The Echo Embraced
We do not get to choose the families we are born into, but we do get to choose our family of the heart.
A youth, weary from hunting, sought refuge by the water's edge. As he slaked his thirst beneath a towering pine, he found himself enchanted by a twin gazing upward in earnest adoration from beneath the pool’s still surface. So overcome by his own charms, the youth found himself unable to move, and so he lay down on the bank, a hand hovering above his beloved’s, their palms forever separated by a pane of water.
“Narcissus,” he whispered his own name, a name shared with that of his only love. Again and again he called until it became a cry ringing through the wood. “Narcissus!” And from the tops of the distant mountains his cry repeated, soft and hollow as a forlorn spirit…Narcissussss.
It was Echo reuttering his cries, a spurned nymph whose wagging tongue had been punished by the gods and whose devoted heart had been rejected by the youth, a man who could only love his own reflection. She followed his voice to the water’s edge and sat with him, repeating every word that lifted from his self-adoring lips.
“Narcissus!” he cried to the water. Narcissussss…she replied to her would-be lover, and in this way the two lonely hearts wasted away into nothing. The nymph became only a voice swirling through caves and valleys, and the youth, buried by the inhabitants of the forest beneath sticks and leaves, transformed into a lovely white flower blooming only in the spring.
The entwined myths of Echo and Narcissus perfectly reflect the obsessive, all-consuming nature of romantic love. And who among us has not been swept away by such a current? Taken apart piece by piece by this powerful force, all logic be damned?
When my husband and I married 10 years ago this past August, we stood before our immediate and chosen family at the base of a towering pine. Behind this pine stretched a quiet pool of water, and just beyond a doe and fawn grazed, greeting us as we strolled into the sun-dappled woods for a moment of solitude after sharing our vows. The day had been enchanting, and so too was another matrimonial ceremony at the foot of an enormous pine with low-slung, outstretched limbs embracing a natural altar on the shore of Sebago Lake.
It was a Quaker-style ceremony witnessed by a semi-circle of seated guests, all of us steeped in silence but for the rocking waves. The bride and groom completed the circle, standing side by side beneath their pine, and together we shared the songs of nature until the groom broke the quiet with his voice.
He told us a story of an adventurous youth, content in his independence, his freedom, his love of the woods and the desert. Then came a day when he recognized a profound weariness of heart. He felt an aloneness from deep within, an isolation unfurling, trailing after him like an echo, a constant reminder that something was, if not missing, then not quite complete.
This adventurous youth found a pool of water in what now felt like a wasteland - a tinaja, clear and cooling - and as he crouched to quench his thirst, he noticed a reflection. A body. A mind. A spirit to match his own. The youth that stared back at him mirrored his other half, and as She stepped from the water and into his arms, the emptiness within began to overflow. She was his tinaja, and he knew that forever he would be hers.
This is my version of the story, the way I remember it as my husband - the groom’s brother - gripped my hand in a tight squeeze, like the echo of a heartbeat. As the ceremony continued, the bride responded with her own words followed by those of the encircled community.
When I married my husband beneath our pine, our officiant surprised us with haikus written by our guests. The poems were printed on slips of paper, passed around, and shared at random. One by one, as they were moved to speak, a voice rang out into the early evening quiet to recite 17 syllables of poetry. We laughed. We cried. We mostly laughed, and at the very end, my brother Bond lifted his hand, a small slip of paper fluttering in the summer air. His haiku, the last one, was the most heart-rending of them all - a fitting evidence of fate for my darling brother, too sensitive for this world, to have drawn these words to share. His voice broke as he read, and in that moment my heart cracked and filled, like the tinaja in the groom’s story.
If you’ve been following this newsletter then you already know my brother’s fate. Days before the declaration of the global pandemic, he overdosed on heroin. There are some losses from which one never recovers, but no matter how profoundly scarred, we do carry on, and with us, unwinding like a tireless reverberation, is the love shared. Like an obsession, an inability to look away from the stunning beauty reflected, that love lost is not diminished, rather polished into a high shine of perfection, for all that is left is the purity of feeling.
I felt this purity watching Will and Ariana marry. I felt the love between them and their community, as unbound and invigorating as a tinaja. I am vibrantly happy for them, moved to tears in writing these words, but I have to be honest and admit that the stem of my emotion is rooted in selfish soil. Like the bond between utterance and echo, I am unable to separate the love I have lost from the love I have gained.
Here’s an illustrative story. One Christmas a few years ago, my mother-in-law said something to me about my brother-in-law loving owls. My immediate thought was, He does? I was picturing the man married to my husband’s sister (who is a fantastic guy and may very well love owls). The comment threw me until I realized that she meant her other son, Will, my husband’s younger brother, profound lover of the outdoors, the desert and woods, trees and birds of all kinds. Two little words had tripped me. In my mind Will was not my brother-in-law. He was simply my brother. No defining descriptives necessary. In my momentarily mixed-up thoughts, I recognized a rainbow of realization. As far as my heart was concerned, I had gained a sibling.
Years after marrying I continued to struggle with “our” instead of “your” in reference to my husband’s family, much to his frustration. Family comes easy to him and it’s easy to see why. His folk are open-armed and welcoming, willing to invite and hold anyone connected by blood or heart.
My lived experience is far removed. The dynamic spurred by addiction and abuse is one that fractures families, wrestles them into rigid roles calcified by the need to survive. This is what I know. I am grateful to have reached a point in my healing journey where I am letting go of anger and resentment, and instead embracing compassionate acceptance, extended empathy. We humans do our best, and so often our best falls exponentially short of what we wish for ourselves and others.
We do not get to choose the families we are born into, at least not consciously. Perhaps our souls choose, and we simply forget the moment we are born, fated to spend our time remembering the Why. I like to think that my soul knew she was strong enough, that she believed in her resilience and unflagging devotion, both to give and receive. Maybe she knew the loss would be made bearable by the echoed embrace. I like to believe that to help assuage the painful fate of my blood family, the Universe gifted me a family of the heart.
As their wedding gift, I created a mandala for Will and Ariana. I did not yet know about their pine, or I would have drawn an evergreen rather than a Texas oak. I did not yet know about the lake, but like many of us in New England they live by a river, and representing water felt right to me, a perfect symbol.
When I think of how we have weathered our own marriage, I am amazed by the ways in which my husband and I have grown and adapted, have learned to flow through and around, above and below one another - a feat only possible by allowing, encouraging, insisting that our affection, our empathy, our commitment, and mutual agreement be like water. Forever willing to shift. Never deserting.
Until Will’s story, I did not know the term “tinaja,” but I do now. He has given me - and all of us who stood witness that day - a pure, profound, and powerful picture of the reason we are here, the Why of it all, both eros and familial, blood born and chosen. Love.
May we all be consumed, transmuted, and forever reflected.
Dearest friends, thank you for reading. This newsletter is dedicated to my chosen and now legally-bound brother and sister, Will and Ariana, and to all who are married, officially or otherwise. Also to my husband - thank you for loving me for 17+ years.
I follow a lot of Substacks, and one of my favorites often shares an anti-marriage POV. I’ve thought a lot about what I’ve read in her newsletters; she makes many valid points. However flawed the institution of marriage may be, I still believe in partnership.
I am now in that phase of life where peers are divorcing, parents are dying, and people are dealing with sickness and other trials. As beautiful as life can be, it’s also really, really hard. You are lucky and blessed to have a true partner (and/or chosen family!) with whom to shoulder the hardship and celebrate the beauty. Life will forever be full of both. Marriage makes a lot of promises, some that can be kept and many that often fall short. I believe it’s still worth trying. I am lucky. Not only did I find and marry a truly amazing man, he is equally devoted. I believe this will be true for Will and Ariana. I hope it’s true for you, if that is what you desire.
Life changes us, and in the process it can change our views, our values, our feelings, our foundation upon which are lives are built and decisions are made. Sometimes love isn’t enough, and yet it’s fundamental. You have to start somewhere.
During the ceremony, my husband stood and shared. He quoted the art that hangs above our bed.
Love is All. Or Love is Not At All.
Until next time.
xo
elizabeth