Love at 30,000 feet – Falling in Love Again

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.

Cuban Lover

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.

to dream of love…

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

feels ungrateful?

Does needing make me

incomplete?

Why does seeking seem

so faulty

naughty, even greedy?

Does wanting it all

make me needy?

But its ok to dream of love…

 

Isn’t it?

 

Does dreaming of love

put one in conflict

with loving ones own self?

Conflict

with ones own mental health?

In seeking there is

every chance

of never finding

sweet romance,

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-

the pedestal

of lonely and unbreakable

uninvaded shore?

Or the chance

of being wounded

in the search,

sullied in the conquest,

with the unknown possibilities

of victory,

the prize of

the unshakable… Love?

 

It’s ok to dream of love…

 

to lose is to participate

rather than like a

damsel wait

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.