we carry so much baggage with us, the weight of our parents' stories and their parents' stories...traumas and past lives and expectations and pressures. we change and shift and shrug. we become stronger and we break open.
yes. ten years ago i was--not a different person--a different version of myself: the ghost of a stone sculpture not yet articulated in sensuous curves and sharp-edged hollows. i was a dream and a spark of what i am now...and right now, i am a spark of what i will become.
do we ever really get to reach our highest form? yes. maybe not while we are alive, but we are born with this perfection, this blazing joyful soul that becomes veiled as we age and learn and become burdened with knowledge and avoidance--and we return to that state in death. i suppose select few make that transition while in human form: these are the Buddhas and Jesus Christs and Mohammeds and Mother Theresas, the anonymous ones who drag dying brothers to safety and who spend their days feeding and bathing the sick. But most of us are trying to flip the Rubix cube while we are half-blind and roaring for affection and recognition.
i am no expert in love, though i know that i crave it and need it as much as i need water to keep my body running smoothly, as i crave pieces of dark chocolate on a select few days out of every month. i know that love has many masks...and that love unmasked is more powerful than the weapons our government spends billions on every week. i know that i can convince myself that i have it, that i am in it--or that i don't have it and won't ever know it, not truly.
the truth is that i am looking for the freedom that comes from pairing with a person who can look me in the eye as i lay down my burden of stories. i need a best friend who will cherish me and call me out on my shit. someone who is imperfect and adept like a chameleon, shifting to fit a mood, a mode of communication, a moment when i am glorious and frightening. i need a lover who can undress me, and a confidante who can hold me when my mother dies--a partner who will have my back when i'm faced with a gang of demons ready to bludgeon me to death with their stinking fear, and a companion who will play Twister with me while Tom Waits, followed by Radiohead, followed by BB King, followed by Mozart plays on and on and on...
in return, i will offer every bit of who i am. i will be lovely and sexy and honest and jealous. i will cry and kiss and soothe with my fingertips. i will complain and apologize and praise and bless. i will be there, even when i am not. i, too will be imperfect, and i will try so hard. and i will back off and run away, but i will always come back. and when our paths part, i will still love you. and when we meet up again, i will not love you less.
yes. ten years ago i was--not a different person--a different version of myself: the ghost of a stone sculpture not yet articulated in sensuous curves and sharp-edged hollows. i was a dream and a spark of what i am now...and right now, i am a spark of what i will become.
do we ever really get to reach our highest form? yes. maybe not while we are alive, but we are born with this perfection, this blazing joyful soul that becomes veiled as we age and learn and become burdened with knowledge and avoidance--and we return to that state in death. i suppose select few make that transition while in human form: these are the Buddhas and Jesus Christs and Mohammeds and Mother Theresas, the anonymous ones who drag dying brothers to safety and who spend their days feeding and bathing the sick. But most of us are trying to flip the Rubix cube while we are half-blind and roaring for affection and recognition.
i am no expert in love, though i know that i crave it and need it as much as i need water to keep my body running smoothly, as i crave pieces of dark chocolate on a select few days out of every month. i know that love has many masks...and that love unmasked is more powerful than the weapons our government spends billions on every week. i know that i can convince myself that i have it, that i am in it--or that i don't have it and won't ever know it, not truly.
the truth is that i am looking for the freedom that comes from pairing with a person who can look me in the eye as i lay down my burden of stories. i need a best friend who will cherish me and call me out on my shit. someone who is imperfect and adept like a chameleon, shifting to fit a mood, a mode of communication, a moment when i am glorious and frightening. i need a lover who can undress me, and a confidante who can hold me when my mother dies--a partner who will have my back when i'm faced with a gang of demons ready to bludgeon me to death with their stinking fear, and a companion who will play Twister with me while Tom Waits, followed by Radiohead, followed by BB King, followed by Mozart plays on and on and on...
in return, i will offer every bit of who i am. i will be lovely and sexy and honest and jealous. i will cry and kiss and soothe with my fingertips. i will complain and apologize and praise and bless. i will be there, even when i am not. i, too will be imperfect, and i will try so hard. and i will back off and run away, but i will always come back. and when our paths part, i will still love you. and when we meet up again, i will not love you less.
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