Archive for the ‘Soulmate Reflections’ Category

A Touch of Warmth

Friday, May 29th, 2009

(c) May 6, 2009

 

There is no questioning the heart has cooled

And suddenly its frozen beats

Send icy blood coursing through your veins

And where once there was a warm smile

It’s corners now drop

At the thought of me

No longer having the will to rise

For it is the heart that controls their movement

 

Perhaps a memory could thaw your heart

 

            …the magic of our meeting

               where this would lead was unknown

               but that it was destiny there was no doubt

 

            …sharing yoga in Bryant Park

               you taking the lead

               me taking the rear

               and a photographer taking pictures

               our first real taste of “union” together

               and as we walked and talked

               I knew…and I prayed that you would soon remember

 

            …our first kiss by the Hudson River

               and, like the story of The Three Bears

               the softness of your lips

               and the depth of your tongue’s exploration

       was “just right”

               but beyond physical techniques

it was the first time I ever felt kissed not by a body

               but by a soul

and at that moment

together we entered eternity

               it wasn’t until my feet touched back on the ground

               that i became aware of how cold it was outside

               and that my T-shirt was not at thick

               as your white puffy jacket

 

               and how your concern turned to my warmth

               and how i felt cared for and protected

               from a lot more than the cold wind

               and how we walked for the first time

hand in hand

and how, at that moment

all wars stopped

all tears dissolved

and the world was perfect

 

Do you feel a touch of warmth?

 

            …walking on the sidewalk

               with my left arm draped around your shoulder

               and your right arm hugging around my waste

               our side bodies pressed so close together

               we could have been Siamese twins

               one body walking

               not in a rush to get anywhere

 

            …dancing in the park after dark

               and while too late for your surprise

               the music of a pair of iPods and my small set of speakers

               helped us realize that our dancing spirits

               could not be contained by missed appointments

 

            …meeting my family

               a dinner with strange rituals and personalities

               me excited that their eyes could finally validate

               what I still wasn’t sure wasn’t a mirage

               feeling the warmth of their love for each other

               and their openness to call you one of their own

              

Do you feel a touch of warmth?

 

…rubbing your feet

the “Detox Routine” from the book

that i hadn’t pulled off my shelf

because i never loved someone so much

that i didn’t have “getting credit”

or a reciprocal treatment

or any other motivation to do it before

to feel so overflowing

and thankful to find one way

to drench you in the love that could no longer be contained

inside of me

 

…making love

my lips and tongue on your belly

your hands on my head

where every touch

every caress

every kiss

every thrust

every breath

seemed choreographed by our psychic connection

and for the first time in my life

the physical pleasure

took a back seat

to the real driver of my hips:

my overwhelming love

for this eternal soul

encased in this beautiful body

i no longer cared about cumming

or going

all i cared about was being…

with you

     

Do you feel a touch of warmth?

 

It is hard for me to imagine

That you wish to add no more photographs

To the empty pages of our picture book

And that all these memories

Have faded beyond the ability to provide you with

A touch of warmth

That we can’t put our foreheads together like we used to

And feel like an Alex Grey painting

Connected in dimensions beyond just the physical

 

And the fairy tale story

Ended in the Princess’ heart

Turning to ice

And the Prince wishing he had been strong enough

To die at her feet

Instead of having to live without her

Posted in Poetry, Soulmate Reflections | 1 Comment »

The Artist And The Scared Child

Wednesday, May 27th, 2009

A quiet meal at home. The presentation was like a Monet, small dots of color carefully arranged by the Artist that when looked at from far enough away created a plate that was no longer a collection of different colors and textures but a work of art. Her fork penetrates the picture and raises a sampling of painted perfection to her mouth. Eyes and mind already stimulated, she excitedly awaits her mouth’s arrival into this celebratory exhibition. Her anticipating open mouth closes around the forkful of colors and shapes and texture and she becomes enveloped by a multi-sensory lightshow of flavors, textures and smells. Her tongue engorges as its buds blossom, reaching ever-outward to absorb the light. And as her teeth churn the love-infused gift into a sweet purified butter, the corners of her mouth raise, not only to accommodate the influx of salivary bliss but in appreciation for the condensation of love in a form that could be easily swallowed, prepared from the love of an Artist for his true masterpiece—not the paint and canvas of food and plate but the beautiful love before him which added to his labor of love a golden hue that came not from a brush, but from her own inner wellspring.

He was gladly ready to retire from painting, for here before him was perfection personified; his life’s work could never match nor improve upon this masterpiece. And whether the world saw her and looked upon him as a Master or whether she stayed hidden behind a closed curtain, his knowing that such beauty existed was all he needed to make his life complete.

And then the Scared Little Boy entered the room, an old pattern of painting that he had used as his signature in all his previous works, fetching them a decent price but keeping them from expressing their full value. And with one careless stroke, her hand swept out and slapped the boy across the face, for how jarring it was to have a Scared Little Boy disturb this perfect portrait.

And while the Artist had hoped the Scared Little Boy would have stayed in his room, the love of his artistry seeping under the crack of the door and erasing his fear forever—it didn’t. And he didn’t. And suddenly her countenance had completely changed and his brush could no longer tease her frown back into a smile. And when she withdrew her golden glow, while the form was still impressive, the invisible magic had completely disappeared from the heart of his presentation, leaving it just another meal devoid of flavor.

He scolded the Scared Little Boy and told him to go to his room, that he shouldn’t have opened his mouth and ruined the beauty that the Artist had sought to take out of his heart and put onto canvas all his life. And the boy retreated into his room and muffled his tears in his pillow. And despite the Artist locking the boy in his room, he could still hear his tears, feel his anguish. And so could she. There were no Scared Little Boys in her picture perfect dinner and so she left, leaving an unfinished meal on the table, no longer having a taste for the savory sauce of the Artist’s cooking.

The artist paced the room, fuming at the Scared Little Boy’s insolence. He threw the plate against the wall, ceramic shattering into little pieces of color, food rearranging itself on the wall and floor in a chaotic pattern, no longer placed with care by a loving hand, no longer having the wholeness that her presence provided. And then he sat, head in his hands, tears in his eyes, and realized that at that moment he, too, was a Scared Little Boy.

And so he opened the door and sat beside the Scared Little Boy for now he saw that being scared was not something that could be wished away by ignoring it. And rather than admonishing the Scared Little Boy like a soldier who had fallen out of step, he put his arm around him and loved him like a parent who wanted all of his children happy—even the most difficult.

He explored with the Scared Little Boy why he was afraid and whether his fear was based on old worries of monsters under the bed or what may be lurking in the closet. The Artist’s love for the Scared Little Boy became a nightlight that protected him from his fear of the dark, at least until he became brave enough to know that neither dark nor light could change what he knew to be true.

And soon the Scared Little Boy’s heaving sobs turned to small ripples. And then with more patience, the teary lakes in his eyes became clear and reflected back at the Artist the love he felt for the Scared Little Boy, which came from the same source in which he had seasoned the meal he prepared for her. Suddenly the Scared Little Boy in his arm had dissolved and in his place sat a Brave Little Man who was ready to paint again.

But now she was gone. And his calls went unanswered. And his letters went unread. And his love remained bottled, looking for a glass to pour himself into before the pressure of undrunk champagne exploded, destroying the bottle and wasting the valuable elixir it contained. He removed the cap, knowing that his essence would go flat without her imbibing it in a timely fashion. But he really didn’t care. His sparkling wine, his bouquet, his love, was meant for her glass alone.

And with more unanswered invitations, soon his empty glass filled with his own salty sorrow. And now no one’s love, not even his own, could enter his glass without becoming tainted with tears.

He didn’t intend to hide the Scared Little Boy from her. He was so caught up in his loving preparation of his artistry that he had forgotten The Scared Little Boy was in the other room, behind a closed door. He wondered if he had locked the door, if the Scared Little Boy had been contained, if their meal would have been followed by the sweetest dessert of their lovemaking. But the Scared Little Boy could not stay quiet in his room forever, for this is not the nature of Scared Little Boys, and when he finally came out he would probably destroy any masterpiece they had created.

That is, unless she put an arm around him, assured him that he had nothing to be scared of, that she would love him as a vital part of her new family regardless of his behavior.

And then the Artist’s sadness for his muse turned memory shifted to shame, as he realized that he had denied his Son, the Scared Little Boy, expression for so long…when a loving embrace was all he needed.

But perhaps it is never too late to accept your family for who they are, throw your arm around them, and let love inspire you to paint your pictures once again.

“Sometimes it will be frightening, scary, because you will be going into spaces you are not acquainted with. You will be moving beyond yourself. You will be entering into the unknown. And the unknown is always frightening. The new creates great fear. With the old, one feels perfectly comfortable…always cozy, snug. With the new, you have to learn again…you have to become a child again…and again and again—because the old knowledge, the old experience, the old life, will have no meaning in the new. It will be irrelevant. You will suddenly feel ignorant facing the unknown. Hence the fear! Hence the clinging to the past.”

—Osho, Walk without feet, Fly without wings, and Think without mind

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The Toothbrush

Saturday, May 23rd, 2009

© May 19, 2009

 

 

Too thick to fit in a slot

It lies on an angle

On top of the metal holder

like an anarchist who refuses to be contained by order

It’s bright green and white

A splash of color

To an otherwise dismal and dirty bathroom

Its bristles dry from sitting idle for weeks

It misses your mouth

…and so do I

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The Butterfly With The Torn Wings

Friday, May 22nd, 2009

I look around me and see a world full of butterflies, some with golden wings, others marked with all the colors of the rainbow. I cannot see my own wings—which feel splendid! But few seem to notice them and so I flutter in solitude.

I also see many who have broken their head and legs through their cocoons, only to carry this unneeded nest into the world of butterflies. They say they don’t need its protection anymore but that they feel safer holding onto it.

Wanting to fly into my full brilliance, I started talking to the most radiant among us. I would listen to their words of inspiration: that we were all golden and rainbows and it was just about removing the dust from our wings to live in our full colorful glory. But when I talked to them privately, their stories were different. Ones of sadness and loneliness. And I wondered if their stories of shining brightly were just made-up tales to make everyone think there is something worth flying for, that life outside the cocoon is so much more. Maybe it was made up for themselves more than for the less glowing.

I came across one butterfly that I had seen only in dreams and thought her just a fiction before until I saw her flying right there in front of me! And I couldn’t believe that a flock didn’t swarm her. But she was alone.

I flew with her that day and by the time the sun was setting and we were standing on a branch, letting the colors of the horizon color our wings, she shared with me that I was the butterfly of her dreams as well and now nothing else mattered to me, not even the stories the Colorful Ones told of perfection.

After several weeks of joyful flying, feeling her by my side even when she was sitting on a flower far away, I started to become aware of some rips in my wings. I couldn’t see them directly but I could feel how the wind coursed through their spaces and knew that this was keeping me from flying in perfection. I talked to some of the other butterflies, even a few of the Colorful Ones, but they had said there is no point in talking about rips in wings and so I didn’t with them, even though I started to see some in their wings as well. How could I come into my own perfection with rips in my wings?

I felt scared and alone and rubbed my wings together, making the signal that my mate and I established, sharing that I needed her to come to me, to comfort me. She sent back the message that she was in a field far away and needed time to herself to figure out her own understanding of perfection.

And for the first time since we flapped our wings together, I felt angry. I needed her to come to me, to tell me that everything was all right, that my wings would heal and that she would always love me, regardless of my flaws.

And as each day passed, her needing to explore this field or fly with this friend, my anger grew, until my wings became a fiery red much different than the color I had shared with her before. And then she returned.

I told her that I was angry, that when I needed her she was off in a field somewhere doing her own exploration, leaving me alone, and turning my wings red. She seemed unable to recognize me, saying that I seemed to be a different butterfly than the one in which she had fallen in love.

And now I felt like no matter what was said to the contrary, that her love was based on me appearing a certain way, supporting her need for exploration in fields far away, even when I voiced that I needed her with me more than she was allowing. Funny enough, she felt the same way, that my love for her was based on her flying on command to wherever location I demanded.

And now her wings changed a different color and I was having trouble recognizing the butterfly which I had dreamt of, with which I had already flown higher than I had been with any other butterfly, and once again I felt alone, that even though we were flying together now, neither one of us was the butterfly we had wanted to be, the one whose wings were open and it didn’t matter what color or what kind of tears were present. Now we were both painfully aware that my wings were flawed and her image of me was also torn as well as a portion in my chest that seemed to make flight so enjoyable for me.

But when her wings would brush against mine, whether by accident or on purpose, the red in my wings started to fade and my natural color started to return. But it seemed that the beauty of our soaring flights together were covered with the ugliness of what appeared unappealing, that our eyes could no longer see the heights we could fly together but instead stayed fixed on an immediate past that I wished was as dead as my life in the cocoon. And soon she told me that she no longer wanted to fly with me.

So now I am flying on my own, wishing that my love was flying by my side or at least could give me enough attention to come mend my wings when all they need is the presence of her care. But my needs seem just a distraction to her exploring her own flowers and somehow both exploration and mending are impossible. And now my wings don’t seem to flap with the same enjoyment that flying with her provided.

I’ve learned also that no butterfly wants to talk about torn wings. That, like the Colorful Ones, this only reminds them of where they are and not what they seek to be.

Posted in Soulmate Reflections, Truth in Fiction | No Comments »

Roll With Me

Monday, May 18th, 2009

© May 15, 2009

I roll onto my right side

and there you are

hips pressed into the crevice of my spoon

back against my belly

cheek under my lips

always by my side

 

I roll onto my back

and there you are

head on my chest

right leg draped over mine

wrapping me like a vine around a tree

always leaning on me

 

I roll onto my left side

and there you are           

right arm serpenting around my waist

and up to my chest

where it nestles under the weight of my arm

like a baby bird pressed safely into her mother’s wing

your soft breath on my neck

always behind me

 

I wish you would stick as close to me

When life rolls us

left and right

Adjust your touch

to keep your heart always close to mine

 

But you are not there

 

Roll with me, my love

With a little adjustment

We can find comfort in any position together

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A Dream

Thursday, May 14th, 2009

© May 14, 2009

I had a dream

Where you were lying in my bed

And my hands and mouth

Touched your soft skin

 

And then I awoke

Touched the spot where you just were

Felt for your warmth

But the sheets were cold

And I was alone

 

A dream

A tease

A taste of love

 

Leaving me hungry

But my plate empty

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The Ghosts of Girlfriends Past

Wednesday, May 13th, 2009

My girlfriends past used to complain that I gave lame massages. It was not so much my “technique”—as I did have a diploma in Deep Muscle Therapy—it was my heart. Or lack of it. It was clear whenever they lay on their stomachs that my heart was more into “doing it doggie” than kneading muscles. I didn’t argue with their assertions and not just because the first thing taught in the Life Class called Women 101 is: When arguing with a woman you will always lose.” It was lame.

It was soon after some morning sex with SM when I said, “Wait here a sec,” and went into the other room and came back into the bedroom with a book on reflexology routines to help facilitate different aspects of healing. The book looked spankin’ new, not only because I am anal with the care of my books but because this was probably the third time in three years that I had pulled it off my bookshelf (since I bought it) and the other two times were only to blow that year’s accumulation of dust off of it so that if I ever decided to sell it on Amazon, I could still rate it’s condition as New without feeling that I was committing fraud.

SM had started her first cleanse this month, committing to eliminate certain items from her diet—like dairy and Twinkies—while popping twice a day capsules containing cleansing herbs. There were times when her decision to stay over at my place was weighed against the fact that she had left her herbs at home, a nice way to chisel down my gross ego into something more statuesque, I figured. After feeling like I was dating Rush Limbaugh who couldn’t lie still for an after-sex cuddle without running off to pop an Oxycotin, I gave her my old travel pill case so she wouldn’t have to raid the herbal Fort Knox every time her toxins needed a cleanin’ but could carry a couple of days supply with her, like all Jews carry a small bag of gold around their necks. I would like to apologize for this previous inaccurate image, as anyone with any sense of understanding knows that our government sold us out a long time ago and there’s no actual gold in Fort Knox.

I chose the “Detox” routine from the reflexology book and had her naked body lie back and took one of her bare feet atop my equally bare body and proceeded to press and rub different parts of her feet and ankles for the next 15-minutes or so. And while my mind was occasionally distracted from shooing away all of the Ghosts of Girlfriends Past who would make an appearance only to say, “No you aren’t!” my heart was never taken off of my love.

When you are in love, your actions don’t come as a result of outside requests or conditioned beliefs that “This is the right thing to do,” they come out of being so overflowing with love that you have no choice but to spill it out to those around you, for otherwise you will surely wet yourself with love and even Depends adult diapers with their excellent wicking ability can’t prevent the immense discomfort of sitting in a pool of your own love and not being able to share it. [Editor’s note: Depends doesn’t have the same wicking action if you take a dump in them and I would suggest you dispose of them before teaching a yoga class and demonstrating a headstand and then stumbling to explain that the stinky mess that just fell out of your pants is actually a yoga prop gone bad.]

We tend to attribute our love to an object; “I love SM” or “I love chocolate.” True love, unconditional love, is not based upon another person’s actions or even how they (or an object of food) “makes” you feel. You are “in” love, meaning you are immersed in a pool of love and you have dissolved and all that remains is love.

And when someone leans over you to see her reflection on your surface, or in your eyes, all she sees of herself is someone worthy of love regardless of what she says or does. But unlike a funhouse mirror that distorts reality, what she sees washing over her from your eyes is a more accurate rendition of Who She Is than any shiny piece of glass could ever hope to reflect.

And like the sun, who you shine your light upon is not based on who society deems “worthy” or “unworthy”—or if your small “i” even likes the other or not. The sun shines equally on Hitler as it does Mother Teresa—with no forethought, without judgment. A choiceless choice.

Maybe one day we will replace “I love you” with “I am love” and our partner won’t feel insecure that this is less special in our eyes. She will feel blessed that you are such a beautiful expression of Be-ing, grateful that you are bathing her with your Am-ness and honored that her presence helps you stay “in” love.

I had a taste of this paradise rubbing my love’s feet.

“…[O]ne thing is absolutely necessary and that is passion without motive—passion that is not the result of some commitment or attachment.”

—Jiddu Krishnamurti on love, from Freedom From The Known

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The Perfect Shitstorm

Sunday, May 10th, 2009

“I just wanted to be included in the decision-making regarding us.” While it’s true I had said this before, maybe a couple of times, all our subsequent talks involving her ex- seemed to be her repeating how she felt—knowing his tendencies—was the best way to proceed, which meant I shouldn’t contact him. I was in total agreement after the first time she had clarified this to me but being that he had broken into my email account to read her and my exchanges, this seemed to make me no longer an “incidental” in her dealings with her ex- but a major player, and one who should be given equal voting rights regarding our proceedings with the ex-.

I never felt satisfied that she knew I was less concerned with her psychopathic ex- pulling an O.J. and chopping her and me into little bits and then being found “Not Guilty” because the bloody glove didn’t fit over a latex rubber one (I wouldn’t mind the “into little bits” part as much if I knew he would be sentenced for it!), and more interested in sharing what I needed in our dealings with each other, moving forward, in order for me to feel heard and for us to grow closer not just in our love but our understanding for the other.

She said, “We’re done talking about this,” and turned away from me, which felt the same as someone holding up their open hand to your face in the universal, “Talk to the hand” position; along with a raised middle finger, even a remedial study of Sign Language is not necessary to understand its dissing quality. And whether the lesson that it was best to avoid all contact with her ex- had sunken into my thick skull or not, clearly the concept of joint decision-making was still alluding her.

“That felt very dismissive,” I said and immediately my mind was sitting in a Non-Violent Communication workshop where it was told by the instructor, “’That felt very dismissive’ is not really a feeling but an assumption on the intention of the other,” to which my mind rebutted with, “I feel you’re an asshole,” in which the instructor came back, “Once again, that’s not a feeling but your opinion of what I am.” My mind had reached his limit and blurted out, “Ah! I’m feeling completely frustrated!” to which the instructor smiled and said, “Now you’ve got it!” and for a moment my mind thought it was in the Abbot and Costello “Who’s on First” routine: “I don’t know—” “Third base,” great comedy but a mess of confusion. [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sShMA85pv8M]

My mind politely dismissed himself from the workshop, glad he hadn’t paid for it, and returned to his seat inside my head. He was glad to see that my girl was still sitting beside me. Truthfully, she didn’t have much of a choice, as we were in a theater with assigned seats, but I didn’t want to disappoint my mind who had already been through a tough few imaginary moments only minutes earlier. And he was happy. I had to poke him to bring him back to the issue at hand, knowing that I’d appear Alzheimer-ish if he led my mouth to say, “Hey baby, why do you seem annoyed?”

Actually, that really wouldn’t have been such a bad question. Flushed out it would be, “Hey baby, talk to me. Tell me why it bothers you so much when I share with you that my need for respect as a voting member of this relationship is not being met and when I voice this to you, that you turn away from me in frustration. I know I can be annoying at times but I need to know that you are willing to work with me—maybe to help me become less annoying—because right now I’m feeling scared and alone.”

I suppose I could have considered her feelings a little better, that she was feeling frustrated because it didn’t appear that I heard or took seriously her thoughts on this matter.  I guess I didn’t express this in a form that was clear for her; the fact that Russian is her first language and she was a former Spetsnaz and tortured people for the offense of “being annoying” in the Gulag probably didn’t help matters any.

Maybe I didn’t take it so seriously because all that mattered to me was us. I suppose, like in the principles of Non-Violent Communication, had I focused on hearing her needs and feelings we could have come to a closer place of love and understanding.

I think true spiritual work requires being willing to put up with all the frustrations that may arise without falling completely apart. Skinned knees is part of growing up and the only way to avoid them altogether is to grow up in a plastic bubble. For two examples of how this tends to work out in the real world of television, check out “The Boy In The Bubble” starring John Travolta or “The Bubble Boy” episode of Seinfeld, where the former couldn’t live without being able to touch the girl he loves and the latter couldn’t play “Trivial Pursuit” without being a total prick.

The same Truth holds for relationships. There may come a time where the water is rapidly filling your Titanic and it’s time to abandon ship. Even in this situation, a good Captain will explore every possible way to save the dying ship and will wait until the last possible moment before abandoning her. His commitment to love is not so whimsical as to jump ship because some passenger annoyed him regarding the shuffleboard court being untidy.

Your relationship is your spiritual work. Your job is your spiritual work. Why are most so quick to quit life at the first sign of struggle?

Sometimes it seems I am the only one willing to put in the work to “break on through to the other side” of the frustration that occurs between two people on the journey to understanding. I’m not a masochist—I don’t get off on punishing myself, well, unless it involves a fo leather whip (to avoid animal cruelty), a bar of butter and an Alka-Seltzer.

But I also don’t run from a shitstorm if I know it is a requirement in my pledging to join the fraternity of the awakened. And for someone I love…I would be willing to go through “The Perfect Shitstorm” if I knew (after a serious shower and some heavy-duty disinfectant) that we’d still be in love.

 

“Without friction you cannot have assimilation.”

                        —Osho

 

“Break on through to the other side,

Break on through to the other side,

Break on through to the other side, yeah.”

         —The Doors, “Break On Through (To The Other Side)”

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