“to live in this world, you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.” (mary oliver)

it’s not that we don’t love each other.

we do. very much.

just not with the passionate college kind of love. the kind of love that makes magic-marker cards and skips over sidewalk cracks and stays up until two am kissing.

it’s more of a laundry kind of love. you know, he does the laundry for me and i fall head over heels, because apparently the way to win my heart is through a box of detergent.

it’s the kind of love that makes meals and bathes kids and fills up the bird feeder and takes out the garbage.

but i want the other love back. (i say this with a yawn as i fall into bed at 11 and barely read a page before falling asleep even as trent’s leaning in.)

i do. i want it. i’m just so tired. and he is too, and isn’t every parent? so how do we do it? how do we keep the romance real while cleaning up poop and mending owies and doing dishes? how do we make out when we can’t even make eye contact?

we let it go. we let the children, the house, the laundry, go, so we can find ourselves again.

because there’s nothing more tragic than letting good love go to waste.

so we’re leaning into what is mortal: each other, and we’re holding it against our bones in the raw-tipped mountains of Jasper while relatives watch our children, and we’re sleeping in the curl of each other’s arms and finding lips and playing cards and talking about something other than the kids. (while watching videos of them on the camera because we miss them)

and mary oliver is right. our lives depend on this. on this scaffolding that is marriage that our family is built upon, and we need these mountain moments to remember, it’s more than a laundry kind of love.

it’s forever, baby.

some of the most powerful posts from this week’s imperfect link-up:

for days that seem purposeless

when my perception isn’t your reality

warrior children

eat warm

to my daughter’s mother