HITTING H0ME

I tell myself I don't have time to indulge in a column today. I'm busy with the health, farm and other miscellaneous news under an early deadline.
But something is tugging at me to be addressed, anatomically somewhere between my heart and gut. I know the something to be the fact that today, June 30, would have been my fifth wedding anniversary, if my ex-husband and I were not, in fact, divorced.
Walking downtown this morning I observed people passing in cars, on an ordinary, beautiful June morning, and I thought, "Did it happen to you," to the middle-aged man in a new Suburban, or to you, the woman with the two toddlers at the S&D?
Thing is, I married back then without my parents, or my sister, or anyone from those among the faithful to oversee events. Guess I was young, maybe not so young in years, but full of a lot of liberally rationalized idealism about how I was certain things should be.
I married a man who'd been my closest friend for years and who I had dreamed I would marry, seeing his sharp features and mahogany hair long before we even met. And when he asked me, I was sure. I was sure things would be wonderful and for the remainder of my days.
My mother tried to tell me. Went on about how it wasn't time yet and this and that. But back then I didn't listen much to my mother, just the voices of my own will, which were mighty on their own and wanted their own way.
Problems came along, for which I can only say that we honestly just didn't have the tools to deal with. And not that we didn't try. Sometimes I think we beat the union to death just by trying so much.
Without children, we had the luxury afterward to drown ourselves as we each saw fit. I wrote, exercised and acquired an entirely new wardrobe and a hip haircut. He had some whiskey and played guitar and had some more whiskey and played more guitar.
That went on for a time, and then, it seems, all the growing, (and growing up), that we couldn't do together started.
I thought about what went wrong and got nowhere. It's when I started to think about myself realistically that insights crawled forward, slowly, knees scraping in a manner bandaids just couldn't fix.
Years have gone by and we're both doing OK. Better than OK. Good, in fact. For whatever reason, we've both slowly found in other people what we couldn't make realize with each other. I know now that I will have a home again, with a family, with someone I love.
All I can say about that is that I remember to thank God when I go to bed at night, back like when I was a little girl who'd been given a gift bigger than her, and one she never, ever expected.
Divorced people are asked to check the box that says divorced on paperwork. Saying you're divorced always come out in a hush, and the person always answers, "Oh, I'm so sorry," as if someone died.
Well, something does die when a couple divorces. Dreams, a life, a future all fade like the ink that separates them. And, culturally, divorced people, after the rage and blame, are, more often than not, an ashamed bunch, because we couldn't make work what the neighbors have.
A woman I like celebrated her 24th anniversary last week. Just that day, she joked off-hand about how "Oh, that was in those few years I couldn't stand my husband." But they're still married. Bless them.
I do feel grief on this day. It's a grief for something lost, something innocent and irretrievable. But on the other side, there are things gained that have become precious. Things like a good dose of realism, a hefty gratitude for what I've been given since, and with some help, the ability to love with more compassion this time around.