I put my heart and soul into every piece I write—sometimes I look for humor in life’s moments and other times I wrestle with memory, fear, and the search for meaning in a world that keeps shifting beneath our feet.
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My husband and I, after lengthy debate, decided to escape the chaos that is Israel between wars and spend a long weekend in Sinai. We are currently waiting for our coffee—which we hope won’t take as long as the hummus did (forty-five minutes, approximately)—in a glorified ‘camp’ on the coast. The place is practically empty, the entire area silent save the odd cock crow, the sweep of a swallow, or the distant wail of a minaret. We have the place, which includes a beach and numerous lounging areas, entirely to ourselves, it seems.
We have come fully equipped with books, chargers, a laptop (for creative purposes only), Avi’s calligraphy equipment, a yoga mat, my watercolors, and even some downloaded audiobooks. I didn’t forget my waterproof shoes and snorkeling mask, but Avi is still recovering from surgery, so sadly he will have to give the calm, blue Red Sea a miss. This time, that is.
And we are having our quiet, middle-aged celebration of something that is closer to a miracle than many would believe. The two of us walked into our previous marriages in the firm belief that by now we’d be growing old with our respective spouses, grandchildren on the knee, etc., etc. We had given our all during those years but, at some point, it had dawned upon us that no matter how vigorously we bailed out the water, that ship was sinking, never to resurface.
And, licking our respective wounds, we did what a lot of people did back in the day. We joined Facebook. This was when Facebook was a community, not a marketplace. We found ourselves in an Israeli divorcees’ support group and, somehow, we started chatting. For a year, on and off, we messaged each other with mundane queries about jewelry making and divorce lawyers.
Then, one Friday afternoon, we started chatting again. But this time, our conversation went a bit deeper than usual. Out of the blue, Avi asked if I wanted to meet up. I did, but he had to solemnly swear it would be nothing serious. We were just having a breather from it all.
We met for the first time just after Shavuot—the harvest festival and (quite aptly) the celebration of the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai. We ended up at the Dead Sea, of all places, at the Mineral Beach spa, which subsequently (after renovations, it should be noted) got sucked up by a giant sinkhole. Thank God that isn’t what happened to our relationship. Pretty soon, it was quite clear that we weren’t just forming a mini-support group. Within a matter of weeks, we were spending most of my child-free days together. Shared custody had its pluses.
Avi wasn’t yet fully divorced. Four out of his six kids were adults, two married. For various reasons, he had more time to himself than he would have liked. He and I already shared a profound distaste for a system that had scarred and jaded us, alienated us from our children, and left us attempting to repair deep tears in complex family relationships. We were both trying to figure out who we were in our new lives. We bore numerous scars and a longing for family life that we had been given no choice but to abandon. It was a miracle that at this stage, we were still emotionally intact. It was a miracle that we stuck together.
At some point, we made a pact to ‘stop spiraling.’ That was the word we used to describe how we offloaded our divorce woes onto one another. I was still fighting over custody and child support issues in court; he was trying to free himself from a dead marriage. Yet as time went on, our discussion points slowly turned from alimony and custody to whether we liked the movie we just watched, planning a quick getaway, and tentative talk about a future. Our future.
We sealed the deal one sunny weekend a year later. Avi was finally fully divorced. Nobody attended our wedding at the Larnaca town hall. We celebrated at McDonald’s with a McFlurry shake and a dive in the sea. We didn’t need anyone there; our kids had been through quite enough. We just needed the documentation to stop my ex using the Rabbinical law courts against me. And it worked.
During the past fifteen years, we’ve moved four times, attended four of our children’s weddings, and celebrated the birth of eight grandchildren (mostly his). We’ve established a slow, gentle rhythm which swings from the utterly mundane (are we eating cheese omelets again?) to the highly adventurous (getting stranded in India tops it all right now). The comfortable silence of coupledom is sometimes just as important as sharing the most intimate parts of ourselves.
I will not be giving podcasts on ‘the secret of a fulfilling marriage’ any time soon. Not because I don’t think I have a word or two to say on the subject, but because I think it’s simply better to regard myself as exceptionally lucky. The man can put up with me—with my impatience, my aggressive outbursts, my mysterious tears, my obsession with a neat appearance and regular haircuts, my unpredictable digestion, and my constant search for more. I’m not sure if anyone else could.
He probably does so because he thinks nobody else would have the patience for him. He talks about God endlessly but is staunchly secular in his practices. He overextends for his family and has an obscure sense of humor. His communication style might be called ‘obtuse.’ I have an invisible translation guide that others do not possess, so I frequently find myself acting as his interpreter. His hearing isn’t great, even with the equipment. But I personally believe he tolerates me more than I do him. After all, he has the patience of a saint and he is gentle, loving, and respectful to everyone (including those I’d have throttled given half the chance).
So, are we even? Perhaps that’s really the only secret of a good marriage. To be balanced—spiced enough not to be bland, but without requiring a fire extinguisher. To enjoy things together, but never lose a strong sense of self.
We suffered from our divorces in immense ways. Our kids still hold secret resentments for all the mistakes we both made. Avi’s kids accept me more than mine do him. And so it is.
This morning we went for a walk along the sandy shoreline. I got irritated with him as he, as per usual, led me on a ‘scenic route’ past Bedouins sleeping on the shore next to their jeeps. A stray dog accompanied us the entire way. I’m not the only one who loves this man, but he doesn’t want a dog. “You would have had a kid with me, but you don’t want to have a dog?” I asked.
And so we had another little quibble about that. We walked into the tired town of Nuweiba, drank cold coffee, and agreed that it wasn’t too bad. On the whole, we agree on more things than we disagree on. I’ll live without a dog.
The shadows grow longer as the sun gently sets behind the mountains. Perhaps our sun is gently setting too, as we enter a graceful, not-so-middling age (this year he turned 63 and I’ll be 56 in September), and as aches and pains proliferate and gray hairs maddeningly multiply. But perhaps the slow glow of wisdom has given us an appreciation of each other that we would have been too busy for twenty years ago.
Soon we’ll flag down the indifferent worker (who still hasn’t yet cleared away our plates from lunch) and order a dish we’ll quickly agree on. And then we’ll wait—Avi more patiently than I. But I’m getting there, too. After all, there is nowhere else I’d rather be than sitting opposite the man who, for reasons of his own, decided that of all people, he’d like to be with me.
Are you celebrating a milestone this month? I’d love to hear from you! If this piece resonated with you in any way, leave a comment below and tell me about your own 'Chapter Two'—whether that’s a second marriage, a fresh career, or a quiet miracle of your own. What does your second chapter look like?
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