The way it stuck in my mind, you’d think it was a fine marble sculpture in some distant city.
But it lives only in my memory: during a lull at a local IHOP, a man and woman sat quietly sipping their coffee, reading their own books. This, I thought, was the truest form of death.
At nineteen, I worried deeply that I would become them if I got married. I saw the faces of settling, and my whole body rejected the idea. How sad, said my cruel self, must your life be to bring separate reading material to a Friday brunch? Each line on their winter-worn faces terrified me.
Those were the days I carried judgment as both my sword and my shield. I thought that harshness made me brave, and I thought I knew everything I’d ever need to know.
Now I realize how much of a gift it is to be comfortably alone, together in one of Fort Wayne’s finest brunch spots. In fact, it was in a shared silence where I realized I really loved someone for the first time. Love meant I could finally lay down my accoutrements and just rest in the quiet presence of another person. The only weapons we need anymore are the ones we bear to protect each other’s solitude, to snatch a line from Rilke.
Stop holding so tightly the battle flags you raised in your youth, Emily. Cling to your readings and tend to your inner world. Settling is no longer the four-letter word you railed against—it carries more nuance. And the more you can settle into your own heart, the more you’ll feel at peace in any setting; even at an IHOP on a dull Friday morning. Before you cast your next judgment, ask: is there more I can do in my own heart?
And, will this judgment heal what’s hurting?
Next Steps: Drink a glass of water, give your husband a kiss, and mind your own business today.
A portrait of settling