LETTERS FROM HOME: THE QUEST FOR EITHER THE HOLY GRAIL OR UNCONTIONAL NIRVANA

Nov. 19, 1998

Dear Ken,

As I sit at my desk in our bedroom, the panorama includes a clock whose face depicts a golf course green, a framed note from Herb Caen of the San Francisco Chronicle, and a lamp in the shape of a dancing Pan-ish character that reminded DC of me.

DC's desk in the spare bedroom is piled with bank statements, unopened jigsaw puzzles, a gold-rimmed plate, saucer and cup from a set of spurned china. The desk mirrors the room, a depository for things we can't find a home for but can't get rid of.

A small apple-shaped basket sits on the radiator. Inside is a slide DC's father took of an Alaskan glacier, the used fingernail clippers bequeathed me by the unfriendly stepfather of an old girlfriend, and a battery. What have they to do with each other, why are they being steamed together in this basket?

Being such a latecomer and still relative newcomer to this thing called marriage, I read books about relationships, about creating a sacred union with your beloved. Along with shooting in the 70s, this is my Holy Grail.

These books sit next to "How to Feel a Real Golf Swing" and "Five Fundamentals" by Ben Hogan, but DC does not read any of them. The idea of reading a book with the goal of deepening your relationship or improving your golf game is foreign to her.

Ultimately, she's probably right. The trick is simply to be, without trying to fix anything. Fixing implies that something is wrong.

It pains her when I use golf metaphors but here goes: I have played my best when I quit trying to fix my swing and simply trusted myself and accepted that sometimes I would make mistakes.

The difference is between feeling your golf swing and thinking about it. It makes all the difference.

And so, when I fret over misunderstandings that sometimes occur in the few hours we have together each day, I am watching the hot fudge sundae melt instead of slurping it.

Everyone brings to marriage certain freight from their childhoods and encounters with other members of the opposite sex. Sometimes I feel unfairly portrayed as the latest in a line of males who have tried to control her. Me, who just wants her to live free and become a potter if that's what she wants?

It's difficult to admit my attempt at supportiveness is just another kind of control.

My little demons demand a perfect marriage for their very imperfect host. Perfection for this Pan in love with divinity being the absence of love withheld and truths unuttered, a state of Unconditional Nirvana.

And she thinks I lack ambition.

Somewhere in the life clutter we have surrounded ourselves with, we sometimes misplace the magnetic charge that drew us together. Where does it go, into the apple-shaped box? Is it under the papers on the coffee table? It's probably in the basement, where the unexamined and unused fragments of our lives are boxed and lying in wait.

Last week, DC told me for the first time about a tragic event that occurred earlier in her life. Just blurted it out one morning over the pillows, five years into our marriage. She's going to take some getting to know.

Yesterday, she woke me at 3 a.m. to go see the meteor shower. We walked to the river but the artificial lights blotted out the real ones. So we drove to Cape Rock, parked and retracted the moon roof. It was a slow morning for meteors but the few we saw were dazzling, celestial fireworks.

These are the real moments that stop time, make you glad someone wants to share them with you.

The newest addition to my desk is DC's gift of a lamp shaped like the Eiffel Tower, a reminder of Paris. It's just kitschy enough to keep. But no one really needs another lamp or self-improvement book. We only need celestial fireworks.

Love, Sam

~Sam Blackwell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.