Six years ago today, 22 July 2017, two years before her death, Dear and I celebrated our 40th wedding anniversary. (This photo was taken long before that). Here’s my journal entry that day.
I said to Dear this morning when I brought her coffee in bed that it’s a strange phenomenon when the years we’ve been married feels bigger than the number of years we’ve been alive.
At the same time I bet that’s not an uncommon sensation for anyone who feels even a small measure of wonder at the vastness of existence.
Take us. Going within and finding the wisdom we hold today from all the experiences of giving up, or having wrenched from our fearful grasp, the encyclopedia of things we’ve taken seriously, leads us to appreciate the time and effort it has taken to create the bond we enjoy today.
Yet in that appreciation, the essence of who we are remains as pure as it was when we first formally pledged our love in ’77. But our understanding of that purity is so great by comparison to what we knew then that it feels we’ve lived a few incarnations.
Makes sense, since both of us, before we were born this time around, asked for the most intense life we could get to bring us closer to God. Â
We each boarded that train named “Go Big Or Stay Home” — you know, the one that sooner or later, in this life or another, arrives in Jackpot City.