My husband.
I call him the Crazy Man. Four years ago, we experienced an unforeseen devastating blow, and for the first time in our 40+ year marriage, I didn’t think we were going to make it. That alone is remarkable, given the stress we endured when Funk was mayor of Kansas City.
The truth is, if I consolidate all of the sorrows that I’ve experienced in my 66 years on earth, they are nothing compared to the Big Blow that came in September 2020. It didn’t affect my husband as much as it did me. Where he was enraged, I was confused and heartbroken. Funk would’ve shaken it off after the first year if he didn’t have to deal with my emotions. I’m still recovering.
I’ve had to isolate myself for long stretches of time to make upward progress towards healing. Fortunately, I have the blessing of a barter. Except for travel expenses, I get to stay in a very remote location in Hawaii for three months each year.
The Big Island is a place where you heal without even trying. There’s just something about it that elevates your soul. However, if you arrive with an intent, one month of spiritual work here equates to three months of work on the mainland. It’s akin to what I used to tell my birth clients, “Having a natural birth takes five years off your therapy bill, that’s how powerful the experience is, so work the experience.”
This year, I returned to Hawaii in September and I’ll be here until mid-December. My goal is the same as in previous years: To try and comprehend WTH happened in 2020 and learn how to allow grief to rest beside joy.
Back to the Crazy Man.
Funk is nine years older than me. In the beginning of our lives together, I couldn’t bear being apart from him. Mostly because I used to be afraid of ghosts, but also because I was only 19 when we met and had never spent much time alone. But the horror I call husband didn’t care about any of that. He loved his work and the travel that came with it, so I had to learn how to be by myself.
In this last third of our lives, our roles have reversed. I need to be alone to evolve, and he prefers being with me. Karma. Sucks to be Funk!
We’ve been apart for six weeks now. In addition to my self-imposed walk through the fire towards healing, I’ve also been examining my marriage. No two people could be more different than me and Funk. What I’ve discovered this stay is that once you get this many decades into a marriage, you are achingly aware of the other person’s habits.
The other night I saw this reel on Facebook where a woman was lying in bed while her husband was in the restroom. Using her hand for emphasis, she had the timing of his urinary track’s fits and starts down to a science, including the guy’s toot at the end of his piss. Viewing it was funny and repulsive at the same time. My first thought was, “How the hell do we stay in love for this long with all that going on?”
This is where the fairytale comes in. Or rather, the lack thereof. And the damage the myth creates if you believe in it, like I did. The Cinderella story mesmerized me as a child and it was the standard I judged my husband by. The problem is, Funk is so not Prince Charming. At best, like he told me when we met, he is my knight in shining grey armor.
But miracle of all miracles, my feelings regarding him have changed this season in Hawaii.
I finally realize how lucky I am to have him. Not only did we make it through the Big Blow, but our marriage is more solid because of it. Like the woman in that Facebook reel, when I set all of my husband’s gagging habits off to the side, what I find is a man who thinks he won a prize in me. I doubt there’s another soul on the planet who would ever feel that way about this girl. I mean, who else would write poetry just for me? My son, the vegetarian and a great poet himself has written me a few poems. But I think he’d rather chew on a piece of meat than recall that he once sent me words of endearment.
Here’s to you! if you don’t become apathetic when life hits you between the eyes. Wallowing in victimhood is the easy way out—it takes years of hard labor to walk yourself out of a dark night of the soul. I hope you have your own version of a Funk in your life and a healing place to go when needed. I don’t know how I would’ve managed without Hawaii. I give thanks to this island every day. For the womb tug. For the beauty and wonder. For the people who let me stay in their home. The meaning of aina. Pele. The ancestors who revealed themselves to me. For welcoming me. And for the deep healing I’ve received each stay. Hawaii has my aloha forever.
The Photo: Funk’s latest poem that he mailed to me here in Hawaii. He’s much better at expressing himself through written word. Many times, it’s only through his writing that I understand he’s been present when, in person, I thought sure he wasn’t paying attention.
P.S. I’ve been MIA in posting this year because I’m writing a major article. It should be released Spring 2025. More on that closer to the date.