We're what happens when two substances collide*

There’s a pile of pine and OSB in my backyard, carefully stacked next to a CAD representation of what it’ll be post- sand, stain and assembly.

There’s a storage room full of saws and power tools and then more saws that I don’t know the names of, but that are faithfully dragged out onto the back porch nearly every weekend, and then put neatly back away on their shelves.

There’s a section of the crawl space that’s been cleaned, organized, and dedicated to camping and backpacking gear, which is grouped by type of activity for quick access. 

I could write a dozen more things to help paint a better portrait of my husband, but at the end of the day they’ll all fall short – he’s also smart, thoughtful, and so, so funny, among other things. But the reason each of these things specifically strikes me is that they’re each a display of his creativity. That pile of wood was stacked with a vision. Those tools are used to make bowls and furniture and countless other treasures. The camping gear was organized with a carefully imagined trip in mind.

I love seeing the way his creativity manifests itself as an extension of his logical personality. His vision is always clear from the start. It’s so different than the creativity I’ve come to know.

Creating something has never been a neat or organized or even efficient process for me (Philip could tell you about all the half-finished projects I have lying around the house). There needs to be a moment of inspiration or an excuse to get my hands messy. And then, when the inspiration hits, there’s no process, no caution, no logic. Will this turn into something cool? Maybe. Will it become something that just takes up space on a shelf somewhere in the house? Also, maybe. Is it worth the risk? Ask me in a few hours. I wish I could say that I had some grand vision to create things that solve problems, but usually my vision shifts and morphs with the project until I’ve made (or written) something I never expected.

When we first got married, these differences were intimidating. I was afraid I wouldn’t live up to his expectations of an ideal wife. I was emotional and unorganized and wildly inconsistent, and he was so sure and steady in everything he did. It was almost paralyzing, and so I threw myself into becoming all of those things – creating meal plans, filling in our calendar, organizing the house. None of those things were bad, but they didn’t allow for the kind of creativity and spontaneity I knew and love. It was exhausting. I was trying to manufacture a personality built on his sense of creativity and logic. He had never once asked me to do this, and it failed miserably.

These days, we’re a little less concerned about the way our personalities lead us to do things. But yesterday, he left for band practice, while I stayed home and painted the living room. My paint job wasn’t meticulous by any means, so I slipped into old patterns and began to worry about how it wouldn’t meet his practical standards.

His response when he walked into the house later that night?

“Oh, it’s fine. It’ll even out later.”

We’re different in nearly every way. And it’s beautiful.


*title partially lifted from an Andrew Bird song, because I’m too tired to come up with something clever, and it fits.