. . . some days giving thanks for a love
that loves you back . . .

 

In the way “What We Know of Country” speaks to the various phases we move through in our love of country, similarly has my relationship with Mark evolved and constantly changed. Throughout our twelve years together we have learned to adapt to each other’s needs and reevaluate our relationship through various life-changing circumstances. Being named inaugural poet was certainly one of those circumstances! We’ve always alternated roles as primary breadwinners and work-at-home house-husbands. When we moved to Maine, I had assumed the latter role, managing our home while also working parttime on consulting engineering projects. But the intense pressure of a three-week deadline to finish the inaugural poems forced me to write every available minute of the day, well into the morning hours, and consumed all my mental and physical energy. Mark took over my role and day-to-day routine: picking up mail at the post office, walking and feeding Joey, grocery shopping, stoking the fire—and more. He also took a leave of absence from work so he could step in as my manager, fielding phone calls, scheduling interviews, and coordinating social media and logistics with the inaugural committee. All so I could write—and write I did, right through Christmas and New Year’s Eve.

Mark has always been my first reader, though—that didn’t change. I have always valued his input as one of the most intelligent people I know—an accomplished research scientist in his own right. But he’s not steeped in the world of poetry and so maintains an important perspective as a reader. His everyday-person’s perspective was especially important when I considered the inaugural poem’s audience—people from all walks of life with a basic understanding of poetry for the most part. Every night I’d leave him drafts I had finished before going to bed, and the next morning, while I was still sleeping, he would carefully read over them. I’d wake up to giant mushy stars and heart-shaped I love you’s scribbled in the margin, which secretly meant as much to me as his brilliant comments and suggestions on the poem that we’d then discuss at length over coffee. I had always been his emotional rock; now he was mine. Support, devotion, encouragement—all these fall under the umbrella of love, which allowed me to keep writing and working even harder.