Midlife Meditation

May 31, 2013: Amy at Tunnel Falls. Looking through folder after folder of photos, trying to find just the right one to begin this essay, one thing lept out at me: if it weren't for hiking in the Columbia River Gorge, Amy and I might not be a couple. Before we met, Amy had never been much of an outdoorswoman, but she'd always wanted to give it a try. I, on the other hand, had always aspired to outdoor feats, but had never had a fitting partner for my adventures. Almost all my hikes were solitary affairs, including one 18-mile one-day trek through the Sawtooth Wilderness in August, 2007, that could easily have been the end of me. That one began as an out-and-back, then turned, on a whim, into a loop that was far longer and more grueling than I imagined. I'd started too late, and at that altitude, it was really more than I could handle, but once I was invested in it, I really had no choice: all I had was a light windbreaker and a couple of Cliff bars. It was well af...

It's just a piece of paper. That's what we've been telling ourselves for over a year--and really, what I've been telling myself for far longer than that. A marriage license is a document that only has meaning because human beings assign it that meaning. It's the same conceit that causes a more durable slip of paper to be worth whatever dollar amount we assign to it: without the tacit agreement of all the humans who are affected by the existence of this document, it would be nothing more than tinder for a campfire, recyclable material for a pulp mill, lining for a bird cage. I went for fifteen years without having my name on a marriage license, telling myself it was just a piece of paper. Oh, there were times I longed to be part of the legally wed club, especially as I felt my parenting years slipping away from me; but mostly, I comforted myself with the knowledge that the meaning of a marriage license is an arbitrary thing, assigned to it by a culture that fr...

It shouldn't make that much of a difference, yet somehow, it does. Amy and I have been a couple for five and a half years. We've been living together for four of those years. Three years ago, I declared Amy my domestic partner and added her to my health insurance plan. Two years ago, we started calling our relationship a "mountain marriage." And less than a month ago, we started signing papers and putting money down to buy our house together. After all that time, you'd think that saying a few words and putting rings on each other's fingers would be a mere formality. Clearly we're in love and dedicated to being together for a very long time, so why make a big deal out of these circular pieces of silver? Is there really anything different about the relationship since putting them on? In a word: yes. For nine days, I've been in a state of euphoria. It's not overwhelming or incapacitating--I can still drive, read, do the crossword, write this...

The first thing you need to know about mountain marriage is that we made it up. We were climbing Dog Mountain, talking as we climbed about a big step we were about to take: after a year and a half of me living in Amy's apartment, we were going to rent a house together, putting both our names on the rent and utilities. Our relationship had been growing deeper and richer, and now we felt ready. In real terms, the change was just of address; symbolically, though, this was a paradigm shift, from me living with Amy to Amy and me living together . We were heading up the shorter, but far more challenging, trail to the top, battling a ridiculously steep grade. Hiking, particularly mountain climbing, had served as a metaphor for our relationship from our second date, when we took our first hike on Leif Erickson Drive. The hardest climbs had the greatest rewards: the view from the top was always rewarding, but even more was the sense of conquering our bodies' limitations, pushi...

Good news for atheists wanting to preside over weddings in Indiana: you no longer have to get ordained in a fake internet church before you can sign the papers! I'm thrilled by this development for a variety of reasons, which I will tick off with bullet points: Contrary to popular belief, weddings have not always been the province of the church. Prior to the middle ages, in fact, weddings in the Roman Empire and its successor states were civil events. In ancient Judaism, there was no priestly role at all: the wedding was consummated--made official--in the marriage bed. Only with the decline of literacy did marriage come into the church, and it did so literally through the back door. Typically the only person in town who could read and write, and thus keep records, was the parish priest. This led to the back door of the church being a place where announcements were made, contracts sealed, and any other business else requiring a notary was conducted. Once marriage vows had been...

The weddings: Alex Falcone/Megan Niermeyer, Rosena Busse/Erik Grove, Melissa Anderson/Michael Dudleston. The funeral (early next month, and not pictured): Marge Jenkins. In general, I'm not a wedding fan. There are multiple reasons: 1) As a survivor of two divorces and one broken engagement, I'm just emerging from a period of marriage-shyness that has had me questioning the institution even for couples who've successfully practiced it for decades. 2) As a former pastor, I performed far too many weddings that left me with a gut feeling of ambivalence, knowing both that I had inadequately prepared the couple to fulfill their vows and that, even if I had, they were in far too much denial about what marriage means to have really learned anything from my efforts. 3) Also in the former pastor category comes the high stakes impressed upon couples by the wedding industry, all the expensive things that must happen for it to be a successful event. Wedding planners a...

  Their names are Joe and Joy Baisch, and together they own and operate the Elk Meadows Bed and Breakfast in Brinnon, Washington. Like many B&B hosts I have met over the years, both Joy and Joe are gregarious and eager to please, offering advice, sharing wisdom, doing all they can to make their guests' stay as comfortable and rewarding as they can.   Amy and I stayed at Elk Meadows at the beginning and end of our latest outdoor adventure, a three-night backpacking trip into the Olympic National Park. Elk Meadows is located on Dosewallips Road, which follows the Dosewallips River up into the Olympic National Forest, ending abruptly five and a half miles from the head of the Dosewallips Trail due to a ten-year-old washout. The graveled hillside in the picture above used to be the road.   The night before our adventure, we spread our trail map on the dining room table at Elk Meadows. Joe looked it over, speculating with us about what we might accom...