it with many clients and colleagues alike. It did not apply to my own life at all, yet it resonated with me so deeply that I could not ignore it nor could I fail to see how it somehow connected to something within me. It has resurfaced over the years many times. When I mentioned it to him, it turned out to be one of his favourite poems, as well. He has always been very dear to me, so there was something kind of special in finding that "my" Journey was also his. Here is that beautiful poem, from Mary Oliver's collection of poetry entitled, "Dream Work" ...
The Journey
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.
~ Mary Oliver ~
On and off over the years, this poem has resurfaced for a whole new reading. Each time, it touched me and each time, I shared it with others who were going through something that made the words seem so right. Still, it did not resonate specifically with me, as I continued to stumble through the fog and miss the fact entirely that I was not doing what I had to do, that I was not letting go of those voices.
When my husband turned 50, we were in the midst of our "trial separation". I will always feel terrible that we were not available to him for his birthday, no matter that I was in the classic space between a rock and a hard place. He hadn't seen the kids for several weeks, and they did not want to see him at all. He was very emotional about having missed their first day of school (for our daughter, her first day of high school). Things between the two of us were not good; it had come to my attention that he had said some very negative things about me and the kids to our very dear friends, and that as a result they would not see me ("they'll be happy to see us when we visit them as a family of 4"). The clear loss of that friendship, especially given the unfair circumstances, was enormously painful to me. I could have insisted that the kids come and we all go out for dinner. He would have had the highly charged experience of seeing them for the first time in quite awhile, other than one therapy session he had with each of them (in which they held him firmly to account for his very significant role in our family situation as well as in the destruction of their relationships). In addition, he would have been very distraught at seeing their ambivalence (at best) or anger at having to be there. But on the other hand, for him to spend his 50th birthday alone, or with a few friends and his own family when he would be so missing his children, just seemed impossibly sad.
The only thing he asked for his birthday was to spend the day in our home by himself with the dog. I left him a big box of his favourite cookies, baked that morning, along with a book of poetry - "Ten Poems To Change Your Life". In the store, I'd flipped through them from back to front, never reaching the very first one but impressed by the others in the book and knew it was the one I wanted to give him. It was not until months later, when I struggled with my decision and explored all the reasons that I could not do what I knew I needed to do, that I picked up that book again and read it from the very beginning. The very first poem in the book? "The Journey" - I had no idea it was in there, let alone the opening poem in a collection selected "to change your life". Here I'd thought the messages in the book were for him; turns out, they were equally important for me. Reading that poem again, at that time, made me realize why it had hung around the edges of my life for so long.
It was waiting for that very day.
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