Tuesday, August 6

Blazing On



Fire streaks through the passing days, richly urgent, impatient. We've the rest of our lives, even as we've only this moment. Cliched, but no less true: wedding, Wasatch, everything happening all at once. There's never enough time even as there's clearly yet too much. The lake at the end of the rainbow's ours in ten days and it feels at least nine too many, as these promises we draft and will make and are making continue pooling on our tongues, waiting for voice, an allowance we can't wait to air out, these treasures hot in our fevered palms. Giddy as schoolkids, lovebirds anew.

The Colockum fire's eleven days in, the cost of her fight approaching seven mil, but no longer quite the fiendish monster she once was; her disposition's markedly improved. The air's too thick and wet for most controlled burns yet, humidity holding at 40% - this the hold on progress now. Interior fuels aren't dry enough to burn out, so we rest at 60% containment.

Meanwhile we're 100% enthralled with each other, our insides burning feverishly. Hotter now and steadier than ever at the start, and this isn't how I'd learned it works, but hardly will I complain. Likewise, the nervousness & anxiety I expect to wash over at any hour remain absent, an idle threat on the horizon, imagined but not particularly real. There's just sky, sky, sky - stretching forever. As full of promise - that's our sky, wide and free! - as indifference; we've no special circumstances, I realize, that of their own accord will make our marriage better than others. Still, I know us, and I have faith: our marriage will be better.

Days forward keep building, antsily and unevenly marching. Creation lingers in the humid, again slightly hazy, air - running antithesis to last week's destructions and despairs. They're making progress on the line, only a few miles of perimeter still missing. We're making something, everything, our future by the day, each day another foundational brick and our trust mortar.

At lunch yesterday, talking about writing and our words, a point made: Experience can't match words, not looking forward or back or even straight through the center of the moment, but they don't need to either. Words are hard; some experiences are, too. Sharing those experiences, though, needn't be. Trust makes it so.

Trust allows us to steal, shamelessly. Last week the smoke stole our air, and last fall even more so; this week (and last week, and the week before, ...), this year (and last year, and the year before, ...) - and for the rest of our lives - we're stealing from each other. Stealing the individual to meld collective, a slow deposit of time and interest into each other, an infinitely repeated transaction that collectively makes one plus one another one - and that one together so much more than two apart.

Math falls as short as language here. I couldn't be happier, so stolen. This is transformation, metamorphosis, crystallization. From night into light, smoky smog and fiery fog into clear blue sky. Such theft gives the gift of hope.

Yesterday I, for the first time in over a week, ran freely. Unlike the day before, the air did not leave me heaving. Unlike three days ago, I saw no bears. Instead the air was crisp, tangy, perfect, right. For the first time in over a week, my head once again felt my own. All was well, and is well, and - I've confidence of this - will be well. For in this union, no longer is my head alone my own. No longer are my stumbles alone my own. They're also hers. And her strength is mine. One plus one is one, two together in our future, our happiness, our hope, our joy.

Sometime last night we woke to a frog, croak-croaking, the sound seemingly in her bedroom. I looked around the room, shone a light in search; still, he croaked on. Admitting defeat, I fell back asleep. Or so she told me this morning; I've no recollection of that frog. Just as the night's gone blurry, so too have parts of my past. Barely even do I remember the frog I once was. This forgetting has been one of the greatest gifts; hardly am I now a prince, but still the transformation: With her, I am the best version of myself. Kinder, gentler, more patient and more loving. Heaven is so big there's no need to look up, I know, and this here's our kingdom, and this here's our future, and I need shades so bright does she shine.

This is an old story, too. And we're still writing.

1 comment:

Kerri Anne said...

So wait, now who's winning the (pre) wedding?

TEN DAYS. And then the rest of our lives and Great Odin's Raven, I am the luckiest girl alive.