My husband and I have been getting along incredibly well for the past few weeks: no nagging one another, very few disagreements and affection abounds without us even trying. It feels so great to affirm why I am in this relationship.

Example of My Relationship Flow

Me: “Hey hon, would you mind putting your plate in the dishwasher? I’m just running down to the deep freezer to grab some chicken for dinner tonight.”

I’m feeling able to handle anything life throws at me. The house is in an end-of-the-work-week mess and company is due in a few hours, but hey, we’ll get done what we get done. For having worked all week, the house is in pretty good shape.

With ease, I settle a squabble the kids are having. I’m a pretty damn good mom—I should write a book on parenting!

My husband suddenly appears sexy as he sips his coffee in his plaid pyjama bottoms and an old T-shirt. Were his shoulders always so broad and his hands rugged like a cowboy from a Wrangler jeans ad?

My husband: “Oh right, sorry, yup, I was going to put my plate in the dishwasher, just forgot. And don’t worry about it, babe – I’ll run down to the deep freezer to get the chicken.”

He left me a note the night before after getting off nightshift, saying how much he misses the kids and me. He comes up, gives me a squeeze on the waist and whispers to me how sexy I look in my housecoat (even though it has drips of pancake batter on the front and pieces of scrambled egg ground into the sleeve).

I feel determined to make this flow continue on and on. The high masks the logic that nothing lasts forever; I feel it will be a cinch to keep this warm, ocean water washing up onto the beach and tickling our toes without it ever retreating.

Until it does.

We sense that things are being thrown off balance like a clay bowl forming on a pottery wheel that only takes the slight off-pressure of one hand to create a wobble.

I’m never really sure of the exact point that this wobble starts. It feels like something simple causes the slightest shift—perhaps the telling of a work story that the other didn’t have the focus to listen to, or not being able to agree on the same movie to watch. But I’ve come to know that often, the root of the friction isn’t about differences in movie tastes; if I dive deep, it could be a growing fear that we no longer have a hell of a lot in common outside of our kids, whether this is accurate or not.

Like a great party coming to an end, I can’t help but feel my body, mind, and spirit stiffen as I brace myself for the departure of the flow—for the water to retreat and crash against sharp rocks and barnacles.

An example of our ebb:

Me: “Omigod, what the hell…” (mumbling under my breath). “Hey! Why did you leave this plate on the counter when it could be in the dishwasher? And we need chicken from the deep freezer so I can cook dinner tonight, so I guess I’ll just go and do that too, on top of everything else.”

I’m feeling overwhelmed by the idea of cleaning the pigsty that is our house before our guests’ arrival and my husband just made it one dish messier. It’s Saturday morning and I have to use one of my two days off to clean. I half-consciously ignore that he just told me he’s going to start helping out as soon as he’s done his third coffee.

The kids were scrapping, but are now crying because I snapped at them. Shit, what a horrible mother I am. Maybe I should read one of those parenting books.

WHY does my husband wear those saggy, plaid Costco pyjama bottoms so often? And when was the last time he moisturized his hands—what is this, the dead of winter?

My husband: “You’ve been so moody lately, what’s your problem? I was going to put the plate in the dishwasher, but apparently I have to do it at the exact moment that you want it put away. And why do you have to yell?”

He’s a sweeping statement person, so if I’m cranky once, I’ve been cranky all week and I dislike this about him. I hate when he says I’m yelling when really, I’m just raising my voice. I had a super busy week and I’ve handled it all without complaint while he’s been on nightshift. I’m feeling completely misjudged and underappreciated.

Me: “Wh—what? First of all, I’m not yelling. Second of all, I’ve been in a good mood lately until just now, I don’t even know where you get that I haven’t been. Why would you say that? I’ve been really, totally understanding lately, especially when dealing with your negativity! You never tell me you appreciate what I do, holding down the household while you’re on this bloody nightshift! JEEZUS!”

My husband: “No, you haven’t been in a good mood, you’ve been cranky a lot. And I’m not negative, I just state my points realistically. And you are YELLING, the neighbours are going to hear you!”

His face is now red and he’s gritting his teeth in an attempt to stave off yelling too. He’s super sensitive about the potential of the neighbours hearing our scraps (and I am too, but by this point, I don’t give a shit). He wonders why he can’t vent about life without me judging it as negative and doesn’t understand why he needs to say that he appreciates me when he feels it’s obvious he does.

Me: “I wasn’t yelling, but NOW THAT YOU’VE PISSED ME OFF…”

The conversation went to hell in a handbasket over a dirty plate not being put in the dishwasher. Yeah-yeah, I know, it’s usually not about what’s going on outside of us; if there’s a storm brewing within, it can be triggered by unicorns and candy. But maybe sometimes it really just is about the dirty plate because we’re freakin’ tired, we’re both keeping mental notes on who’s done what, and currently my husband has two less ticks on the checklist than me.

I mean, we can’t expect it to be good all the time, can we? Yet when we’re in this place I become angry that it’s not good all the time, like Lola and Raymond’s marriage (and it’s obvious that they have a perfect marriage upon viewing their Facebook posts).

I’ve spoken with several friends about the ebbs and flows in their relationships; it sounds as though all couples go through this yo-yo’ing to some degree (even Lola and Raymond, I imagine), whether it be on a daily basis (those fast cycling types), every few weeks, or every few months. Who’s to say if there’s a better or worse? I know couples who clash frequently and their relationships are alive and well. And I know others who rarely ever argued and are now separated.

Upon contemplating working through the ebbs with the flows, the bad with the good, I recalled William Blake’s poems The Tyger and The Lamb that I read in grade 12 English Literature. Our dear, quirky teacher, who was so passionate about literature, sparked a discussion about how both the tiger (darkness, violence) is as natural as the lamb (gentleness, peace). In fact, it has been argued that to truly appreciate the tenderness of the lamb, one must experience the savagery of the tiger.

It’s like climbing into a hot bath to ease a terrible chill versus climbing into one when we’re already cozy and warm — the situation wherein we appreciate the hot water most is apparent.

A few years after reading Blake’s poems, I read another poem (I’ve Googled it to death so that I could pay homage to the author, but can’t find it anywhere) about the phases of the moon. The author indicated that it’s easy for us to appreciate the moon when it’s full and beautiful and to dismiss it when it’s only partially there or not there at all. But if we only appreciate our relationships when they’re full, we’re seeing their value for only a fraction of the time.

But how do I value things when they’re feeling so shitty?

My first response when my relationship is receding is to feel lonely, isolated from my husband, and worried about the impact that the arguments we don’t resolve peacefully will have on the kids.

Scary thoughts like: Will we make it? What does it mean when we sometimes feel like it would be easier to be apart? can come when the tide has retracted, the moon is imperceptible, and the tiger is on the prowl with a plan to serve up lamb chops for its next meal.

In these times, I tend to turn away from unwelcome feelings; humans are experts at avoiding pain and seeking pleasure. It’s sometimes easier to just cover up the discomfort with any array of addictions or distractions humans frequently succumb to (food, alcohol/drugs, shopping, yelling, martyrdom, blame).

How dare he ruin my morning by being such a jerk! Oh that Blame, she’s a sneaky one. She lures me in with her siren song, stroking my insecurities by whispering to me that it’s so much easier to look at my husband’s faults or better yet, assume him responsible for my happiness. How dare he not do everything in his power to make me happy—isn’t that what true love is? Yikes.

My mom gave me a book by Pema Chodron: When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times (super subtle, Mom). In it, Chodron states:

Things falling apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing. We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy.

Hmm, letting there be room for what’s happening in the moment, whether pleasant or not. My curious, if not masochistic, nature wants to see what it’s like to allow room for the difficult feelings that come with an ebb. Not to fight them, but to examine and learn from them.

I decide to give it a shot.

As I’m riding my unleashed tiger only moments after the next argument with my husband, I take a deep, stilted breath and focus on the moment as I stand alone in the kitchen, cutting up tomatoes for a salad.

I don’t think I can do this, the urge to release what’s inside me is too great. I whip my body around, brandishing the knife I’m using to cut the tomatoes, ready to yell at my husband who trudged down to the basement, pissed off as well. When I get to this point of anger, my feelings are often so intense that I have no sense of outcomes. In that moment, I totally understand the wife of a friend of ours who stuck a fork into her husband’s forehead during an argument at the dinner table.

This isn’t who I want to be.

I somehow conjure enough willpower to stop my angry, loud words from hurling out.

I recall Pema’s words: The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy.

I take another breath. I’m supposed to identify my feelings. I’m furious I say to myself. I feel silly for communicating the obvious to no one in particular. Where am I feeling furious? I feel a weight in my chest, but it’s not the fury that feels heavy. I peel away the layers and sense the heaviness of worry, sadness, and fear.

And then, as I discover these feelings that anger has been covering up, that I don’t want to face, uninvited guests show up. Tears. Pema didn’t warn me about this.

What are these? Oh no, not now, not when I’m making dinner! Tears begin to drip down my face. I watch them softly land on the wooden cutting board and mix with the puddles of tomato juice.

Stop it! Dinner’s almost ready and I don’t want anyone to see me crying, especially not the kids; I don’t know how to explain this to them. (Admittedly, however, a piece of me wants my husband to see me crying so I can show him what he has caused—Anger and Blame are doing a jig in the background.) I don’t like this, I’m no longer in control of what’s coming at me. I can’t yell these tears away.

I put down the knife, go to my bedroom, and stare at the blurry darkness. I lay down on my bed, face first. My chest jerks up and down as I do my best to smother my crying in my pillow. Odd sounds escape my tightened lips. I feel foolish. I mean, have you ever listened to yourself cry and felt like the walls were holding back from laughing at you? I want this shame to go away; I want to want to cry if I’m going to be doing it, I don’t want it to come unexpectedly.

The timer is going, the rice is done, and I holler at my husband and the kids to get the food on the table. I’m working on important business.

Let there be room for the grief, I say to myself. And then, there I go again, chest jerking, drool on my pillow—allowing my emotions to be there with me in my bedroom. When I’m not running from them, they don’t seem as horrible. In fact, after sitting with them for a bit, I’m ready to pour some whiskeys and smoke some cigars with these bad boys!

And then, there’s silence. Not around me, but within me. I feel space opening up that had been crowded by unhelpful, self-pitying thoughts and hurtful storylines I had been creating about my husband. In that space enters something as simple as me just being. Human. In the darkness, on my bed, in my room, in my house.

I get up, flick on the light, examine my red eyes and blotchy face, and walk out of my bedroom. I sit at the dinner table and partake in idle chat with my kids to ease back into normalcy. But I’m not ready to let my husband see I’m feeling better (okay, so Resentment clung onto my leg when I left the bedroom, he’s a hard one to shake).

As I chew on my salad, something unusual starts to settle in—I think it’s pride? I mean, I pushed through my anger without retaliation like a smoker pushes through a nicotine craving without lighting a cigarette. And then I sat that anger down and looked it in the eye, along with my other unsavoury emotions, without running away.

A miracle didn’t happen that night, but something subtle shifted.

Have my relationship ebbs been less frequent, less intense since then? Not entirely, old habits die hard. But I’m working on it. Rather than try to fight the retreating tide, I might as well settle into it and see what it’s about.

“…things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart.”

So when things do fall apart, I want to create space for the learning that hides in the strangest, darkest, moonless places; I’m otherwise a passive bystander to my own life, only participating when the moon is full. In this space I find things that surprise me—perhaps smidgeons of love and compassion for both my husband and myself—where I never thought I’d find them.

And then, one day, we start to feel it again: a softening. As with heading into an ebb, I feel like it’s a simple gesture that starts the shift—perhaps a touch on the other’s waist while reaching for something out of a cupboard or laughing at the same joke on the TV—ultimately coming from somewhere within. And in these gestures, we tell one another it’s okay and we forgive.

And an added bonus: by approaching the ebbs in my marriage with a different perspective (with many mistakes and fallbacks along the way), I’ve also learned something about our flows. Rather than worriedly bracing myself for the next ebb, I try to be mindful to revel in the times that my husband and I are in full moon phase; if I’m anxious about the impending ebb, I miss out on the fullness of the flow. When we reach that space, I want the water to come up all the way to where we can sit on the beach and have it tickle our toes… or even allow us to swim in its swollen splendour.