“Habitation” is a poem, written by Margaret Atwood, that I included in my previous post. (Please refer to “Wedding Anniversary” in the list of  Recent Posts.) Here we will attempt to unravel its meaning in order to better appreciate it.

In the poem, Atwood tries to define marriage by starting with what it is not about.  When she says it is not a house or a tent, she is deviating from the usual romantic notion.  Most young and starry-eyed people think of it as a refuge where they can get all warm and cozy.  Some think of it as an escape from whatever problems they face.  But the author sets readers straight right from the beginning — NO, IT IS NOT A REFUGE!

Marriage , in her view, is still in a primitive stage.  It has not reached that level of sophistication where it can be considered as a habitation or a shelter from the storm, which is why , in the third line, she says, “it is before that, and colder”.

It doesn’t keep you safe in a cocoon, but puts you out there to deal with the elements.  Sometimes it can be pleasant,  like being in your favorite  outdoor spot - “the unpainted stairs at the back where we squat outside, eating popcorn.”  Usually, however, it can make you feel as if you’ve got one foot in the grave.  It is akin to being: “at the edge of the forest”, where you might get lost or devoured by wild animals; “at the edge of the desert”, where you run the risk of dehydration and snake bites; “at the edge of a receding glacier”, where you might be buried alive by an avalanche of ice.

In short, when you are married,  you face many dangers. You risk your peace of mind, sanity, and sometimes your life.  It is a battle for survival.  And after so many years and so many scars, you look back and realize that (OH, MY GOD!) you’re still just  ”learning to make fire”, the very first and basic survival skill.

Sigh!!! An overwhelming thought, isn’t it?  You think you’ve done so much when actually you’ve only just begun.

I feel that I must not let the month of July go by without sharing this poem.   This is the month of my 10th wedding anniversary and I’d like to commemorate it with something  that captures my view of marriage at this point in my life.

Habitation

by Margaret Atwood

Marriage is not

a house or even a tent

it is before that, and colder:

the edge of the forest, the edge

of the desert

the unpainted stairs

at the back where we squat

outside, eating popcorn

the edge of the receding glacier

where painfully and with wonder

at having survived even

this far

we are learning to make fire

Are what’s left of the Fire tree’s

Red-orange frenzy,

But it all comes back next year,

Fiery like we used to be.       

 Are there Fire trees in America?  I wonder.  They must be in bloom this time of year in the Philippines.   I’ve loved them ever since my mother pointed them out to me.  I was still a teenager then. We were  driving over to my grandparents’  bakery.   When we passed by the town plaza she murmured, “Katahum!” (Beautiful).  There was something in her voice that rang a bell with me. Everytime I see a fire tree I’d remember that quality in her voice and it would fill me up too.   The sight of it is truly arresting.  In full bloom, its leaves are all gone. The dark-brown, almost black, branches provide a stark contrast to the red-orange flowers, all jostling against each other like a multitude of  gaudy birds during mating season.