On Seismographs

I’ve been thinking a lot about seismographs. A thin, red line tracing and tracking the movements of the earth’s crust. For long periods the line can look flat, calm. Then, when there are earthquakes, there is a jump on the graph – a huge red spike of tumult and upheaval.

For a long time my life felt like that flat, red line on the seismograph. I donned the cloak of motherhood early, and saw it as a sign of my immense precocity. I’d been precocious at other things too: I had a husband, 2 kids, a minivan and a 30-year mortgage all before I turned 30.

I was a third-wave feminist who didn’t believe in “having it all,” but in having what I wanted. And I wanted kids and I wanted to spend the precious years of early-childhood with them. I set aside a career in climate change science and retreated into a world of breastfeeding, nap-time and playdates. My life was stable, placid, and practically perfect.

Perfect as things were, I didn’t find the satisfaction or fulfillment that I thought I would in motherhood: to have children one must have a taste for routine, for ordinary. I found myself frequently saying to my friends, “What’s left for us? Soccer games and getting old, that’s what.” Ordinary, which had at one point seemed like a favorite sweater I could wear forever, felt ratty and threadbare.

My seismograph was flat-lining and I was eager for something more. In earthquakes there is imbalance and disturbance. I needed an earthquake to shake me out of my middle-aged slumber.

My earthquake came in the form of a monumental shift in my monogamous marriage of 10 years: opening up to allow other romantic and sexual partners. The particular form this took was with Aaron: a gentle, somewhat shy, curly-haired father of 3.

My husband and I had been talking about opening our marriage for several years. We’d talked around and around the issue, read all of the books, discussed with friends (who all thought we were crazy) and spent a lot of money on therapy. We hadn’t gotten anywhere closer to making a decision, primarily because my husband, who identifies as monogamous, didn’t want to risk losing all of the good things we had.

I found a local on-line community of people who were interested in polyamory (defined as consensual, ethical, and responsible non-monogamy.) I went to a meet-up group that was billed as a Q&A and that’s where I met Aaron. He had this big, Cheshire cat grin and we exchanged contact info at the end of the meeting. After that meeting the conversations got more intense with my husband. It shifted from abstract pros and cons to, “Can I ask Aaron out for a drink?” A few months of that and finally, one afternoon my husband said, “OK, Brooke, ask him out for a drink.” The earth shifted, the needle ticked upwards. I wasn’t flat-lining anymore.

The earth moved beneath and within me. I poured so much of my pent-up capacity to love into this new relationship. I reveled in the big emotions and sense of imbalance it awoke in me. At the same time, it spurred a tremendous discord and disequilibrium in my marriage. The red line was jumping all over the graph – my world was unsettled, unstable, churning. I felt so incredibly alive.

Things with Aaron ended after only a few months, though I resisted letting go for a very long time. I held on and held on and held on, and only in fully experiencing the exquisite pain of holding on, was I able to finally let go.

Things settled, the seismographic line leveled, but didn’t flatten entirely. It was a time for re-balancing and reflecting. What had I learned? What had I gained? What had I lost?

In catastrophic natural disasters of any kind there is always loss. What I lost during the upheaval was my ability to tune into the simple pleasures of daily life. I’d forgotten, or never fully realized, that the line a seismograph draws isn’t really flat: zoomed in the line dances with beautiful dips and waves, gentle rises and falls. There is extraordinary levity even in the most typical day. I’d forgotten how to tune into that texture, the exquisite beauty of those subtleties. I missed the joy in listening to the rain on the roof while I cuddled with my kids at night. I missed finding pleasure in a freshly weeded flower patch. I missed engaging in the richness of a family dinner. I lost the ability to tune into these things in the middle of the earthquake. They were barely noticeable background noise next to the big emotions I was experiencing. The challenge for me will be staying alive to subtlety in the midst of the next intense, big love.

My husband and I continue to figure out a relationship model that makes sense for both of us at this point in our lives. Opening our marriage has challenged our bond. Our connection is stronger in some ways and also more fragile than ever. We have a much clearer sense of ourselves as a couple and as individuals with different needs and desires.

In earthquakes there is disturbance and discord, but there is also discovery. The world gets shaken up and when the pieces settle new patterns and perspectives emerge. I experienced this earthquake in my life as an awakening. I’m I modern-day, almost millennial, woman and I want it all. A stable shoreline and the wild sea. To appreciate subtlety and to be buoyed up by my fierce, feminine sexuality and passions. I believe in it. I’m here to share my journey in that discovery.