The magnitude of the love of lifetimes

Nobody warned me what it would feel like to fall in love with you. Nobody told me how the earth would open up and swallow me whole, caressing my body with her lush tongue as I was slowly devoured.

Nobody told me I would enjoy being devoured in that way.

Had I known though, had I known how you would crack me open and introduce me to aspects of my being that I didn’t know existed, had I known the magnitude of your ocean heart and how I would feel like the tiniest of ships exploring its vast infinity, had I known all this, would I have looked the other way rather than meeting your eyes? Would I have missed out on that moment (*the* moment), so I could spare myself the indignity of looking like a fool in love?

Oh god, just ask me. I’ll answer with my fingers, trembling on your cheekbone, a magnet for my polar fingertips. I’ll answer through the rush of desire that burns us wholly and completely. I’ll answer through lifetimes, each one answering the call of our wildly beating hearts. I’ll answer through the elements, soft rain and rushing wind caressing the leaves of tall trees.

I’m sure I was drawn to you, irresistible forces pulling us together before we knew the other one was ever there. Had I known of your existence, I know with the certainty born to me from my mother the earth that the pull of your moon to my tide could not be ignored.

That’s what I am, the tide. I ebb, I flow, I caress your rocky heart and over time wear it down to soft, pale sand, warm in my palm from the heat of the sun. Has this been multiple lifetimes of ebbing and flowing? Have we been here before? Now I stand here, before the very thought of you, the idea of you, the image of you. I stand here trembling.

No, that trembling, it’s just my quick-tempoed heartbeat.

I stand here steady and sure, grounded by your eyes. I stand here, left hand on my breast and right hand on your shoulder. I stand here making a vow to you.

I vow to become worthy of your adoration. I vow to bring you flowers in the springtime if you bring fire in the winter. I vow to honor our humanity, accepting all that comes with this brave existence. I vow to kiss sorrow away from your lips when they’ve forgotten the taste of the sweetness of joy. I vow to be your anchor in the storm, if you’ll be mine.

You are the one I’ve been waiting for.

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Becoming

Once, you inspired a fire in my heartspace,

One that smelled of cedar trees and sandalwood

And felt like a thunderstorm.

This fire is not for you, not anymore.

I can no longer bear the weight of your memory and my own becoming,

So I must ask one to leave,

And I’m sure you understand

Which one must stay

So that I may rise up to become my own lover.

Yes, it’s true that once I sought refuge in your presence,

And then in your memory

And I held the weight of both our futures

In my soft palm

Which I held open for you

In trusting acceptance of our then-aligned paths.

I let gravity pull me down,

Down into your arms,

Cradled by the scent of certainty

And lulled into a solace born of devotion,

Devotion to an idea, a desire, an unmet longing.

And I composed sonnets to you in my

Love-soaked heart.

And now, my best poems

Are given to  my own self

As I gently breathe life

Into these newly-forged passions,

Sparked into being by a lover that I once knew

But now only exists as a memory,

A memory that I softly blow away

Into the velvet darkness

Of the Wild that lives inside of me.

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On finding grace in the hard choices

All of life is a choice.  It’s just one big choice, one big question, “Do you choose to live?”

At one point in time, we’ve all made the biggest choice there is: to come to this life, this planet, this time period.  Once you’re here, that’s it.  There’s no turning back, you’re committed baby.

I myself get stuck in the ‘why’ of it.  Why in the hell would I choose THIS planet?  THIS species?  And oddly enough, even with the angst I bring myself with asking that question, I find grace there.  One definition of grace states that it is the spiritual freedom that arises when you realize that life is a gift.  I like that definition.  It’s simple, sweet, and leaves God out of it.

I take the idea of grace further.  I consider the gift of grace to be a gift of homeostasis, or balance, with the earth.  It is a state of acceptance that you may be thrown out of balance, but that very act of being out of balance allows you to see what no longer serves you and your life so that you may find a new balance that DOES serve you.

And so it is with choices.  Each choice you make is a reflection of the presence and state of the grace in your life, and what role your grace has for you.  How you make a decision and how you choose an action can be followed back in a direct line to the state of your heart.

My grace is found in the most unholy of places, made holy by her presence.  My grace is found in midnight panic attacks, the ones that take my breath away and have me clawing at my bedsheets in a most unholy act of worshipping the way it all falls apart.  Grace inevitably makes her entrance when I’m at my most helpless.  Sometimes she’s found in a swig of rum straight from the bottle, where she serves to remind my insides of the fiery existence of my heart, and jumpstarts the blood flow through my brain and body once more.  Sometimes she hides in the telephone wave lengths of a midnight phone call to my one-and-only support line when my choices have all turned to lead in my gut.  Sometimes she is simply found in my own voice, as I remind myself of the fierce love I hold for ME.

And my grace, she reminds me that I have chosen to be alive.  And so I choose to accept her wisdom, even at the times when I think I’ve given up, those times that hurt the most.  So I allow her to bathe my face and I let her gently convince me to release my white-knuckled grip on all my ragged bits that have come to the surface in the midst of my panic.  And together we put the pieces back together.

This is how I find grace in the hard choices, the ones that just won’t leave me.  She’s just always there, I simply have to listen to her wisdom that yes, life is a gift.

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A gentle offering

Every word that slips from my tongue and lips is a poem in itself. My body, worthy of high praise, is an orchestra.  Each move it makes blends with each sound uttered to compose a lifelong symphony. My heart is the cello, my blood the lilting flutes, and each slender finger a skilled conductor, placing emphasis on each syllable that passes my lips to create a prayer that takes a lifetime to complete.

My eyes are the light of the universe, duel lamps lighting my bold path. You ask me what the light is composed of? Moonbeams, of course. Softly radiant, there’s no sun here, for I’m here to light the night. Ah, but of which moon’s light do we speak? Is it the Harvest Moon (my hair full of the scent of drying hay) or am I drawing upon the light of summer’s sweet Strawberry Moon? Or perhaps it’s the light of the full moon illuminating the path of the hungry wolf, quietly slipping through the trees.

My glorious body stretches and turns, wrapping itself in silky sheets woven of rose petals, scented with sweetgrass and brightened with butterfly wings.  I am cradled in Earth’s soft embrace and we slowly become one being. Warm rains caress my verdant skin and my tears are waterfalls.

I am lavender fields

I am wind rushing through a forest of quaking aspen and young birch trees

I am newborn fawn, scentless and patient

I am sleek wolf and wary deer

I am river stones which delight in the feel of water gliding by

God’s summer home is within my orchestral heart, and my heart resides on the outskirts of the Milky Way. Turn left past the northern-most star of Casseiopia and you’ll find me straight ahead, dancing among the stars.

I am every sweet sigh brought to existence by spring’s eternal love song

I am the new daffodil pushing its way up through soft soil

I am the sweet-tart taste of summer’s first peach

I am the tantalizing nectar luring in the honey bees

I am the quickening heartbeat in the pulse of summer’s lazy thunderstorm

I am the scent of tomato leaves and sweet pea flowers

I am the sharp crack of an ear of corn snapped off its stem

I am the first brave leaf to fall from my mother tree

I am the freshness found in autumn breeze

I am the first cold wind foretelling change

I am the frost in the morning telling birds to fly south

I am the quiet found in snow’s silent fall

I am the peace that exists in the rest winter brings

 

All this I claim as my own, because I am worthy.  I am worthy to be from this earth, and of this earth.  This is what I am.

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Wildness, in my own terms

Today I was asked what it means to be wild, to have a wild heart. What a great question.  Upon being asked this question, I realized I don’t really know what being wild means to me.

So I will write until the answer is drawn out from some deep place within my sheltering being.

Wild isn’t a word I can define for myself. It is thought, emotion, freedom, liberation. It is being helplessly drawn into myself and thrust back out again. It is touching the untamed, uninhibited wild things we have lost connection with, both in this very real world and within ourselves.

It is a connection to that which devours and that which is devoured.

Wild is walking through the safe field where you can see everything around you and your eyes see every step your feet take, and then going past that field to the boundary of the dark wood with its sentinel trees and roots to trip over. It’s touching elemental components here in this wood that may be dangerous (you must drink the water here to live, but be warned that it may have parts unseen to the naked eye that will chew you up inside and leave you quivering on the bathroom floor).

Wild is daring to touch your very tender center and facing head-on what you encounter.

Wild is life.

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To be held

You’re not alone darling.

Do you feel alone?

 

Why?

 

That slight coolness you feel

Is only my cupped hand

Laid along your cheek.

 

Feel my breath near your temple

As I kiss you with all the tenderness

Of a mother wolf

With her firstborn pup.

 

I’ll sit with you tonight

If you can’t bear all the world’s weight

In your sacred center.

 

I’ll lie curled next to you

And hold you while

You toss your way through the long night.

 

You’re not alone darling.

Do you still feel alone?

 

Why?

 

I’ll step when you step

And when you stop,

I’ll hold your elbow

In a silent show of support.

 

If you need me to,

I’ll hold your heart

In the palm of my hand.

 

Just until it can hold itself

And learn to beat again.

 

You’re not alone darling.

Do you still feel alone?

 

I’m here.

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On waiting for love to be returned

What happens when the one you love doesn’t love you back, at least, not in the way you expect or want?  What chemical changes occur in your brain, your psyche, your atomic center?  For surely something of that magnitude does not leave you unchanged.  Maybe you can’t tell, not yet, but you will darling.

It’s easy to just think to yourself that all things happen for a reason and that people are placed in your path for a purpose.  But what if you have inside you this giant supernova lovebomb and half of it (your half) is saying yes, yes, YES and the other half just… isn’t ready?  Can you sit there with your legs crossed, hands quietly folded in your lap, and just think that it’s all part of some divine plan?

Divine plan or not, if I could, I would tell the moon to stop it’s heavenly pilgrimage across the night sky.  I would order the tides to stop ebbing and keep the sun from rising to caress the edge of the mountains.

Just until I get some answers.

I would ask, “how can you not FEEL this?”  And I would take your hand and place it upon my wildly beating heart.  There, can you feel that pounding?  This is the force of the tides I am holding back.  I would then place your hand on my smooth stomach. Here is contained the desire of the moon as she sighs, hovering with all of her luminous self, curtained by celestial bodies she can see but never touch.  Next I would have you touch my lips with your [electric] fingertips and I would tell you that my lips burn with the passion of the sun, who waits to greet the edge of the sea with a kiss.

I ask you now, can you still say that my love is unreturned? If it is true, and you feel you must reject my love until you are ready, just know that I will wait.

Forever I will wait.

I will come back to this space again and again, infinitely again until you can sink into it with me. And when you arrive, I will look at you and take your hand. I will have no need to tell you that I’ve been waiting, because you know.  Your eyes will reveal to me that the lull of the tides pushed you toward me.  But you were not ready.  Every time the moon hid her face and wept, you felt it in your heart.  But you were not ready.  And every time you watched the sun come up in praise of the morning, you knew.  But you were not ready.   Still you are not ready. But when you are, I will be here.  And when we meet in this space that I’ve held, then the real loving can begin.

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