I never wanted to get married. I held out for 10 years before finally succumbing to the allure of a big fat Italian wedding. And actually it wasn’t big, only 26 of our closest family and friends were invited, and we spent a week in a Tuscan palazzo. But it definitely was fat…we all ate and drank way too much!
Berto and I met at university. We’d known each other for six months when we took out student loans and backpacked through Thailand over the Christmas holiday. I still can’t believe my Dad signed for that loan.
Berto moved in to my flat in Stellenbosch after our trip, and that was that. We graduated, got our first jobs and tried to make our way in the world together. After a few years people started to ask, ‘so when will you guys get married?’ and it occurred to me that marriage was something I absolutely didn’t want.
I know what you’re thinking: that I didn’t want to marry Berto because I wasn’t sure of him, of us. Except that I was 100 percent definitely sure that I wanted Berto. For life. I just didn’t want to marry him. Or anyone. And so as the years rolled by, and we moved to England, then Asia, then to Istanbul, my friends started to get married and I became the odd one out. We had our son, yet still I felt no urge to tie the knot.
People started to think we were weird. Was it my parents’ divorce that had turned me against marriage? They separated when I was 20, old enough to understand and support the reasons for their decision, and I blubber like a baby at weddings because I think they are so beautiful, so no it wasn’t that. Well then, it must be an issue with Berto. I wasn’t sure. Nope, wrong again. I was sure. I still am.
We are taught that life falls into a linear progression. Meet boy. Marry boy. Have boy’s kids. Live happily ever after. But just because we are programmed to think this way, doesn’t mean we all have to go along with it. It works wonderfully for some, but I knew instinctively it wasn’t a path I wanted to follow. I don’t believe that if you stick to the formula you’ll get your happy ending. I think you have to constantly create a beginning.
One of my best girlfriends said to me once, “don’t you feel vulnerable because you don’t have him formally committed to you? He could just up and leave at anytime.”
“But don’t you see” I replied, “it’s exactly that freedom between us that gives me confidence in him. He and I choose to be together, every day. We don’t need to formalise anything.” She didn’t get it. Most people don’t, and that’s fine.
Freedom is a huge part of what makes our relationship work. We are similar in many ways, but we differ in many ways too. I love horse riding. He loves rugby (and golf and cricket and formula one and boxing and tennis). I love literary masterpieces. He loves Dan Brown. I contemplate the Universe. He falls asleep. I love philosophy. He loves logic. But I think that’s the same thing. We both love to be alone.
We do things separately all the time. I go out with my girlfriends. I go overseas with the kids to meet up with my mom. He plays golf, goes to the rugby with mates. We allow each other to be ourselves, and it works for us. We are united in our independence. And so no, I didn’t feel the need to undercut our freedom by legalising our union, binding ourselves together no matter what.
And yet, 10 years, four countries and one baby later, that’s exactly what we did. We got married. In Italy, in the gardens of a palazzo, with our child splashing in the fountain nearby. We wanted to celebrate our relationship and the life we had created. But we didn’t promise to commit to each other once and forever. And we didn’t promise to become one. And we didn’t say as long as we both shall live. Because neither of us can promise that. Life is long, life is challenging, life is forever changing, and our freedom of choice always needs to be honoured.
Our vows were taken from Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet:
But let there be spaces in your togetherness.
And let the winds of heaven dance between you.
Love one another, but make not a bond of love.
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but each one of you be alone – even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver
with the same music.
Give your hearts, but not in each other’s keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadows.
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