Lately I have been comparing my life to Elizabeth McCord. She is the Secretary of State in my favorite show. It is neither her international travel, nor her pivotal impact on global stability that niggles me. It's how seamlessly she and her husband communicate. They make it look easy even when they are discussing terrorist attacks, and his father's suicide. Then I turn it off and go back to my own turf where it can seem dicey to bring up taking out the trash. 

 

It's not that John and I never converse. It just doesn't look quite like it does on television. Well once in a blue moon it does. Our dear son offered to hang with Benjamin so we could go out for Valentine's Day. Alone. Which is ridiculously rare for us. 

 

But the sum total of our relationship entails more than just words. 

 

John handled the online tuition payments for our girls. I did nothing to help. Maybe I put a bowl of cut carrots by his elbow. He replaced the dead battery in our car which took clever hacks to wrench open the frozen hood, trips to three stores, frustrating hours waiting, and finding the original receipt. He got it replaced for free under the warranty. My level of participation was to put my foot on the gas one time when he tried to jump it early in the process.

 

In a few weeks he will file our taxes. I will stay in the other room and minimize distractions. Most of our bills have been switched to online payment, so I don't help with that either. The trips to the ER have largely fallen to him, because we all know I am terrible in emergencies. When the house needs the gutters cleaned, or the windows replaced, it is John who even realizes it. He meets with a competent workman, and walks him around the yard. He spent a week installing a sound board in the living room to improve the quality of music I enjoy. This involved several errands to the hardware store, multiple consultations with our oldest son, and enough wires to tight rope walk between sky scrapers in NYC. Now I can turn it on with a click. 

 

Don't get me wrong. Clear channels of conversation are wonderful. It would be to our benefit to be more fluent than we are. But neither is it the kiss of death that we falter. 

 

There is a story in Swedenborg's writings that describes six varieties of imaginary heavens. One is of endless conversation. I suspect I will spend at least a few days there, spilling my soul. Then I hope to move on to the real substance of eternal happiness, which revolves around following our passions.

 

Even though communication may not be our shining achievement, there are other avenues of cooperation. If I look for them. Actually they hum along whether or not I pay attention, but things go better when I do.