Archive | Spirit Matters

That Stranger Called My Life

I just saw an old lover on the street. He didn’t see me (or pretended he didn’t) but I got a good eyeful. We were together off and on for four years and I hadn’t seen him in two. Recently he turned fifty, so he’s been on my mind though our connection is too dangerous to ignite with a polite phone call or card. We live in the same neighborhood so it’s a wonder we don’t run into each other. I often think spirit is protecting us by ensuring this doesn’t happen; we caused each other a lot of pain–more than the pleasure we gave each other, even. I watched him talk to someone–a friend, it looked like, but not a close one. Maybe a colleague. I watched him clasp his big hand on that man’s shoulder, then make his way down the street in the opposite direction from where I was standing. My old lover seemed smaller and bigger, blurrier and more filled in. It was a shock to see him alive at all–still human, not just an animation of my many memories.

I felt a terrible longing to run alongside him, squeeze his bicep, duck under his shoulder, climb on his back, until he folded me in his embrace. This is a man I’ve known since I was a kid though we only became lovers in our forties, and it seems to me his body has always been familiar: his smells, good and bad; his fingers (his cock), the tiny stud in his ear (how many times I tongued it), the hairs curling on his chest, and, of course, his mouth. When we were together, I was always burrowing into him in a way I’ve never done before or since. Sometimes he loved it, sometimes it put him off, but what is miraculous is I didn’t care either way. It’s not that his feelings didn’t matter to me (they did, so much); it’s that, with him, I was not angling to impress. I was present in a way that precluded any premeditation. I felt him in my blood and bones and pussy and so, without thinking, I’d reach for him. Into him.

I watched this man–this collection of human atoms whom I first beheld when he was 10 and then 19 and, o, you get the picture–I watched him bob down the street away from me. His gait was the same. He always takes it light, bounces a bit on his toes, keeps his carriage erect, as if he takes real seriously his mother’s famous farewell phrase: “Walk good.” He looked heavier and furrier and still, to me, extremely beautiful. For a minute I remembered it all: how many times he walked away without looking back, how many times he opened me when my heart seemed shut to everything. In that rush I wanted my friend so much–not just in bed but cross-legged on the floor, where we could share every story we’d collected since we’d last been together. I wanted to climb the stairs into whatever home he occupies now, work and live side by side, match heartbeats. I wanted to greet the new moon with him. I wanted to say hi.

But there was no point in reaching across the great divide of space and time that looms between us–two tesseracts, at least. I know his smallest and biggest self, and in some alternate universe both will always feel like mine. But in this one, the man walking down the street was in no way moving toward me.

I sent him love instead.

It reminds me of that Grace Paley short story, when she returns a library book at least twenty years overdue, then checks it back out because she still hasn’t had a chance to read it. Her ex husband, someone she hasn’t seen in decades, walks by just then, and she says: “Hello, my life.”

Hello, my life.

Summer Solstice Shine

Everyone has a favorite time of year. Mine is Summer Solstice, or Litha, as it’s called in Celtic circles. (That it sounds like  my name lisped is pure coincidence.) I gratefully accept the lessons that shadows teach us, but most embrace our Mother Sun’s beautiful light. Today she shines longest and brightest upon our lives—revealing who we truly are, not merely how we seem. This is a day of abundance, of lush greens and fresh blooms, of native caresses and first communions. It is a day of planting and harvesting, of seed and flower—of closing the gap between hope and manifestation, fundamentally. The best part? All we need do is breathe in this magic. If you want to get super fancy about it, light a yellow or orange candle, burn some sage, or just murmur your wishes into this eternal light. Divine mama does the rest.

Greetings from Me and LC at Joshua Tree

Both of them felt it: that day was an island….On the mainland,  people went about their business, eating the Times, glancing through coffee and oatmeal, as they walked the gangway into an original dream of attentiveness, as if a day’s pleasure could concentrate them as much as suffering.
Sun, Donald Hall

Let me tell you: I’m trying to seize the fourth dimension of this instant-now so fleeting that it’s already gone because it’s already become a new instant-now that’s also already gone. Every thing has an instant in which it is. The want to grab hold of the is of the thing. These instants passing through the air I breathe: in fireworks they explode silently in space. I want to possess the atoms of time. And to capture the present, forbidden by its very nature.
Agua Viva, Clarice Inspector

When the sun grew so bright, when it was not nearly but merely blinding, she could do nothing but succumb to her senses and wait. And this is how it will be, with a sense of humor.
Newton North High School 1989 yearbook inscription, Lisa Rosman

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy