Arcosanti Love Vol. 2

Today is not like my last visit. I didn’t arrive alone to meet a man who barely knew me and didn’t love me.

I came with an army. An army of people who love me. Chief among them, a man who quietly changed everything.

In truth, a piece of this place floated through the artery of my life from birth. An unassuming bell hung from the patio of every home I occupied. My mother would shove socks up inside them during monsoon season to hush their baritone ding-dongs from driving everyone crazy throughout the night.

A formal introduction to the property belongs to a past love — I must give credit where it’s due. That man also changed my life for a time. He brought me to places I’d never seek to find on my own, to the magic of small towns and forgotten places.

This place, of the forgotten variety, feels like it’s dying as it’s living — like people do. It breathes alone in the desert, the entire structure a ghost of one man’s dream. It’s occupants and admirers haunt the space with a staunch refusal to give up. It’s this tenacity that speaks to me.

I brought my parents to this space as a suggested spot for my wedding almost two years ago. My father left muttering, “I didn’t know my daughter was a hippie.” He stood around the outskirts of our group with his arms crossed. His refusal to participate cursed the entire idea of it. He didn’t need to speak, his body language became another ghost setting up shop at Arcosanti. My mother saw what I saw. She usually did. My step-mother balanced on the precarious edge of accommodating my father while providing encouragement towards my ideas.

…

Years ago, a former love left me after speaking to a therapist for one hour. He was told he was immature, had ADHD, and needed to work on himself — which included breaking up with me. After he completed his homework, he suggested I go to therapy as well. There was an anticipation of excitement at the thought that something must be wrong with me too. I called up this woman, the one who helped my boyfriend break up with me, and she smartly refereed me to a colleague. After my hour session, I came away empowered. She sat across from me and said, “You’re a well-adjusted young adult with a bright future, and you’re better off without him.”

She became a resource for self-discovery. We talked about all manner of subjects, chief among them my fear of marriage. I had not once in my life looked at a marriage and thought: that looks nice. It was all doom and gloom from my female perspective. I likened it to death. That’s what love and marriage was to me — the end of myself.

She changed my life when she asked me why I thought my marriage (the hypothetical one I was afraid of) had to look like anyone else’s marriage? Why did I think I had to have those kinds of marriages? Any kind of marriage other than one where I got a say in the rules? I had no answer. It never even occurred to me I could write my own rules, even though it’s what I’d been doing in every other aspect of my life.

…

As the wedding planning moved forward, my father’s ghost seemed to trail behind looking for a place to haunt. He never spoke to me about his reservations, but my step-mother would pepper in spicy sprinkles of conversations had behind closed doors:

You’re not taking his last name?

You’re not having children?

You don’t want religion in the ceremony?

Why get married at all?

…

When I was a little girl, I hated the game of golf. Golf, it seemed, was something all the men in my family did to get away from all the women. I came to this conclusion, because women were never invited. I wanted to be invited. I wanted to learn. I also wanted to get away from all the women. So instead of speaking up, because no one ever did, I decided I hated golf. I decided I hated having to do whatever it was the women did — cook, take care of kids, clean up spilled liquids, drink.

I later discovered I quite enjoyed the drinking part.

…

My fiance moved in this past weekend. We decided to live in my home and rent his — he’s incredibly chill. I woke up this morning, after days of clutter and the endless process of deciding how many Crockpots one couple needs, feeling happy. It’s an unexpected lightness, this happiness. Years of dreading commitment and marriage felt so much heavier in comparison. That therapist was right. Love isn’t death or the end of me, it’s a co-authored chapter of my life. One I can look forward to, because no one else is writing it.

…

This year, my dad signed my birthday card with a hand drawn peace sign. He scribbled my wedding date, reaffirmed that he loved me, and added: bell bottoms + headbands, far out man.

…

I think I’m making headway.