Our Number 8

We were married on the beach in Westhampton eight years ago today

The morning beach was cloaked in one of those low mists that make the day ambiguous. Across the dunes you could feel the surge of the surf falling into the sand.

There had been times that summer and in the summers to follow that the ocean clawed away big fistfuls of sand and left the beach jagged and cratered. On that morning it was smooth, toasted white in the sun from a run of calm days.

We had struck a tent on the beach and set up a long horseshoe of tables for the party later that day. As I walked down to the beach it was hard to make the shapes out through the mist. A tractor clattered across the sand, raking away everything sharp and unexpected and uncertain.

When we stood between the stands of sea grass and pledged our love to each other, the sun was out and smiling.

Five people mattered that day. Tami: luminescent and full with our child. Becky and Will: my daughter and son, steady and patient, bemused. Ryan and Julian: Tami’s sons, innocent and immersed, joyful and aware.

There was no time except the Present then, and there has not been any time that has mattered except the Present since.

We ate. We danced. We chanted by the fire.

We exploded with giddy excitement.

Love finds you, it offers a place to steady yourself, to let go of the Future and the Past, to accept that nothing exists beyond the totality of what exists in that moment. Love lifts you up, expands you, relinquishes you, embraces you.

So, I celebrate our anniversary, offer my gratitude to Tami and relish the constant satisfaction of our Love.

“The morning glory which blooms for an hour
Differs not at heart from the giant pine,
Which lives for a thousand years.”

Thank you, baby.