We’ve been married for 45 years. No, wait, it’s 46 already. And the love we have for each other has grown up with us into something mature and complex and graceful and beautiful.
Today, I was thinking about how much press young love has been getting – written and sung about, and celebrated and photographed and lusted after; and how little commercial space is devoted to the kind of love that we have come to share: old love.
I love this love that we have grown together. How we have grown together in the process of growing this love, and how this old love has been nurturing us, how it has grown strong enough to strengthen us as we slowly descend into the downside of growing up.
And I thought that, given how few people we know have managed to love this long, it might be important that I take this moment to document and celebrate old love.
I look at my wife. I see her as she was when I first saw her. We dance together and I fall in love again. We sleep together in rhythms of intricate intimacy. I touch her and I touch decades. Such a deep love. Such a complex, private beauty.
It hasn’t always been easy, raising this love from infancy to maturity. Decades of effort have gone into keeping it alive this long. Misunderstandings slowly, slowly becoming understandings. And, somehow, as our love has lived within us and grown within us, we have come to live within it. And the joy of it surrounds our days together.
A playful path is the shortest road to happiness.
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