I feel good with my husband: I like his warmth and his bigness and his being-there and his making and his jokes and stories and what he reads and how he likes fishing and walks and pigs and foxes and little animals and is honest and not vain or fame-crazy and how he shows his gladness for what I cook him and joy for when I make him something, a poem or a cake, and how he is troubled when I am unhappy and wants to do anything so I can fight out my soul-battles and grow up with courage and a philosophical ease. I love his good smell and his body that fits with mine as if they were made in the same body-shop to do just that. What is only pieces, doled out here and there to this boy and that boy, that made me like pieces of them, is all jammed together in my husband. So I don’t want to look around any more: I don’t need to look around for anything.
“It all reminds me of my wife, who in the midst of busy days, often says to me, “Look at me.” She wants to see my eyes and for me to see hers. She delights in relationship. She does not want our lives to be only about tasks and doing. She wants us to see each other’s face with joy — not to accomplish anything, but just to behold the beauty.”
— Mark Lauterbach
