During my first marriage, struggling to hang in there (for reasons I will not enumerate) and struggling with the guilt of not wanting to hang in there, I read a book by a Christian author who said that the purpose of marriage was to make you “holy, not happy.”
Holy, not happy.
As though marriage were some kind of Protestant Purgatory.
“Ladies, nail yourself to 1000 tiny crosses daily to prove you’re not a quitter. That’s what Jesus would want.”
So I stayed, until I couldn’t anymore.
Letting myself off with time served.
My first and last marriages are like bookends. One a remake of the other, the latter with more sophisticated dialogue and higher production values.
I’d long since given up holiness by the time I arrived on the last one’s doorstep, but was I still trying to purge myself of something? To purge myself of myself?
Truth be told, I’m a coward:
I never rebel within. Only without.
What are your small, but significant acts of rebellion?
These shoes.
One day, I’ll explain, but for now: IYKYK.
kfw 2021
Undusted Corners 