Today would have been my 25th wedding anniversary.
I'm trying to figure out how I feel about that. Honestly, it's not that I woke up with any particularly different feeling today. And I did my usual things - letting the dogs out, feeding the cat, making my coffee, checking in with Eve who is two hours ahead of me in the Midwest. It wasn't until I decided to double-check the date and match it with The Tarot Lady's daily card reading that I realized it was February 26.
And it wasn't until I stopped and did the math that I was certain it had been 25 years. But as soon as I confirmed it, I felt prickly warmth in my cheeks and a small lump forming in my throat.
I focused on breath. Expanding my ribs outward and upward. Shifted my feet to balance the weight between both legs.
One of the headlines I read this morning in my news crawl said GRAND CANYON TURNS 100. That was another thing that gave me pause. Not because I was trying to figure out how I felt about it, but because it seems absurd.
The Grand Canyon is not 100.
The fact that human beings named it and stated that we were giving it some sort of special protection (from us, if we're being honest) is turning 100. The Grand Canyon has been there for a long time.
I'm pretty sure that's a big part of the problem, isn't it? That we think everything is about us and we only see the world in terms of how it affects us, what it can provide for us, or how it can harm us.
In Dust Tracks on a Road, Zora Neale Hurston recounts a memory from her childhood where she climbs a tree in her yard and gazes out at the horizon.
"Every way I turned, it was there, and the same distance away. Our house then, was in the center of the world."
Today is a day. The moon is not in a particularly unique phase, there is no unusual meteorological activity happening in the part of the world where I stand, the calendar is a human construct, as are wedding anniversaries and the particular significance of one's 25th. It is not even my 25th, as I am no longer married.
Unpacking the flush in my cheeks and the tightness in my chest requires an examination of what I think I would have received were this truly my 25th wedding anniversary. Accolades from friends and family for having maintained a marriage for a quarter of a century. Some significant gift from my husband along with a nice dinner or small gathering of loved ones. Perhaps cards from our children. All of that may have led to some pride on my part - an acknowledgment of the work and effort it took to stay married for this long - and perhaps an extra burst of love and affection for my husband as I quickly flashed back through carefully curated memories of special times.
The Grand Canyon is not 100.
I have not been married for 25 years.
We have both existed before these milestones that would define part of us.
We will both continue to exist and evolve and have value regardless of any external measure of time.
There is something powerful in recognizing the set of relationships to which I exist today - not centering myself in them and imagining spokes radiating outward, but simply pointing to them. It is nearly impossible to talk about them without centering myself, without using the words "my" or "me." But if I can resist putting words to it, instead getting really immersed in how it feels to be part of this bigger community of people and animals and land and sky and water, I remember that I am held firmly and safely and that, here, time is not relevant.