2 Jun 2014
I have a love of words. I confess to sometimes falling under the spell of adjective rich sentences all melodic and intense. For me, words come easily and I can concoct any manner of response quickly and with ease. And yes, I have been known to "like the sound of my own voice".
My beloved on the other hand is frugal with his words. Although we have wonderful in depth conversations about life and love, in the day to day he tends to watch more and speak less. In moments of irrational neediness I have unkindly wished he could quote me Shakespearean verse. And in differences of opinion I can become frustrated with his gentleness; I shamefully talk the man out.
It's just that words aren't his way. That's not for a second to imply he's not a thinker or worse still, a push over. He simply knows that nine times out of ten I'm just letting off steam and spewing wordy sentence after sentence seems to calm me. It's this refusal to add fuel to the overzealous fire that is both infuriating but precisely what I need. He knows me so well and without saying a thing is helping me to quell my temper and dramatic nature.
His way is that of doing. The kettle flicked on before I've even asked for tea, the wildflowers clutched in his fist as he returns from work on his bike, the lying on my side of the bed before I get in so it's warm. It's these deeds that shout out his love for me.
His ways are subtle. They push me to examine myself and in turn they help me to grow. I just need to stop talking every now and again to "hear" what they are saying.