Sometimes I get so overwhelmed with love for my husband. I don't know if that is normal for a newly-wed or if it will happen for the rest of my life. (I'm hoping it's the later.) Most of the time it catches me completely off guard. I'll just be driving, brushing my teeth, or working on a project. Suddenly I will think about my handsome man and then...
It hits me. I am swept up by love and transported to a perfect utopia. There's nothing like it. Everything is suddenly viewed through love colored lenses. I see nothing but the one my heart belongs to. I could be doing the most mundane task in the world, but I will feel as if I'm floating on a cloud. My heart swells like the crescendo of a symphony. My soul writes the most beautiful music, the kind that can only be heard by the one consumed by it. It is glorious rapture.
He isn't always there when it happens. But when he is, I wonder if he sees it in my eyes. I wonder if he feels the heat radiating from my bursting heart. I don't think he realizes how much he triggers it. Or maybe he stole some of cupid's arrows. Sometimes, all it takes is one small token of affection and my heart swoons. Sometimes it's only a glance.
Someone once said that the eyes are the windows of the soul. I think they were right. There are moments when my eyes meet his, I find that I see past the brown iris facade and into the the soul. There I find the essence of the man I love. There's no fear, no trying to cover up...There lies layers upon layers of the quintessence of my husband. It it is complex, intriguing and mysterious. I love to see it.
Marriage is quite a mysterious thing indeed. And I thank God for it.
Thus I end with one of my favorite sonnets about marriage and love. Props to you Shakespeare.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
That alters when in alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! It is an ever-fixed mark
It looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Who's worth's unknown, though his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.