Over the years, through sickness, health, and snoring, Tony and I have always shared the same bedroom. But when our children grew up and moved out, a guest bedroom opened up just down the hall. If Tony had a bad cough or a pesty cold, he would sleep in the extra bedroom. If I awoke at 3:00 a.m. and couldn't go back to sleep, there was an extra bed to read in with the light on until the return of precious slumber.
In our new temporary arrangements, we started seeing the advantages of having our own rooms.
I have a dear friend who when building their new home, designed the home with two master suites: one for her and one for her husband. Their marriage was a beautiful partnership; they just preferred getting a good night's rest without the intrusion of heavy breathing, tossing and turning, and the worst--tugging the top sheet wrapped around a partner's body.
Tony and I mulled over the possibility for at least a year. Could we redesign the upstairs into two master suites? Could we stay in the same room but put another bed on the other side of the room? We never acted on the separation. And then Tony quit snoring. Or I started sleeping deeply. We both started sleeping soundly again.
After a few years, my friend and her husband with separate master suites, decided to move back in together. They were aging and they realized, they might not have forever together.
A few years later, he was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. They received the devastating news with resolve to endure well. He is now well advanced into forgetfulness and childlike countenance. The trial is substantial, but my friend is a dedicated spouse and perseveres with love, humor, and help from her children.
Their time together was shorter than she thought.
In my subconscious is the reality that all may not stay the same in my marriage. We will age; we are aware of aging's ups and downs, but it is not reality. Because we have not lived the dreaded possibilities, would hate to live them, so therefore it stays in the subconscious.
Nonetheless, thoughts and fears in the subconscious rise like steam from the pressure beneath. They work their way into our minds and hearts. They are like water coming from a hose into a sandbox; the water runs free, fills all the empty spaces, and eventually works its moisture in between the fine particles of sand.
The movement of subconscious thought into the conscious is a mysterious journey, and so the story of love and inevitable loss has run like water from my subconscious and settled into the conscious.
During our Thanksgiving retreat, we shared a smaller bed than usual. In an unspoken truce, we chose our sides and hugged the edges bracing for the storm, but we managed to sleep well despite the expectations.
Usually selfish in preparing myself for bed, making sure every sound and light is off, I instead left the bright bathroom light on, so Tony wouldn't stumble in the temporary surroundings.
On the last night, I awakened and was trying desperately to fall back to sleep. The morning hours were still dark, and when I was almost back to sleep, Tony started breathing loud. Instead of my usual resentment of the intrusion, I rolled closer, nestled my head next to his and listened to the sweet, familiar sound.
It became the soothing, rocking, swaying, that lulled me back to sleep.
In our new temporary arrangements, we started seeing the advantages of having our own rooms.
I have a dear friend who when building their new home, designed the home with two master suites: one for her and one for her husband. Their marriage was a beautiful partnership; they just preferred getting a good night's rest without the intrusion of heavy breathing, tossing and turning, and the worst--tugging the top sheet wrapped around a partner's body.
Tony and I mulled over the possibility for at least a year. Could we redesign the upstairs into two master suites? Could we stay in the same room but put another bed on the other side of the room? We never acted on the separation. And then Tony quit snoring. Or I started sleeping deeply. We both started sleeping soundly again.
After a few years, my friend and her husband with separate master suites, decided to move back in together. They were aging and they realized, they might not have forever together.
A few years later, he was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. They received the devastating news with resolve to endure well. He is now well advanced into forgetfulness and childlike countenance. The trial is substantial, but my friend is a dedicated spouse and perseveres with love, humor, and help from her children.
Their time together was shorter than she thought.
In my subconscious is the reality that all may not stay the same in my marriage. We will age; we are aware of aging's ups and downs, but it is not reality. Because we have not lived the dreaded possibilities, would hate to live them, so therefore it stays in the subconscious.
Nonetheless, thoughts and fears in the subconscious rise like steam from the pressure beneath. They work their way into our minds and hearts. They are like water coming from a hose into a sandbox; the water runs free, fills all the empty spaces, and eventually works its moisture in between the fine particles of sand.
The movement of subconscious thought into the conscious is a mysterious journey, and so the story of love and inevitable loss has run like water from my subconscious and settled into the conscious.
During our Thanksgiving retreat, we shared a smaller bed than usual. In an unspoken truce, we chose our sides and hugged the edges bracing for the storm, but we managed to sleep well despite the expectations.
Usually selfish in preparing myself for bed, making sure every sound and light is off, I instead left the bright bathroom light on, so Tony wouldn't stumble in the temporary surroundings.
On the last night, I awakened and was trying desperately to fall back to sleep. The morning hours were still dark, and when I was almost back to sleep, Tony started breathing loud. Instead of my usual resentment of the intrusion, I rolled closer, nestled my head next to his and listened to the sweet, familiar sound.
It became the soothing, rocking, swaying, that lulled me back to sleep.
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