An Unedited Flood and Landslide

I can feel my fingertips throwing off mad sparks.  Colors that don’t even exist in this humdrum dimension. Ohhhh it feels sooooo good to type.  It’s the best sex.  I was gonna say better than sex, but that would be unnecessarily divisive.  

 

Giordano took the kids to visit his mama up the hill and I’m ALONE.  My five favorite letters, in that specific combination, I want to climb inside them and writhe around inappropriately.  I know, I know, it’s not the letters, it’s their meaning.  But I love letters and words and strings of words so much.  I love the potential power they possess.  Maybe they are empty unto themselves?  Or maybe not.  Maybe it is the electric charge that shoots through me and plumps them up with holy value.

 

Fuck, I don’t want to waste my sizable crumbs of ALONE ness pontificating on the alphabet!  Although a crumb of a crumb was fun.  Onwards and upwards.

 

There’s too much to say.  I’m afraid I’m going to tear as it exits me.  Relax and breathe, Athena.  

 

Lately I have been having recurring flashes of the vision quest I did when I was like 28.  It was four days on the hill, inside a little rectangle marked by mugwort.  No food, no water.  

 

Have you ever thristed?  

 

I mean like REALLY thirsted….

 

It’s the most excruciating sensation.  Probably some kind of dying.  Which apparently I suck at, because I came down off the hill after two days and just chilled at basecamp.  Like a little native american style vacay.  

 

I guess I keep flashing on that memory because I AM THIRSTING again.  Except this time it’s not for literal water, and there is no hill to climb down, and no water at the base.

 

I can not get my head around why in fuck’s hella holy name I would choose such a crushing path.  In my stronger moments, I believe in a higher purpose for all this suffering.  When I’m in it, I wrastle the damn thing like a gator and lose every time.  I am imagining that you don’t understand, because in a few ways my life looks quite privileged.  Like having healthy, rad children and a devoted husband and exquisite land.  AND A DREAM WRITING JOB, which I am aiming to tell you about, but who knows where this wild current will take me.

 

But maaaaaan.  I’m starving for so many nutrients.  Let it be written that it is ANYTHING BUT NATURAL to raise children via the exhausted old nuclear way.  It’s the devil incarnate.  So barren.  Where are my witches?  Where are my bitches???  

 

Yes, it’s NOT just a cliche, it DOES take a village to raise a child.  And NO, relationships with men are NOT satisfying to the soul.  Well… at least not with my man.  But I hear so many women complain that their men are… ummm… idiots?  Hahaha.  Well… let’s just say, “not able to meet them at full capacity”.  Men have their place.  But it’s a the bar. Haha.  I crack myself up.  And if you don’t get it, too bad, cuz I only have a few hallowed minutes, not enough time to explain my subtle and complex wit.

 

But yeah, I think suicidal thoughts a butt ton these days.  And then I quickly realize that I’m waaaay too spiritual to take my precious life and I would never abandon my adorable kids even though I often hate them these days.  Yeah.  That’s not the kind of shit you say out loud.  Unless you’re Athena Grace.  Unless you are condemned to a brutal prison sentence which involves NEVER HAVING ANY PERSONAL SPACE except right now.  Then you would hate your kids too.  All their whining and demands and unrelenting neediness.  

 

But I will love them when they come home, because I am immersing in a heavenly realm, banging, yes BANGING these words out upon this screen, incense drifting in sweet swirls as I lay on my belly on my bed, engulfed in a sea of pale pink ALONE ness.  The window is wide open and it’s cold for June thirteenth.  Storm clouds are gathering, preparing to dump violent showers upon us.  Acacia leaves whisper elite secrets and the birds testify affirmative. 

 

So basically, what I need you to know is that I DID NOT KNOW WHAT I WAS GETTING MYSELF INTO WHEN I MADE A BABY WITH A MARRIED MAN.  I’m sure I’ve told you this part before, but when I told my Ma I was pregnant, she didn’t speak to me for like three days and now I know why.  

 

This path is crushing.  And what was I thinking when I married the volatile italian man and concurrently made a baby with him???  I must be a quintessential idiot.  I have kicked myself too many times for this string of questionable choices that has put me in an inescapable death grip life.  

 

Just for the record, Giordano is doing great.  Except when he flies off the handle.  But I decided to love him in spite of his “spells”… rather than waiting for them to stop.  Because they might not.  Shrug.  He’s really refining beautifully.  To his credit.  And.  He works all the time, and eats his food like a starving hound, and doesn’t have the best capacity for presence.

 

But his face looks lighter.  And I love the way it lights up when he smiles, and the little dances he does and then looks slightly embarrassed.  I love his sharp, musky smell and falling asleep in his arms.  (I joke that sleeping is the best part of our relationship.  And sadly, it often feels that way.)  I love his love of nature and his deathly charming broken english.  I can’t get enough of that.

 

So anyway, lemme tell you about my new writing gig.  I had a session with an energy healer a couple months ago, and I asked about work.  Writing.  She said a bunch of stuff, but most of it’s none of your business.  Wink.  No, just kidding, I only want to tell you that which will forward my riveting story.  Which is that she said it looked like writing about PARENTING would be in alignment for me. I practically puked.  I’m already so sick of that topic.  I can’t imagine flushing my creative time down the toilet in such a manner.  

 

Maybe I’m being dramatic.  But I did feel an aversion and I told her so.  Inside, I thought, I want to write about SEX.  

 

Too bad I’m not having any.  Haha.  How can I write about something that’s not even alive for me?  Actually, in the name of accuracy, we have sex about once every two weeks.  It’s usually hard to get started, due to how many withholds and complex shadow emotions I feel in relation to Giordano.  How frustrated and disappointed I often am.  How much MORE I want from him.  Especially in the way of raw, full throttled, unadulterated, penetrating PRESENCE.  

 

I digress.  Once I get into it, it feels AMAZING and I feel so glad that I married someone I love having sex with, even if it’s so hard to get there due to everything.  I also need you to know that I bought a day planner for 2020 and my friend Dara was like why do you need a day planner, you aren’t up to anything.  But I had lofty aspirations pre new year.  And now, the only thing I pencil in is a detailed account of my rare (and precious) sexual occasions!  I had to tell you because it’s one of those needless details that gives life it’s poetically evocative depth of field.  

 

Anyway, I always keep my finger on Nicole Daedone’s pulse.  She was the founder of OneTaste, mother of OM (Orgasmic meditation, which I swear by, and practice as often as humanly possible.  Which unfortunately isn’t the 4x a day that I wish it was.)  People project a whole array of shit onto Nicole.  From Angel to Demon.  But in my Seeing, she is on a potent and admirable Path of Mastery, and I always keep her close, because I am too.  In my own way.  And I like to stay attuned to those who remind me what I’m made of.

 

She was showing up in my dreams a bunch.  Intuitive dreams, from which I awake deeply impressed.  One thing led to another, but I don’t have time or desire for a play by play.  One day, she reached out to me and basically offered me a job editing a series of her old blogs.  Flattening the 3D elements and making them into magical, timeless prayers.  

 

I get to climb inside her mind and transcendent erotic encounters… while Forest sleeps and suckles my breast.  And unfortunately Serena watches too many cartoons in the living room.  I hate that.  But she likes it.

 

Anyway how do you like THAT???  I wanted to write about sex even though I am in a period of forced abstinence and I could NEVER source material as potent as Nicole’s anyway.  She is of another realm.  But by the Grace of a hella awesome God, I do have the sublimedivine gift to do her words some serious justice.  Ahhhh the moments that I spend “working”… are the truest moments in my soul.  It is Union in the classical sense.  I am so absorbed, I disappear.  Fully engaged.  Used.  Challenged.  Turned on.  This is what I’m made for.  

 

Noteworthy that I am so wholly satisfied doing writing work that is not “mine”.  I don’t crave the recognition that I thought I did.  I love writing my own life… and yet, these days, it is so dry and brittle and rugged.  I would sicken myself to write it all down.  I love disappearing into Nicole’s bold, illuminated genius. It’s the quintessential journey that IS the destination.  I never want it to end.  

 

It probably will.

 

And I guess this blog should too, because it’s time to make sweet potato fries and hamburger patties and garden fresh salad.

 

I hope that I have provided you everything from illumination to liberation to amusement.

 

I love you.

A River, a Boulder and Sex.

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“Art is why I get up in the morning, but my definition ends there….”

 

Honestly, I think I’ve begun an Athena Graceland blog with that quote by Ani Difranco before… but it is endlessly relevant.  

 

There are mornings, like this morning… when Goddess straddles the dripping, luminous full moon and gallops into the secret folds of my dreams.  She rouses me too early and sweetly tugs at the enchanted threads of chaos and curiosity that weave the tapestry of my consciousness…. Images, questions, longing… all screaming up from inside me to be metabolized through the miraculous beauty of my Inner Voice.

 

My animal body feels heavy, begging for extended stillness and intimacy with soft, cotton sheets.  But the ferocity of my drive to create presses heavy from Inside. Mizz Difranco’s words rise like steam from the coffee that is about to be brewed and like fire, I leap from bed, eager to at once wrap and unwrap myself in the magical threads of language.

 

Oh poetic, philosophical words…. With samurai precision, I slash my sword and they fall to my feet.  I emerge as the naked and raw center.

 

Previously in Graceland, I was aflame as I awaited Giordano’s arrival.  Now, nearly a full moon later, he sits beside me on this depressingly distasteful and cheap brown couch, reading Slow Sex, a book written by my lifelong Beacon of Sexually Liberated Sanity, Nicole Daedone.  I am crushed by the too-much-ness of what there is to say.

 

It has been two week since he arrived.  We decided to do a weeklong trial to see if we could *joyously* tolerate coexisting in my modest, artistically persuaded little box… Until yesterday, it was way easier than either of us anticipated.  (It took me almost the full two weeks to set my farts free…. But I’m up to about a sixty nine percent liberated rip-rate.)

 

Oh there’s too much to say.  I must call upon the Wilderness of Infinity Within, in order to perform the Impossible feat of threading Infinity through the Eye of the Needle.  

 

Where do I begin?

 

SEX.  Naturally.  My favorite subject.  If you’ve followed me since the infancy of Athena Graceland, you know I used to romp there way more. (That was before I was sent by a snickering God to live amongst the Renunciates.)  But I always felt terrified because my Mom was my number one fan…. And inspired, liberated sexuality was not an area of overlap for us. I felt the need to hide my libidinous priestess side from her.  Said priestess was actually quite relieved as Dear Sumitra lay dying… because She imagined that She’d finally be free…. On our last day together, I told my Ma, “Now I can write anything I want!” She flashed a smile of compassionate recognition.  

 

For the first year without her, I wondered when I’d get to it…. “It” being revealing the repressed backlog of wet, racy, outrageous expression within me.  But I guess being an under-fucked single mom was not exactly fertile ground for such writing.

 

Hallelujah the dawn doth cometh!  This morning I am delighted to announce that I no longer classify as underfucked.  Phew. I found my way to the scantily clad, orgiastic desert oasis. Everywhere I turn, water is singing, dripping, gushing, quenching.  

 

I pity the fool who says sex is not spiritual.  I feel a bazillion percent more alive, joyful, energized.  I feel like I finally have the inner resource to Rule The World.  

 

I never believed in “penis envy”…. But when I see Giordano’s perfectly huge, artistically dangerous, hard cock in the morning…. I think that Freudian construct might be laced into the cocktail of feelings that swirl inside me.

 

I’ve been flying high on oxytocin for the past two weeks.  It’s like being drunk on sunlight. I dare you to argue with the quintessential rightness of such purity.

 

But of course, life is dynamic and fuckin messy.

 

And sharing my tiny house with a man is bound to arouse conflict and rub raw, ancient wounds.  Yesterday we got in our first real…. Dare I call it a “fight”? I would call it me asking to Talk… and sharing all the withholds that were eating away at me.  Him feeling attacked and bristling in defense. Both of us flooding with fight or flight chemicals and becoming crippled five year olds. How’s THAT for sexy?!!

 

The moon is nearly full.  We are both very sensitive.  Energy needed to burst and gush.  We never really came to articulated resolution.  We walked through the woods, me tense and silent, him spitting inflamed, linguistic daggers wrapped in his profoundly charming italian accent.  Then we took some space…. And naturally tapped our respective wells of compassion, patience and love.

 

I just wish I hadn’t told him I was ALL IN so quickly.  Initially, we agreed to let it ride for an entire moon cycle before we came to any conclusions.  But the damn oxytocin got me all gushy and I professed that I didn’t need to wait. I flung myself into the treacherous deep end, with beaming abandon.

 

Hello, my name is Athena and I am emotionally impulsive.  

 

Seriously.  It’s a weakness in me that I am working on.

 

I don’t know if I’m scared of intimacy… or not fashioned for a conventional, nuclear paradigm relationship… or if Giordano simply isn’t the One for me….  But….. ahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!

 

I started missing Ed.  Ed has a way stronger masculine essence.  Giordano was named after the River Jordan.  And he truly IS water. Ed was named after a massive granite boulder.  Haha I’m sooo funny! But I ask myself if I can fully give myself to a man who is so flowing.  This makes me more masculine. But….

 

Giordano is a beautiful being who loves and supports me.  He is honest and caring, creative and adventurous. Plus, his italian accent and adorably wonky sentence structuring is an endless source of tickle for me.  And who says it must be a stifling case of “either or”?

 

A while back, Ed sneered at me, in a moment of pain, and said, “You think you can have it ALL, but you CAN’T.”  His words knocked me bass-ackwards.

 

The fuck I can’t.  I’m ATHENA GRACE, high and holy Priestess of Heaven.  Recently, Ed stopped talking to me for what seemed like a year.  It was actually about three days. But now he’s back. And I am quenched by his steady, masculine love.  

 

Fuck the stiff, moldy paradigm that says I must choose.  But through the unintelligible grace of endarkenment, it still lives inside me.  When I fall asleep at the wheel for even a second, I melt into that ancestrally embedded, default, operational groove.  Why can’t I widen myself and imbibe the love and complementary nutrients that both men have to offer to my heart and life?

 

I can.  I give myself Radical Permission to be nourished by a spectral panoply of lovers.  I give myself Radical Permission to be free from the need to define my relationships according to archaic, expired patriarchal constructs.  I give myself Radical Permission to feel and speak my raw, naked truth in The Moment, and set appropriate boundaries accordingly. I give myself Radical Permission to live in the Present, and release the need to define my intimacy with others through elusive future constructs.  

 

Most importantly, I give myself Radical Permission to love and to be loved.  And to BE LOVE.

 

Messy, imperfect, ever-evolving, embodied love.

It’s The Full Moon Talking…

October twenty-second is Beat Heavily Around the Bush Day… were you aware?  Yeah.  Well, now you are!  I’m sitting here at my desk and unabashedly scratching my mosquito bites with my skin brush, realizing that I should probably put on some perfume, considering changing out of my new neon orange sporty bra and pumpkin colored panties and thinking I could EAT before I dive into this uncharted pool of linguistic mystery.  Athena Grace.  “Ya better LOVE her, because ya sure can’t LEAVE her,” I say to myself.  And then floods in a massive inhale, followed by an exhale that literally DID launch a thousand ships.  A thousand little microscopic fairy ships.  My bedroom is an etheric sea teaming with teensy fairy pirates.  The intricate ships would impress the pants right off you… if only you could see them with the naked eye.  But thankfully you can’t, so your pants get to stay on tonight!

 

Ahhh, being sillier than thou got my motor revved, distracted me from the seductive tug of my erotically screaming mosquito bites and my other way less than erotic impulses to do the aforementioned gazillion other overtly important things.  I notice that I am a fiend when it comes to using the words that end in LY.  What are those called?  Adverbs?  I have a trashy fear that this makes me a less good writer.  But when I grapple with another way to say it, I can’t find one and I like the LYs… so… Sigh… my writing might take a blow but at least I can continue to drown your ass in cheapLY dripping descriptions!  Will you please forgive me?  Will you still LOVE me????  God.  I have to laugh at myself.  I have been hyper aware of how desperate I can be to be loved by those around me.  It’s kind of exhausting sometimes.  This is when I can just drop back into my body and relax my guts.  (GUTS!)  Relax my brain matter and my lips.  The muscles around my heart.  God, come on IN!  Make yourself at home in me.  I am fully willing to feel the revelatory epicness of your embrace in every single shred of my personal pan ISness.  (Inspired by personal pan pizzas at Round Table?  Or was it Pizza Hut?  I always got pineapple on mine, you better believe!  Gosh, personal pan pizzas were such a large scale thrill for me.  Maybe because it gave me some childhood autonomy…)

 

(I just took a break and meandered to the kitchen to make some kale salad to eat… and I SWEAR, I wrote like TEN blogs in my head while I compiled the vibrant veggie mess.  Now I can’t remember ANY of it!)

 

There comes a moment in every well intending exhibitionist blogger’s journey where she encounters someone who wishes to remain anonymous.  “And THEN what??”, she finds herself wondering… Especially when this other happens to be one she is quite enmeshed with… her writing partner, say… And now I am grappling with how to continue to peel off the layers of my ego’s designer wardrobe and continue to get naked for you, while respecting his wishes of his privacy.  God, for having so much essential stuff in common, he and I are SO different.  I mean for ONE thing, he told me that he doesn’t even like to cum on a woman’s face or tits.  I think that’s maybe the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard!  (Should I have more discretion?  Maybe… but I wouldn’t enjoy myself nearly as much… and if I wasn’t enjoying myself as much it would be a lot harder to keep stepping back onto the page and servin’ it up, day after day, after glorious day!!!)

 

Anyway, he told me not to use his name, but I AM allowed to call him “my writing partner”… Very generous of him.  Well, he and I have been having a pretty dynamic exchange these days:  heavy writing, deep conversations, quiet space sharing… and yes… we even knocked some sweaty boots the other day.  I cringe at so fully disclosing my personal life like this… but… this is where the energy is for me… and I can only spend so much time skirting around such charged subjects.

 

The charge runs in a few directions.  One being that our connection created some drama and mess with my housemate… ‘member?  Well, since then, she and I have worked to restore the love… but I still feel dangerousLY tenuous on the subject of spending time with my WP (writing partner).  It feels so much BETTER to be in Love and good standing with my housemate than to be in discord with her.  So I tend to avoid the subject of HIM altogether… but then it just throbs inside me like the sorest thumb in the world.  I feel GUILTY.

 

I hate feeling guilty.  It seems.  But then again, maybe I like it… because I seem to create it enough in my life.  Maybe it gives my light in the loafers heart some coveted gravity.  But if this is the price of gravity, it sure is expensive.  I think I’m gonna return it.  I hope I still have the receipt around here somewhere.  Lately I have been hyper aware of the gaping chasm between my authentic self, my integrity, which perpetually aches to be unabashedly transparent… and this other self, who doesn’t want to upset others or “lose love”.  I have created the perfect circumstances to be pressed right up against this scraping metal on metal edge inside myself.  Coming clean in my blog is the first step to reclaiming the purity born of unbridled honesty.

 

Here is another avenue of charge~ you know how turned on I’ve been lately.  It’s been so challenging to just BE with it… Meanwhile, the sexual tension has slowly been building between my WP and I.  But… where do I currently stand on the topic of sex?  I’m committed to a year of no relationship… but… where does that leave my radically conflagrating pussy and my fevered, tropical flesh?  What does it *mean* to just have sex with someone?  Besides, don’t I thirst for so much MORE than just a casual, garden variety fuck?  But all these questions and considerations find themselves suddenly stone cold chillin’ on the back burner… while the FRONT burner torches up like it naturally does when gas has been seeping out for weeks before it finally gets lit.  POOOOF!!!!

 

So after coolLY, bashfulLY, matureLY skirting the topic for weeks… we finally go for it.

 

And shrug… honestly… the anticipation was much hotter than the actual genital rubbing.  God.  Leave it to sex to bring up all kinds of my edges.  I want to *seem* so powerful and confident and skillful as a lover… and often that stands like a pink, wooly mammoth in the way of me actually having what I want, being connected, authentic, vulnerable, communicative.  Admitting this to you is both terrifying and relieving.  But when kiss comes to suck, I think it’s a pretty powerful thing to share with you… because there *must* be at LEAST one of you who can relate to some of this… but would never dare admit it… and now you never have to, because Athena Grace has done the dirty work.  How bitchin’ is THAT?!?!

 

Ever since we “did it” (Grin), I’ve been deeply contemplating what I want, sexually.  Because I want SOMETHING… for sure… and I haven’t quite put my finger on it.  But reading Nicole Daedone’s blog~ nicoledaedone.com has shed some light on the subject.  She is the leader of a sex community in San Francisco.  And she also happens to be one of the most lucid, powerful, raw, authentic, courageous, bold women I’ve ever met.  I saw her as a coach about five years ago and the time we shared… well… it impacted me to my rattling bones and their own great beyond.  She didn’t coach me about sex, mind you… just about BEING.

 

At One Taste, they practice “OM”, orgasmic meditation.  This is focused on the woman as the receiver.  Shit, this blog is getting to be too long.  And since this topic is a never-ending one… I’m gonna toss out a glittering “to be continued” sign and get on with my evening of full moon worship.  (God… the moon here on Kauai is SO bright, it almost blinded me last night.  My WP and I walked to the beach.  The sky was strewn with hunks of massive, cottony cloud which amplified the moonlight and created a surreal atmosphere that was so bright that it resembled neither day nor night.  Like being inside a haunting black and white photograph.)

 

ATHENA!  Stop writing now!  Just cut yourself off.  Come on…  Okay… Well, check out Nicole Daedone’s blog, if you want to research some of my most recent inspirations on the sex front.

 

Amen (in the moon).

Romance and Heartbreak on the Shores of Athena GraceLand

It’s raining, it’s pouring, Athena Grace has been ignoring her blog… And now she doesn’t know where in the spiral galaxy that dances her alive to start!  I have swum through so much since we last slow danced, cheek to cheek, you and me and this dreamy stream of alphabet.

I’ll start with the perfect pink slice of salmon sashimi melting in my mouth like oceanic butter.  Like the slowest sex in my mouth.  Many moments have I relived the beautiful piece of fish merging with my eager mouth in the dimly lit, upstairs section of the sushi restaurant in downtown Hanalei.  I prayed to be paid twenty dollars for a poem… (since right now, I am living “poem to poem”.)  I prayed to be taken out to dinner and well fed (fish).  I prayed for thoroughly satisfying, top-notch company.  I did not pray to merge with a man who had just broken up with his fiancé and come to Kauai alone, rather than honeymooning in Mexico… at least I didn’t THINK I did.  But I offered him a poem.  He accepted and spilled enough messy guts to feed an army of wild dogs who find figurative entrails to be a delicacy.

He handed me a twenty and asked me to dinner at the place of my choice.  Despite his current state of floundering in the center of a great mess, I felt his core of power and goodness and assessed him to be capable of the quality company that a deep sea diving mermaid such as myself requires.  What can I say?  It turns out that he is a fellow Capricorn and we climbed mountains together and dove deep with the aid of our fishy, sea goat tails.  He was no pussy when it came to eye contact, either.  Between unfurling, multidimensional personal mythologies, we found each other’s eyes and floated serenely on the ocean of light that lives within and without them.  I was taken by surprise when waves of sensuous, sumptuous turn-on washed over me as we joined in breath, in heart, in mind from across the high table strewn with utterly delicious fish and seaweed salad.  I hadn’t felt turned on by anyone since I’d been here and I was starting to worry that I never would again.

Athena Grace!  You’ve only been here three weeks, silly girl-woman!  I know, I know… but still I wondered where in God’s vast Ocean my turn-on had swum to.  And when my body flushed with frivolous, dancing lust, I surrendered to it like a bold gust of tropical wind, letting it sweep invisibly through me, awakening my senses, tickling its way through all of me, wanting nothing save the pure, immediate poetry of the experience.

Wow, it is really raining.  I am at the bakery, sitting at a table under highly functional umbrella, thank goodness.  At first, I imagined that the storm would pass in mere moments, as most of them do… but it’s not passing.  The entire sky is thick and silver, as though I am profoundly lost in the jolly infinitude of Santa Clause’s very own beard.  I wonder if I’ll have to park under this umbrella for the rest of my life.  I’ll be okay, because I have a cliff bar and the bag of sunflower seeds I just bought… plus all of the water I could possibly drink splashing gaily down from omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient Santa Clause.  Heck, I’ll just throw caution to the wolves and sharks and stay here under this umbrella until I reach enlightenment!  What better do I have to do?  Fall in lust with wounded, tumultuous Capricorn men?

Yeah, so we lingered and spoke of forgiveness and our respective life experiences, pausing to dance in one another’s eyes or splash in the inexplicable electricity born of chemistry.  He has been a spiritual seeker for many years.  A monk even.  He has a six year old son.  Like me, he has taken a very scenic route Home to the land of Honeyed Love.  Though, while my alma mater (and galactic institution of Higher education) is the School of Mostly Soft Knocks, I gathered that the knocks on his door of Realization have been a few shades harder.  Not excruciatingly hard, mind you… Just not pink, girlie, Shirley Temple, Care Bear knocks like I prefer.  More like He-man and Skeletor sparring violently in the midst of angry inferno nightmare knocks.

It was definitely past my bedtime when he finally dropped me off at home.  But how quickly I forgot that once we started making out!  Imagine that.  I hadn’t expected it.  And it wasn’t a make-out session designed to get anywhere, other than right there in the front seat of his borrowed, burly, burgundy Bronco.  Because of this, every touch was both whole and holy.  My body was electric, my body was oceanic, my body was late afternoon sunlight on laughing, wind-swept Hanalei Bay.  We let the waves break over us and reality was distilled to touch and breath and the nectar of drunken lust.  He told me he would love to make love with me, gazing in my eyes and luxuriating in the totality of our communion.  I agreed that that would be beautiful… AND (incase you haven’t noticed, “and” is the new “but”…) AND… I was not in a space to be impulsive like that.  But I was happy to luxuriate in the decadent idea.  If nothing more than for ecstatic shits and giggles…

We parted ways and I stumbled wet and wild into bed.  I barely slept, dreaming of sex and the cheap imitation of Divine Love.  By morning, I was convinced that it would be harmless and adventuresome to have an erotic fling with this wounded, profound man, whom I felt so completely seen and understood by.   Slowly, as the day crept by, I had built an entire world of fantasy and hope the precious commodity of human touch… intermittently flinching at how fast I had created attachment where there had once been nothing but delicious, sacred spaciousness.  I prayed to God to let go… but something in me preferred to hold on.

We met at Hanalei Bay in the early evening.  He informed me soberly that he had found his wits and was more interested in using his remaining five days on the island to heal than to binge.  Now naturally, this was the RIGHT choice, no matter WHO you ask… Naturally.  Yet that didn’t matter to my own fragile, white dove of a heart, which immediately shattered into a mess of sharp, splintered feathers and bled relentlessly.  I witnessed this with strange spaciousness.  Plus I was exhausted from the lack of sleep the previous night.  He made sure to clarify that he was not running away from me in any way, only toward his own strength.  Good boy.  Sigh…

I hitchhiked home with a sweet old man named Freidmann whose eyes were perpetual smiles.  Because of the perfume of gentleness and time-tended understanding that exuded from him, I let my heart quiver and spill, right there in the cab of his truck.  Yes I cried.  And his eyes kept right on smiling.  I crashed out by 8pm, sleeping for an unprecedented ten hours!

This man… whom I did NOT pray for… He was indeed a teacher and a gift.  He broke me open to a new level of awareness.  Awareness of my own need for space to grieve and heal.  Now I can see the value in remaining insular for a while.  A generous while.  Now is not the time to merge.  Now is the time to draw deeply into myself and make a strong fortress Here.  Even the most enlightened sex is cheap candy that I do NOT fancy right now.  That said, I had a wonderful time with him and if I had it all to do over again, I would play it just the same.  I give thanks for this small but filling slice of a romantic chapter in the sacred book of Athena Grace.

Amen.