One of my favorite bloggers… some lovely words.
So it was that Mr. Mack and Mr. Mali prepared my soul for the awakening. With their songs brewing in my head I tucked myself into the flight to Pittsburgh, PA, surrounded by people I didn’t know, headed to a city I had never seen, to do God-knows-what there. I was planning to sleep but was incredibly nervous in the way that only a small plane can make you nervous.
I lifted my new skull candy earphones to my head, squished them tightly in, and settled in for a wee nap to take the edge off.
“Todo Cambió… cuando te vi….” slammed into me much louder than I’d expected, seductive and clear. I was about to reach and turn it down when I decided nah… let it wash over me. Settling back determined to nap, I closed my eyes and let Camila make love to my ears. But the nap was not to be.
Soon enough I found myself rocking, as if possessed. The power of Mr. J’s colourful stories and the richness of Mr. Mali’s blues bubbled up and met the Spanish lovers of my Pittsburgh flight. It was like being earnestly romanced by all the beautiful men of the world.
I drifted out of my body, out of my flight, out of the United States, elevated well above and outside of my reality to a place where there is only love and music. The place took me over with the softness of a down duvet and smelled like fresh laundry hot from the dryer. It was warm and cozy, sitting in this place of grace and beauty, and I never wanted to leave.
A sudden noise, louder than the love song, woke me from the drift. My eyes flew open and looked around the flight, totally startled. All was as I’d left it – my neighbours were fast asleep and the attendant across the cabin was doling out weak coffee, totally unaffected by the sound that had brought me back to earth (or at least the cabin floor).
It took a few seconds for me to completely arrive and notice that the interruption had come from inside of me – my own voice – joining Camila in “antes que pasen mas…. quiero decirte amor…”
Like a mad woman I cracked right up, laughing out loud beyond the music. A giggle turned into a frank and open belly laugh. I was only slightly grateful for the deep dreams that kept my neighbours’ eyes shut because they may well have freaked out at this crazy half-young woman taking full delight in herself next to them at 30,000 feet.
Digging back into my cloud I peered out on the wintry world below me, organized very neatly into fields of rows and variations of greens and browns. The love songs crashed over me like waves (“Abrazameeeeeee”) and I didn’t want the flight to end! Pittsburgh could well and wait.
At that I checked in with myself and questioned, why would Pittsburgh have to wait? I could carry this with me. The music is MINE. The iPod is MINE. The skull-candy buds snug in my ears are MINE. And, most beautiful of all, the love is MINE.
He wordlessly reached out his hand,
this t-shirt clad and quiet man,
as he led me gently to the floor
I couldn’t help but wonder
how exactly this would go,
whether he would or wouldn’t know
how to lead me through turns and twists and steps
and correctly dip me under.
My lies about love grew bold and loud
floating round my hair like a rain cloud
and when he pulled me into his stance
the cloud clapped angry thunder.
But in a moment still and clear
I looked at him and saw no fear
a gaze free of calculation
tore my lies asunder.
The steps we took at first were slow
till both were sure how it would go
and surer, surer still we stepped
till feeling just took over.
Soon enough the cloud had cleared,
my shoes had up and disappeared!
and onlookers to my laughing glow
would scarcely guess me sober!
Through spins and strides and turns and dips
of brightly swinging salsa hips
my unexpected gallant man
did lead and pause and hover.
The flush rose to my warming cheeks
as feet matched latin dips and peaks
and spanish sang out on the breeze
until the song was over.
My fluid partner, strong and true
kissed my hand and said “thank you”
and as he walked into the night
I shrank into familiar cover.
The choice was mine – I could resume
the lies that had foretold our gloom
or bask in the remaining glow
of my Cuban dance-floor lover.
It’s ok to dream of love –
to need is not to fail,
to want is not a weakness.
So why do I think ill
of it? Ill of me?
Why is it that longing
Does needing make me
Why does seeking seem
naughty, even greedy?
Does wanting it all
make me needy?
But its ok to dream of love…
Does dreaming of love
put one in conflict
with loving ones own self?
with ones own mental health?
In seeking there is
of never finding
yet is that enough
to never seek it?
Or an excuse
never to be weak
and open to the hurt
of being human?
What matters more-
of lonely and unbreakable
Or the chance
of being wounded
in the search,
sullied in the conquest,
with the unknown possibilities
the prize of
the unshakable… Love?
It’s ok to dream of love…
to lose is to participate
rather than like a
and wilt, and wither thin.
The capstone on the vault
she entered without fault
buried for eternity therein
“for fear of doing any sin
she failed to do at all.”
Let it not be said of me! I will dream of love.
…that I share this song. Loved it for YEARS!
Really? *smile* I wonder if this happens…
This poem was sent to me… in the middle of a breathless and frantic week of loneliness and challenges. And I had to stop. And smile. And rest in the moment. Because this is just……………..
My hair is now a decent length, able to fit in a ponytail or a french braid like the best of them. Like my locks I’ve come a long way. And this is no relapse. It is now safe to say that after a few false starts I am now ready. Months of work and seeking, healing and venting, laughing and growing have flowed in a single stream. These labours of love will not be wasted, not be put into the foundation of just any old thing, or be invested in the future of any old person. My pearls will not be cast to swine.
He would have to be a star to pull me out of my paradise and into his heavens. His heart would have to be made ready and swept clean of any other woman’s stuff. No residue. He would have to be prepared. Prepared to adore every strand, even the three grey ones. Prepared to hold me high and say with pride “she’s with me”. Prepared to ride out tough times and bad moods, cramps and cravings, bad jokes and busy days. Prepared to be part of my support system and be fiercely supported. To worship my God with me and love me second only to Him. To husband my home and father some of God’s masterpieces.
No small job description. Big shoes. But who’s waiting?
The Singlestream will continue untainted. My essence is what it is no matter who is nearby and no matter who I love.
…is a man who represents all this.
The day started with a nightmare. I was being stalked. I was in university, the university was behind my being stalked and attacked. I had already had a close call and escaped safely.
I came home scared. Couldn’t find my key. And there he was… my rescuer. My neighbour – in my dream. In real life – the reason I cut my hair last. WHY NOW?
In the dream I was digging in my purse and couldn’t find it. Searched and feeling the eyes on me in the darkness. My key. To my room, to my safety. A drop of sweat slid down my face and into the open purse. And he appeared. Right when I needed him. With a key.
His accent was melodic, his smile was hopeful and sincere, and his features as clear as the day he kissed me goodbye in the early morning rain. In the dream he reached out to help me “I still have the key you gave me”. It was a key. To my home. In the dream at least… Perhaps to my heart in life.
I woke with a struggle, not wanting to leave the moment of safety and protection and the illusion of love, life and potential.
All day I battled with what I should write. I took my time. Struggled with myself. Toyed with ideas.
In the end I decided not lie. I have relapsed. Tears have fallen. And I’ve started all over again to forget.