We celebrated my parents’ golden anniversary yesterday.
50 Years of wedded bliss!
But bliss isn’t what you think it is. It’s messy and loud and sometimes doesn’t look like bliss at all.
Seeing my parents close up, I witness my dad hold my mom tenderly and protectively as she walks down the driveway. I’m also privy to him yelling at her when he’s frustrated.
I watch my mom delightfully prepare his meals, then turn around and scream at the top of her lungs for him to come to the table.
My parents show me by being, that love is perfectly imperfect.
They’re not the only married couple I know that way.
I grew up surrounded by married aunts and uncles. My brother celebrates 23 years of wedded bliss today. My grandparents were married until the day my grandfather died. Their fights were legendary.
Their love is not all hearts and flowers.
Their love is like a ripe Julie mango - messy AND hella juicy.
I don’t like Julie mangoes or any mangoes.
I’m more of an apple girl.
Clear boundaries. Crisp.
No fleshy, messy bits.
I watch a LOT of rom coms. My idea of wedded bliss WAS hearts and flowers.
I wanted a marriage with no fights. So, I pushed my feelings down until they often came out sideways. Screams heard around the world. Bottles slammed on the back patios.
My fury was worse than any of the women I grew up with. The difference was that it seemed to come out of nowhere.
But the Gods, Goddesses, and all the ancestors are having a rollicking time with me now.
Life is lonely without relationships and they’re ALL imperfect. They’re messy because humans are messy. We have baggage, desires, expectations, all our unique peculiar ways.
I am accepting the imperfection of life and love, and learning from the best.
My mom.
My mom LOVES messiness. Her cooking is delicious, but the kitchen after is like the tasmanian devil rode through.
Her love is perfectly imperfect. She will not let you go, but it won’t stop her from giving you a tongue lashing and telling anyone who will listen about it.
She likes Real Housewives and Love and Hip Hop. And my dad enjoys watching with her.
They like bacchanal. It’s in their blood.
Out of that, I was born.
Determined to be the opposite.
Prim. Proper. Reserved.
I feel like this is their final attempt to win me over to the dark side.
They’re winning;-)
Ironically, this week in the Artist’s Way…
I finally did finger painting for my artist’s date. It seemed perfect for my realization and acceptance that love and life are messy.
So, I went for it.
How is your Artist’s Way journey going?
In Joy,
Nneka