the day after

OK, so what happens the day after you have quite possibly experienced a miracle? Or a sign from God? Or a sign from a dead relative? Or a bizarre string of coincidences so unpredictable that somehow meld into what could possibly be a life-altering moment?

I wanted to type more yesterday, but it was already so long, and it seemed like such a perfect place to end. I wanted to say I'm semi-religious, but not really religious. I wanted to say while I'm Catholic, I'm old school, socially liberal, 70's just post Vatican II repressed Catholic and Catholics aren't all into miracles and stuff. Um, but duh, isn't Our Lady of Lourdes all about a miracle apparition? Catholics do sort of have the market cornered on miracles, don't we? We kind of invented it, along with the praying to people other than God thing, right (doesn't that make Protestants upset? That Catholics pray for interventions from beings other than God directly? Did I learn that in religion class in college, or am I making that up?)?

In some ways this is part of my which box persona.

You know:

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

I'm religious, but very skeptically. I'm trained as a scientist (to the master's level, not PhD), but think there's more to the meaning of life than photons and electrons moving according to immutable laws of the universe. I go to Church (sometimes regularly, sometimes not), and consider myself to be Catholic, while hating nearly everything the modern Catholic Church stands for right now. (remember when it used to be all about protesting human rights violations, and South American dictators, and Solidarity, and being a Democrat, and all those things other than the singular (to me) focus on Conservatism and abortion)

So what the hell was yesterday? I don't know. And I guess it's ok that I don't know.

If this was Hollywood, or chick lit, there's be only a few minutes or a few pages left. Yesterday would be the climax. Oh, I know, of course - there'd be an epilogue, "9 months later," of he and I in church, holding our newborn infant son (to balance our daughter, natch) in his long white christening dress while all friends and family looked on. And held hands and sang, um, You'll Never Walk Alone? Kumbaya? On Eagle's Wings?

But, not Hollywood. Not Chick lit. Real life. Honest, I swear, real life. I wish I was that good of a storyteller. I've fudged some things in the past two months, lied by omission, hedged some details that might potentially been identifying. Not blogged about some things, maybe never will blog about some deep, dark secrets of the soul. But everything about the past two months with my husband has been real. Well, there was another time we had sex and I was too embarrassed to blog about it because, come on, I really should have known better. Other than that, it's the raw unadulterated (ugh, please) story of my marriage in crisis.

So, in real life, what happens after that is.....not much of anything at all. I went to work, he went to work, we talked one time during the day perfunctorily (our daily who was going to be home to relieve the nanny). He made it home in time for dinner, we had a pleasant dinner with our daughter, we played with her after dinner, we put her to bed, and I went to my room and he stayed downstairs to watch TV. I fell asleep, he went to his bed around 11:30, and that was it. I had a passing thought maybe he would come into my (our) bed, but no. (it was in the 20s last night - if nothing else the warmth of another human could have been the driving force.)

We got our daughter up. We got ready for work, he said I looked nice today (wearing an outfit I would not have fit into a month ago). He's going out tonight, as previously planned, to watch football with friends. I'm going out tomorrow for my monthly night out with my friends. He kissed me goodbye this morning for the first time in weeks.

So this is how it goes right now. Baby steps. With big unknown question marks looming. Yesterday was intense, and neither he nor I like big emotional intense experiences. Backing off is the best thing for right now, for him, and for me, too.

Ah, I was going to post another Margaret Atwood poem today. Maybe later. A snippet from Walt Whitman will have to do for now.