She entered gently, the kissing sunshine on her shoulders sweet, a baroness of beckoning light within my dimly lit threshold
I greeted her, the door man shy, and took my place at fair lady’s feet, the honey-milk of her scent upon me
My awakening came slowly, as the crimson rose blooms beyond time, opening bud after bud to her glory
She whispered, her words a chisel of feather soft, her eyes the ebony of compassion, her hand upon my surrendered shoulder
Touched, I wept, the tears inside cleansing wounds of sword, fractures of youth’s mourned merriment
My every cell moved, beholding this adorned child dressed in blue, the ocean maiden of the distant ages
Streams of aqua reborn, merged forward, pushing the heart of past into the baptismal of present, a forest of water at my door
Quaked, my very existence stood tall, quaked, the foundation of all truth and valor collapsed without fall, the boundaries dripping as honey, disappearing into the depths of hope
I faltered in thought, recalling my place, my duty, and traced the outline of her shadow, a maiden with endless treasure, the illusion of end marking entrance to eternity
‘I am home. I am home,’ the whispers came, a tapping upon the window of heart, an opening to the view of victorious
To have found the mirror of me, the echo of my existence, to have found the palm of palm, and coming of my own dawn
To watch as her sunrise awakens the world beneath my flesh, calling upon the beast to rise and devour with gaunt hunger what is served, dish upon dish
Beyond the cage I sat, wanting and waiting, my crying her own breath, my need fulfilled at the calling of her name
The spoken word, a spell upon my lips, a taste upon my soul, to behold the beauty unwrapped before me
To behold the mistress of my ache, the mistress of my time and making, the sun captured within the capsule of opened spirit
To kneel before the queen of my own mystery and bounty, and melt into the vision as one, my every wish to rest within her endlessly
Beyond captured, I retreat into gentle man’s cave, and even there the darkness dissipates, healing blood pulsating across the caverns
Everywhere is her redness, her sacrifice, her singing love, and I cannot but help to taste her, as the sugar-coated finger to mouth
For she is in me, about me, and beyond, her essence the chalice of my life, and I shall drink and drink until the ocean floor sits alone
The liquid of all siphoned into my open mouth, her jewels my own crown, her all, my answered prayer
‘Come, Sweet Lady,’ I cry, come through my doorway, and stay, rest at my side eternal angel, so I may rise again, complete within this union of you
You are like music upon music upon music to me, a figure seemingly out of tune.
At times I think if I could only find your one song, the part that is truly you, then I could play you over and over, and dance, whether alone or together, in endless ecstasy.
Even as I tell myself you are complexity and spiraled wonder, I long to unravel you to thy very core—perhaps as some vegetable with heart or some flower with first petal.
I like to pretend you are easy to find, to see, to paint. For with easiness would come the grace of painting you into the shadowed corner of my existence: a mural to keep me safe, a walking space that requires no effort but touch. One finger slipped onto the wall of me and slid across your slivered silhouette.
For it is in my shadowed times, I cry out for you, for oneness for connection, for acknowledgment that I am as beauty. Only because you are as beauty.
Though it is in my days of sunshine, I too call out from the depths of me, reaching in silent gratitude and shimmering in your brilliance. It is then you are effervescent glory to behold. A gift set amongst a fleet of angels, with the finest and most demur of sails.
I have carved you within my soul light. Sat up constant night awake in my dreary state, counting you as one in youth beholds her sheep. You leap across my chamber ceiling as ghost set free in crimson carriage, bouncing through the valley of my imagination; your face bare except your kaleidoscope eyes. A barren tunnel of absence entering a rainbow of stars. I see there into myself and breathe. My last glance of this world, the beckoning of your substance.
Awoken, the days come, with the joys and woes of worldly possessions explored and dried, withered and left for the illusion of promise they be. Awoken, the days come, with the sorrows and gratitudes, the biting into what was once ripe to find the taste of expiration and abandoned. Still the bell chimes, in memory of laughter, and in preparation for the surprises beneath my pillow. I harbor such secret dreams and cherished gifts. And to share them, I set you upon my shelf of butterflies, and sing only to you, of the time of my happiness.
You are to me the mystery of fantasy, the puppeteer with magical strings of grandeur, capable of contorting a stage of delight or drama of doom. I hone in on what could be called your goodness, and try to trap your substance in my tiny womb, to bathe you in the babe’s cocoon with my essence. Yet, my attempts are futile.
For you are not but one form, not but one song, but an orchestra drawn out into a long and distant parade. I cannot keep you, as beekeeper keeps bees. And so it is, that even in the ward of captive thought, your honey I cannot taste.
For you are the food to the masses; a delicacy set before the king of kings, royalty in your very blood and bones, built up and made into something I cannot decipher or replicate. You are magnificent splendor set upon the eye of my mind, and I ride you, this child of the merry-go-round world, upon a horse ever-changing.
Together, we are endless circle. Our destiny unreachable. Until spinning top stops, and I am flung out of your land, into the stillness, and made to watch alone, your partner for eternity wavering outside and beyond the mystical music of you.
I love you. I see you. I hear you. I believe you. I believe in your experience and perception. I believe in your efforts and hopes. I know you. And I adore you. There is nothing you can do or say that will change this. I have the potential to love you in all seasons, through storms and through merriment. I will not leave your side, nor your heart. I am you. You are beautiful. And because you are so beautiful, a spring of fresh light and goodness, I shall always love you. There is only pureness in you. I choose this. I choose to see the glorious child you are. I see through that which is not you. I see into your true form, and this makes me weep with joy. How lovely you are, in all your seasons, in all your ways. How perfectly lovely, my adored one.
I post love on my blog, on my social network page, and admit love to my friends.
It’s been very freeing and healing.
I’ve also been processing through past relationships with men.
Until last week, I saw myself as a real victim in love relationships.
In the beginning of my “dating” years, which actually started at age five, (No kidding; I always loved boys. My first “date” was at Keith’s house, where he introduced me to his favorite delicacy, peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwiches. I politely gagged.)….
In the beginning of my boyfriend-girlfriend years, I attracted very safe males: sweet, kind, friendly, and truthful. I was fortunate to have two boyfriends in high school (at separate times), after I moved back to California, that treated me with the up most respect and love. But something shifted at about the age of twenty. Perhaps it was being away from my extended family and not having a father that adored me. Or perhaps the shift was brought on by insecurities surrounding college or finally “growing up.” Regardless, at the age of twenty I began falling for whomever paid attention to me. For seven years my relations with men were bleak and tumultuous.
So often, in my twenties, the man I “chose” was addicted or abusive or both. I felt used physically, and was often dumped out like last week’s beer bottles—left clanging and spinning down a steep hill of depression. For years and years I blamed these men for their character and callousness. I cringed at the thought of these people not loving ME! How could they not? What was wrong with me?
A few days ago, I suddenly had a knowing. I suddenly saw in full picture, a truth. I wasn’t a victim. I wasn’t used and tossed out. There wasn’t a right person or wrong person in my sexual drama. I attracted men at the same level I was at spiritually and emotionally. (I had to leave out mentally, and just giggle. I was always smarter! Lol.)
But most telling, I realized at the center core of me the profound truth: that in fact I USED THEM.
In my mind I had thought that their “crime” was using me physically; and how could any crime be worse than that type of invasion? However, my crime was equal. I was a “villain” too. I used them. I chose to be with a man I didn’t like and didn’t respect, in order to not be alone. I used men!
Suddenly this ah-ha moment swept me away, and time stopped. I traveled back to a dozen relationships, and revisited and swept clean the energy attachment. Within seconds, I’d forgiven the men and myself. The labels were released. The words of scumbag, loser, liar, addict, etc. that I applied to the men, vanished. And then, presto, the labels slut, stupid, blinded, desperate that I’d branded to my energy field disappeared too! I began to see the men as other spirits on their journey. I began to see I was never victimized. I understood that using is using, whether it be of flesh or emotion. And then I released the using label, too. We weren’t using. We just were. We were existing, surviving, journeying. We just were. And so it goes.
(notice the tone of this…written before my ah-ha moment.)
The highlight of my dating career had to be the season I spent with the habitual lying, sexually addicted Don—a spineless man five years my senior who behaved ten years my junior. At first glance I’d fallen head-over-sandals in love with Don. The summer day he confidently strode through the Catholic daycare where I worked, I’d tucked myself halfway behind a shelf of books and drooled over his perpetually sun-kissed skin. He was everything I’d wanted, dark and handsome, and tall enough to look down at me with his bedroom eyes.
The times Don and I were together weaved in and out sporadically through a span of half a decade. When I first met Don he was separated from wife number one; when I last reunited with Don, he was struggling to patch it up with wife number two. I was the in-between, but one Don swore up and down he intended to marry.
The majority of our relationship played out like an ill-plotted soap opera, with me as the dimwitted, star-struck mistress and Don as the notorious villain.
There were definite reasons I stuck around. With Don came a familiarity of unpredictability. He was my locomotive, the one I could catch a ride on and speed through the world with a view I remembered—one of constant change and chaos.
For a long while, I’d do anything I could to win Don over. I’d forgive his shortcomings and mysterious disappearing acts, and demean myself in different ways.
In our first months together, when I was still hopeful, there’d been major red flags. Don had no home phone number or address. His scorned, soon to be ex-wife, had warned me to have nothing to do with Don. And Don’s truck was mysteriously breaking down, in an accident, short on gas, or had a flat tire, many of the nights he was supposed to be with me.
I was good at rationalizing his actions and taking his lies as truth. I found reasons to stay, like the fact that Father liked Don and that Don eventually showed up.
I was twenty-years-old and newly accepted into the teaching credential program at the university the weekend I learned of Don’s other woman. It was either the Saturday I’d scrubbed Don’s toilet, or the time I’d obsessively lined his kitchen shelves; no matter, it was the eventful afternoon I came face-to-face with a woman out for blood.
I’d been oblivious of course, hadn’t a clue Don had flirted with a seventeen year old outside of the construction site where he worked, slept with her, and possibly fathered her baby.
For some time there had been hints of another woman. All along Don had pushed back our framed photos or even turned them face down, forgetting to place them back up in their right position when I arrived. And I love you posters and cards I had made for Don had been rearranged on the wall or re-taped in another room of his cheap apartment.
The one of many climatic events of our relationship began with a loud knock at the door, an initially startling noise that momentarily displaced me, until I assumed Don missed another rent payment or lost another spousal support check. By the second series of knocks, I’d headed toward the front door, and would have unlocked the knob, if Don had not, in one swift pull, yanked me backwards by the tail of my shirt and whispered, “Don’t.”
It was then I heard her voice for the first time, a high-pitched scream to the tune of: “Open the damn door, Don. I know you are in there.”
I wasn’t that far gone in my oblivion love state, not to recognize the voice of another woman. With immediacy I scowled at Don like he’d taken my only prized possession, and pushed my palms into his chest, wanting to hurt him like he’d just pained me.
Don stepped back, taking my hands into his, and mouthing, “I’m sorry. I love you. I only love you.” He then released my hands and tugged down nervously on his neon-green tank top. “I meant to tell you. I swear,” he said, widening his dark eyes in remorse like I’d seen him do a dozen times before. “If I told you, if you found out, I was afraid you’d leave me. And she was a horrible mistake. I didn’t want her to be the reason we lost such a good thing. I love you so much. You know I do. You have to trust me.”
Before I could make up my mind about what to do, there was one final series of knocks, and the voice came again, only louder and more determined: “If you don’t open this damn door, I’m going to kick it down!”
What happened next still amazes me, and proves once again the strength that can be found in pure rage. Within a few seconds of her last knock, there was one heavy kick of her foot, followed by several more, and then, without warning the door broke off of its hinges, the side paneling splintering, and the whole of the door slammed down inside the apartment.
There, amongst the settling dust, in marched a skinny girl, no taller than five-feet, cradling a screaming newborn in her arms. Boiling with revenge, she charged Don like some creature from a Japanese horror flick, with her arms outstretched growling for revenge. On reaching Don, she punched him once in the chest and then shoved the baby at him. “Take her!” she ordered, back stepping and turning her head with a whip of her dirty-blond hair.
From behind the couch, I tracked the baby’s wrinkled arms flailing, and then gasped as the girl moved towards me. Her eyes were on fire as she shouted at full-throttle, “I’m going to kill you, Bitch!”
Without thought, I ducked around Don and attempted to make my way to the doorway. Don didn’t waste anytime. Before I had a chance to maneuver myself around the girl, Don had tossed the baby on the couch, grabbed his bike, carried it down the apartment stairs, and rode off.
For a few seconds both the girl and I stared out the doorway with disbelief, and then we stared down at the tiny infant crying on the couch, until the girl’s raging eyes met mine, and she roared, “You’re dead!”
From where she stood, prepared to launch, I could smell my scent on her, the expensive bottle of perfume I received from my father for my birthday, which had recently gone missing from my bathroom shelf.
As the girl stormed forward, I managed to swerve around her. She lunged at me, barely swiping my shoulder. I jumped over a small ottoman, snatched up my car keys and practically flew down a flight of concrete stairs.
In the narrow carport, I started my sedan and backed up. Just as I was about to turn out of the apartment complex, the frenzied girl’s enormous boat-of-a-station wagon came charging forward and blocked my way out.
Seconds later, leaving the baby wailing on the front seat of the car, the girl marched across the parking lot to my car window and ordered, “Roll down your window!”
Caught between a place of disbelief and hysteria, I shook my head and whimpered, “I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”
The girl’s face turned from one of frozen-ice to empathetic-disgust. She tapped on the glass of the window a few times, and then rolled her eyes up letting out a long heavy sigh. Finally, seemingly understanding my predicament, she waved me off with a shake of her hand, before stomping back to her car.
After she sped off, I remained in the parking lot, uncertain of what I’d gotten myself into, and more uncertain of how I would ever find my way out of my contorted labyrinth.
There is the love of mother to babe, sister to brother, neighbor to neighbor.
There is the love that reminds one of self, a reflection of beauty and recognition.
There is the love of accomplishing a sought after goal and reaching one’s highest potential, a satisfaction.
There is a love of enduring and suffering, and sticking things out.
There is a love of familiarity, having known each other to the point of predicting the next move, next statement, next thought.
There is a love of journeying together through trials and tribulations, and hopes and dreams, a love of endurance and strength.
There is a love of opportunity, of hope, of guessing, of wishing, a pulsating-driven love that makes one leap out of bed in hopeful expectation.
There is a love of infatuation, lust, and mingling, perhaps driven biologically or through soul, or a combination, but nonetheless hot and steamy and wanting.
There is a love unreturned that leaves one empty and doubtful.
There is love unrecognized, ungrown, unnourished, ungiven—the love of neglect and forgetfulness.
There is the love of ego-centered built only to uplift self, to praise one to feel good about another, the prospect of another’s potential temporarily filling the void of the emptied.
There is the love of uncertainty, resembling the love of obligation.
There is rule-bound love, created for conforming and people-pleasing, a mask placed on and off as needed.
There is the love of twins, separate but one, who move as mirrors as one another, and cannot help but love what is them.
There is the love born of hate, where battle was fought, enemy lost, and the tears wash out the anger to expose the commonalities of humanity.
There is a love of knowing, of caring, of wanting to fix and make better, to appease the need to reach out and help.
There is the love of smothering and clinging.
There is the love of using to gain, to hide, or move ahead.
There is the love of respect.
There is the love of awe.
There is the love of mystery, a captivating intrigue, without reason or explanation.
There is the love of company, companionship, the release of isolation.
There is love in the word alone, the vibration and energy produced in thought and sound.
There is love in the beauty of one or many, the beauty of nature, the beauty of art, creation.
There is love that is all-encompassing, beyond borders and definitions.
There is love that is far-reaching and healing.
There is love beyond measure, pure elation, recognition and union.
There is love lost.
There is love unopened.
There is love in silence and emptiness.
There is love in a touch, in a dream, in a memory.
There is love in illusion.
There is love.
I’ve been trying to understand what love means since last April. This has been a year of much transition and healing for me, and along with this healing has been the extreme necessity to understand love. This morning I awoke before dawn and was able to visualize a clear understanding of love as the word applies to my life.
I recognize now that I sense a soul print of each person when I first make contact, even if that contact is through words and not face-to-face. This is not through any one sense, but from another sense I’ve yet to recognize or label. In some ways, the process of sensing a soul print seems to be a combination of all the senses with the addition of a knowing and feeling at a cellular, muscular, and both physical and non-physical level.
When I meet someone, the soul print is in the form of energy and makes pictures in my mind. I feel the person in different parts of my body; for example a tightening of the stomach or shoulders. With many people I feel uneasy both physically and emotionally, and I assume spirtually; with a select few I feel very safe.
For some reason, I can recognize peoples’ insecurities, fears, and misgivings readily, usually in general terms, and sometimes in specifics. I can easily sense states of unrest, panic, unease, addiction, deception, and interior motives. I can readily sense pure thought and unconditional adoration.
The person’s energy triggers memories in myself, and I can connect the energy to past experiences and past encounters.
I’ve felt these “feelings” since I can remember.
I feel energy with every word I write, think, or say. Likewise, I feel energy in other people’s words, whether it is the universal energy of the collective-thoughts of a word, or the intention behind a person’s word. Some words feel false, contrived, and unnecessary. Some words feel like trickery or falsehood. Other words feel free of clutter, clear, and pure.
I can feel a person through their words. I cannot explain it, but know it to be true.
When I worked as a spiritual counselor, I could sit with a person and tell them what I saw, how I perceived them to be energetically. I could see his or her trials and challenges, and also could see direct tools to assist in removing stagnant energy.
I don’t see things in levels, or heights, or degrees. All is equal. However, I see people stuck in a certain spot, often repeating the same patterns and lessons.
I can sense the energy of people trying to be strong and domineering, when they are actually wounded and lacking. I can sense anger and resentment, and these tend to be the most challenging senses I encounter.
How I feel upon meeting someone the first time, does not change. I know instantly if I can spend time around a person and be depleted or remained balanced. I know instantly how much I want to be with that person and if he or she is nurturing to my soul.
Why this information is important to me is because I realize now I equate love to the energy I feel from a person. I don’t feel love for a person. I feel a vibration and sense a soul print.
Where some people say love can grow with time, I do not understand this concept. I love from day one. If I feel nourished by someone’s energy, I feel an elation that would equate to falling in love.
I don’t love a select few. I love everyone. But I feel better around certain people more than others. One could say I “love” a person based on the energetic vibration. Only vibration levels change. So that would be a false observation. I love a person’s soul print. It’s an underlying vibration that stays the same regardless of how that person feels at a given moment.
I understand now that I do not understand the mainstream’s idea of love.
Love doesn’t grow. I feel exactly the same way for a person the entire time. Their soul print doesn’t change.
At times when a person is happier or sadder, I feel these emotions, but his or her emotions do not affect how much I love or don’t love. Sometimes a person’s actions can have a rippling energy effect of joy or dread that reaches me, but the actions do not affect how much I love or don’t love. My love is not based on outside sources, something I can view externally, judge, discern, or categorize. If I love, I love.
I understand now why I can tell someone I love him or her after knowing them less than a day. And that as hard as I try to love someone more or less, I cannot.
I understand why I cannot get enough of someone whose energy is nurturing and giving and kind and centered. I see more and more how I am attracted to balanced and secure energy: people that love based on the unconditional energy-factors and not the limiting external factors.
When I love someone, I stop seeing the person in human form. Their face and body disappears. This is why it’s hard for me to remember faces, as I’m not focusing on the exterior; I am focused on the energy. When I love someone, I don’t care what they look like, how they age, or change, or are altered outside; there comes a time when I don’t see the outside at all. But there are elements of the physical I might recognize from dreams and distant memories. Something in the physical that draws me to them.
I’ve written this all out because of a driving need to understand love. But now I see the complexities are beyond my understanding entirely. So I will rest in the fact that the more I know myself, and the more I focus on being a beneficial light, absent of ill-will and judgment, that the more I will benefit love. And in this way I will grow; only to perish again with the seasons, and once again reseed, resurface, and stare in wonderment.
Everyday Asperger's 