marriage advice

My mom’s often told me that she and my dad would love whomever I choose to marry. 

It’s neat.

None of this “He must have at least been zone leader during his mission,” or “I hope he’s planning on going to medical school,” or “He’d better be a Republican” nonsense.

They’re pretty open.

In fact, my mom’s only ever given me a couple pieces of marriage advice that I can remember. Here's one of them:

Marry someone who speaks your language; some things can’t be translated.

Here’s the dirty secret to a little simple advice on marriage: life is held in a plenitude of languages, spoken in a million different frequencies. Some only sing to particular kinds of people and others can only be heard by certain sorts of souls.

Sometimes, I speak it in stars and fireflies, road trips to nowhere [and everywhere]. Other times, in flowers and simple epiphanies. I hear it in the ocean, in poetry, in heartbreaking stories, in the buzz of new places, in the muttered conversations of the hundreds of nameless faces on the streets I walk. Art-filled museum galleries, an American flag, the awe-inspiring complexity of an atom. I capture it in Christmas lights and salted caramel hot chocolate with biscotti. Occasionally, I’m unequivocally convinced I’ve discovered it in a wordless wink, that signature cologne. It hides behind the curtains of unrequited acts of kindness and unspeakable mercy. I breathe it in at a sweaty concert, in jazz, and a kiss.

My mom’s always said, “You’ve got to marry someone who speaks your language.”

Love gets complicated because

No one wants to be permanently misunderstood.