It’s said that you can’t change anyone, but people do change. Decades ago, for instance, I was a young lady working in Manhattan. On my way home from my office in midtown, often after 7 p.m., I might stop at the local liquor store and pick up a bottle of wine, then stand in my strappy high heels waiting for the light to change on 171st Street, and light up a cigarette.
My husband was a classical street musician. With his quintet, he played for cash strewn into an open instrument case in front of a store on Fifth Avenue. We were often “ships passing in the night,” and in those long-ago days, my main concern was my career at a magazine.
I wasn’t a nasty woman (I was especially kind to my aging parents, whom I adored). But I wasn’t exactly easy to live with. My mate (a very private dude), was highly critical of my behavior; he was judgmental, and didn’t smoke, drink, or dance (aside from an occasional waltz). Our marriage was rocky; it crashed up on the rocks now and then but miraculously survived.
Flash forward a few decades: I’m a yoga teacher, my husband is a successful musician, and we’re the parents of three grown sons. Rarely do we argue, though we sometimes disagree. Because of my New Age-y pastime, I routinely do things that the husband of yore would have scorned. Just the other night, for instance, I was awaiting a visit from some angels (having signed up for an angel visit via an angel chain letter too complex to explain here) and I was setting up my altar in preparation. I’d had a busy day, and didn’t have time to obtain the requisite white flower to welcome the beings. I bemoaned this fact aloud.
“I’ll get the flower for you,” my husband volunteered. “What kind would you like?”
“Any white flower will do,” I said gratefully. He sprinted off to the local florist and returned with a lovely white rose.
“Any white flower will do,” I said gratefully. He sprinted off to the local florist and returned with a lovely white rose.
At precisely 10:30 p.m. that night I was supposed to let the angels in the front door. (Yes, that sounds nuts, but can you actually prove that angels can fly through metal?)
“Are you coming up to bed?” my husband asked.
“Um…I have to do something first.”
“Oh, that’s right.” He smiled conspiratorially and headed up the stairs without further comment.
Throughout the years, my husband and I have both changed. We learned how to parent, though we were clueless when our first child was born. We learned to fight, and we learned to forgive. We fought off cancer and grieved the death of parents; we watched two kids get married. We learned to laugh with instead of at one another (well, mostly!) and to accept each other’s likes/dislikes with tolerance instead of nasty derision (he: Mel Brooks/pop music; me: angels/anchovies…among other things). In my wildest dreams I never could have imagined the easygoing man he has become, and in his wildest hallucinations he would never have conjured up a mantra-chanting Kundalini yoga teacher.
The critical young musician I married would have said angels were a crock. That snarky girl on the corner would have heartily agreed. Clearly, we’ve both evolved, but what matters most is not whether my mate believes in angels (doubtful) but whether he honors my belief. His respectful offer of the white rose tells me he does.
Often, we insist that the traits that most annoy us about our beloved will never change, but life itself is change, so why be so sure? Happy Valentine’s Day to all, and may your love grow deeper, wiser, and more surprising each day.
