Tending the Garden

When Brock and I first met, what impressed him the most about me was that I ran every day. Often I'd be late to meet him at The Chimes where he'd be on his second Turbo Dog, and I'd be all sweaty and stinky, but he liked it because (besides his being slightly tipsy) it was all a part of taking care of myself. We started going to the gym together before we were even a couple, and somewhere along this path he grew to love me. And it's in no small part a credit to my two-a-days.

Not that Brock nor I are vain. As I type this I'm wearing very coarse pink flamingo pajama pants, topped by a long-sleeved white tee with a blue Snap Fitness shirt over it since it's a bit chilly upstairs in my room. Oh, and my hair has gone three days unwashed. Brock's no better--he's wearing his Saints cap backwards, his workout gear, and we both still smell like the gym. It's just that a part of all this--working on our bodies daily--is what Brock calls tending the garden. The analogy is not brilliant but it's apt: an overgrown garden loses all its beauty, and it's difficult to tell what the garden is supposed to be at all. Same goes for human body.

Brock introduced me to this analogy when we first started talking about getting engaged; he suggested to me very softly, eyes averted, that he hoped I'd continue to tend the garden after we were married.

It's difficult to explain this to others, especially women-others, without them immediately striking the extreme feminist pose (of which, I can tell you, I'm also very familiar with): wh-wh-what? Your man is supposed to love you no matter what you look like! You should be able to get big, or get a bad haircut, or look less than stellar all the time, because this is marriage! When women have children they have to get big! Fuck men for trying to take that away from us! Exclamation point!

(Incidentally, it's funny that I wrote that monologue in the voice of my feminist compatriots, because it's actually my own voice. When my old grad school friend J.M. was marrying D.K., it got around the department that D's only deal-breaker would be if J got fat. And, if you don't know J.M., she's blond and blue-eyed with a Cosmo body and face, so it was a true affront to hear he'd said those words. I may have said he's trying to compensate for what I'm sure is a small penis, but I can't quote myself for certain.)

Let me now not defend D.K., who I still contend to be a bit of a d-bag for other reasons, but Brock's idea that tending the garden is of utmost importance in any relationship. Thing is, not caring what you look like is an affront not just to yourself but to the person you purportedly love. It's easy to fall back on the "love me no matter what" trope. Even if I don't care about your perception of me? Even if I've lost all pride? If a relationship means daily work on our spiritual, emotional, psychological connections, why shouldn't it also involve the connection between our bodies? Let's not kid ourselves: wanting to fuck the person you purportedly love is an essential piece to the relationship puzzle.

This doesn't mean having to be perfect, or always looking and feeling beautiful...only that you daily try to be the best version of yourself, both inside and out. (Which is a good reminder today, when I'm ready to inhale the bread pudding Brock bought for dessert tonight. See? Not all perfection: there's effort and reward.)

I bring this up because of a problem I've too long ignored that prevents me from tending the garden as well as I'd like: and that is I have stinky feet. Part of the reason for this affliction is my perpetual attempts to tend the garden. I run about 25 miles per week, and on days I don't run I try to do something--anything--that's vaguely active. We recently purchased a jump rope from Wal-Mart and lemme tell ya it's no easy workout. This brings to mind that tending the garden is essentially a tight rope walk: yes, running is good and necessary and makes you feel like a thousand bucks, Brooke, but take care of that smell, too. And be loving and thoughtful. And expect the same in return, and don't be afraid to assert your need for the reciprocation. Meanwhile don't backslide on your family and job and dogs and world issues that help keep you worried and well-rounded.

Life sure is a lotta work, huh?

As I'm composing this my sister-in-law Jen is going through a breakup that's tearing up me and Brock probably more than it's hurting her. She's ended a long relationship for a lack of work (on both their parts) in this general area: tending the garden. Two people we love have for months and maybe longer forgotten to look at each other deeply, in both a physical and emotional way. Without getting into the details of their demise that must remain private, I can say that all I'm picturing now is the way she looks at a man she once loved--she won't, or can't, acknowledge him. When you've stopped loving someone, a process that takes a long time to complete but which you can often recognize in a moment, you are unable to truly see them anymore. It's like a kid on a field trip, looking at dead art on museum walls and wondering when lunchtime's coming. It's the emotional equivalent of whistling, hands in your pockets, kicking up dirt.

That first analogy might not be an apt one, but it came to mind because this summer when Brock and I visited Baltimore with Jen and Broc, we went to a museum and took pictures of ourselves. Broc and Brock dwarfed by Rodin's Thinker, Jen and I melting over the Cone collection holding the best of bright Matisse. I ache that love can begin because of admiration over workouts, a couple of poems, a look across a table in a writing workshop. And whatever the reason first caused Jen and Broc to avert their loving eyes. Tracking the ending is more difficult. What can a person do to make you unable to see him anymore? Can we count a beginning, middle, and ending of love-loss? Would we even want to if we could?

A decision: I will not allow my gross feet contribute to any grosser ending. Today and every day I plan to tend the garden, and not pine at wished-for love but make it. My feet will soak in sea salt. I'll tell Brock I love him, and insist that he sees me when he says it back.