Two Husbands

30th August 2011 Tuesday

On my desk I’m burning a rose scented stick of incense - a gift from my brother who was here with his partner - visiting from a sacred island off the coast of Fiji. And the stub of a candle in a tiny coffee cup, reminding me of Christmas. From my upstairs study I can hear the rhythmic chanting of football crowds in Exeter stadium a few streets away. I’m feeling unsure, nervous about blogging again after a week - how to pick up dropped stitches in my knitting. Maybe I don’t need to fill in the holes but just plunge in.

On Sunday, I sat with my husband on a bench in Killerton Woods, an oak tree, its leaves flecked with crisp yellow, towering above us. As we talked I realised that I have two husbands.

The warm-fleshed one beside me, his thigh touching mine, who is looking at the clouds and listening to me from inside his heart. And the other husband who visits me sometimes, who lives inside my head, the one I made up. He is self motivating, a man who has a dream and a plan and a drive, a man, who although he loves me, loves his dream even more and it’s that desire to see it grow in the world that pulls him out of bed every morning. And brings him home to me every night, smiling.

A fantasy man. If I was married to him I wouldn’t be me. And as we sit there on the bench in the evening sunshine I kick fantasy man up into the oak tree, curtailing all visiting rights for now.

So today I’m deeply grateful for the real husband who sits beside me in the office of the Wonderful Clinical Psychologist - the one I want to hug. My husband says,

I want to know what I’m here for. And I failed at everything I thought I wanted in the past.

He wants to make his dream come true. I give fantasy man a wave as he passes by.

The WCP says,

Have you tried Mindfulness Meditation? Look up Jon Kabat-Zinn.

I want to kiss him this time. I cry a bit instead and he pushes the box of tissues closer to my hand. And says it’s normal to be emotional when you have had your life turned upside down.

Afterwards I take the hand of my dreaming, artist husband, and we walk by a wide river estuary, stopping to watch the seagulls squabbling on the shining mud flats.