Love at First Sight*

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“There will always be words,”
said the little girl to the little boy.
“So…let’s write them!”

The little boy looked at her.
His face was the color of the sun,
and his eyes knew more
than his height would allow.

The little boy looked at her.
“Will you, too, share the moon?” he asked,
blinking. His fingers, shaking.

 

Together, they fell into a rapture.
Together they fell.
They remembered in an instant,      beyond
what their childhood brains could know…

They remembered the swamps, the forests,
the many many islands,
and all the deserts and the hells.
But most of all:
They remembered
every key
that could, or could not, be unlocked.
They remembered it all.

They kissed.
They kissed.

Their mouths fit!

And they called sweetly to the moon, then,
their voices in unison:
“Please, gentle mother,
please be our guide.”

 

And so she did.
(How could she not?) It was love, love at first sight.
It was the thing they’d read about, later,
as adults. It was the thing they’d always know.
The lightning and the jolt. The grasses and the green.
The day, and how it always begun.

They fell,
together:
and it was the moment when all the ends worked out.
When the woman in the well began to swim,
and the man in the high priestly collar
began to bend.

It was that moment.
That moment
Of seed,
That moment of miracle:

That moment

When the planting
Could truly begin.

 

 

*Dedicated to B, and all our many past and future lives together. 

 


 

If you enjoyed this poem, you might also enjoy Anya’s book, Opening Love.
Or, for a closer encounter, contact Anya today to schedule a spiritual guidance or relationship coaching session via phone or Skype.

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What Works

I tried poetry.
It didn’t work.

I tried intellect.
It didn’t work.

I tried romance.
It didn’t work.

I tried marriage.
It didn’t work.

I tried anger and activism.
It didn’t work.

I tried work.
It didn’t work.

I tried money and shopping.
It didn’t work.

I tried publishing and fame.
It didn’t work.

I tried kinky sex.
It didn’t work.

I tried car trips, drug trips,
and always to be moving.
It didn’t work.

I lived across the ocean.
It didn’t work.

I tried to live alone.
It didn’t work.

I tried everything.

Nothing,
nothing worked.

 

So, I began to try some silence.
That worked, a little bit.

I began to try some yoga.
That worked, a little bit.

I began to try some Reiki.
That worked, a little more.

I began to whisper “I love you”
to myself,
every morning.
That worked, a little more.

I began to forgive myself.
That worked, more and more.

I began to forgive them all.
That worked, more and more.

I began to smile.
That worked.

I began to feel my heart within a web of hearts.
That worked.

I began to serve.
That worked.

I began to live amongst them,
yet in solitude.
That worked.

 

I began to begin.
I began to be.
I began to work,

For you and for me.

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If you enjoy this blog, you might also enjoy Anya’s book, Opening Love. Or, for a closer encounter, contact Anya today to schedule a spiritual guidance session via phone or Skype.

A Spell and a River

My nipples are stones: smooth, hard, glorious. At the bottom of the deep river we see to the bottom. There are other stones, too. (So many days and dreams!) What they ask for is what we have.

Water…moves…languidly. Nobody rushes. It is midday: robins and wolves drink. Enough for everyone? Yes.

I recognize you, lover. You appear to be The Keeper this time. I appear to be The Watcher. Let the hands move back, let us see the vision: a sailboat, blue still waters, pyramids, paint.

When you first came, I was alone, shutting my eyes: unaware of, or ignoring the leaping possible. Keeping Time seemed easy.

 “Where have you been?” I gasped, crazy wide eyes. (This time not screaming.)

Air. Earth. Fire. Water. These are the elements that make us. You hold a bowl with your left, move a small gold sword in your right. We both fall silent,

making rainbows.


 

If you enjoy this blog, you might also enjoy Anya’s book, Opening Love. Or, for a closer encounter, please contact Anya today to schedule a spiritual guidance session via phone or Skype.

My Lover is a Priest

11863343_10204816779874795_48011293211071879_nYou’ve probably figured out by now that I’m not what you’d call a normal woman. Black swaying robes and lifelong spiritual vows are, to me, quite more alluring than millions of dollars or mountains of bicep. I am pulled to those who give away their lives. I am drawn to those who, gently, put their ego on the shelf. I am drawn to the courage of those who simply be. I am drawn to those who know: it’s not always so. It’s maybe.

In the summer of my thirty-second year, the year that began with a conversation with God, I went to Ireland, the holy land of Ireland, to the place where my Zen man lives. I went to Dublin, land of my ancestors on my mother’s side.

I lived with him for three and a half weeks. I became intimately near. We made juice together, ate chocolate, did laundry. I lived in his home, for three and a half weeks.

When I came back to America, we kept in touch, and then for a while we didn’t. I focused on other lovers. The priest had other lovers too. We both travelled. We drifted.

But now I’ve got the Zen bug again. I’m waking up earlier and earlier. I’m doing more sitting these days than my ego (and neck and back!) wants. I’m scheduling more nothings than somethings. Less doing; more being. And the Zen man and I…we’ve reconnected. In him, I’m finding a friend again: finding a calm center, in the warm gaze of my computer screen.

And these past few weeks, I’ve been reminiscing. What is it about him? What did I learn in Ireland last year? What keeps me? I look in my journal. Maybe the answers are there. I look at the words I wrote, two summers ago, as I flew back to America…

I’m in a plane, traveling back to a place I can no longer quite call home. I seem to, suddenly, have nothing: no home, no possessions, no special nook or place, no special tree, no lovers, no husbands, no wives or anything familiar or mine. There are no clocks, now, to keep task. I’m in the clouds. I’m free. I’m fullness itself. I’m being and non-being: this tiny airplane seat. To my left, a young Irish man holding a baby. To my right, an old American woman holding her head in her hands, drunk on bitterness, boredom, and wine.

 What has the Zen man given me? What might the priest know that I do not? That last morning in Dublin, the morning after the rainbows—our swirling limbs and hearts growing new as trees—I had wanted tears from him. I had wanted him to moan and cry and say “Don’t go, Anya! I cannot live without you!” But there had been none of that. No drama. There had been, rather, a warm coolness in his kisses. Sweet eye contact, but with no longing. No reaching. Instead, there had been holding my hand in the car, on the way to the airport, and there had been the word “maybe,” so many times, in response to my questions.

 Every time he had said “maybe,” something vanished. I don’t know what it was, but it certainly feels better now.

 I’m free.  


 

If you enjoy this blog, you might also enjoy Anya’s book, Opening Love. Or, for a closer encounter, please contact Anya today to schedule a spiritual guidance session via phone or Skype.

Dear Leonard: A Farewell Letter

young-leonardDear Leonard,

This morning I wear a scarf, wrapped around my head. I am in mourning. I am saying goodbye.

Leonard, we never met, but we did. Somehow, somehow, you reached across the ocean of mystery, touching my deepest, most secret places. You became real. For years I joked to friends about being your lover, but the truth is…it was not a joke. I sometimes made it sound more silly, more lighthearted than it really was.

Perhaps I was afraid. Maybe I’ve been afraid, this whole time.

Somehow, somehow, in your rolling words and echoing rhyme, you dug up parts of me that I did not want. You exposed me. You became real, and I could not look away. You became real. Sometimes, whole albums on repeat for days: my body shaking, an earthquake. Sometimes, I’d be cooking dinner and have to stop, fall to the floor—there would be a line that was just too much. Sobbing. There was one moment I remember in particular. One song. One afternoon. You shattered me: The course of my life changed forever.

Leonard, your music was my meditation. My medication. Leonard, your music was my release.

And the world, the world feels so different with you gone. Call it the curse and the blessing of being a teacher of energy—I have felt your physical presence depart. I can, quite literally, feel the absence, in my bones and spine. In the air around us. You’re gone. You’re gone.

Dear Leonard, dear lover, you soothed and aroused so many hearts. You, you my love, you did it! What a life! You dared to write and sing—really write, really sing. I remember you saying how sometimes it would take days, just to get a line right.

Leonard, I must say more. I must speak of the deepest things. I must speak of the things you may have never known and might always know. Leonard, you came to me in dreams, for so many years. The last time was in September. It was a night of nightmares.

I am working in old restaurants, falling-down creaking old restaurants, where nothing works and dust and rust prevail. I am in charge of a cash register, and money keeps on vanishing. I’m a lousy clerk. Everybody knows it. The people are angry, and they ball their fists into their hands. This goes on for some time. Then, finally, I notice you. My love, Leonard! You! You are in line with the customers.

At this moment, I know it is okay to leave my role; I know, suddenly, that I am dreaming, and that this is not some horrible situation but rather my own cunning creation, my own fascinating play. I leave the register and walk toward you. I am happy, exuberant, knowing some great blessing is on the way.

Suddenly, the scene changes. Now you are sitting in a small school desk. A desk for a child. You are resting your head against the white wall, a picture of perfect grace and repose. I bend down, come up close to your face, and say, You! It could only be you!

Your eyes grow wide, Leonard. There is amusement playing on your face. You reply:  Yes, Anya. I’m here. And I’ve got to tell you something, sweetheart. You have to learn that even though you are asleep, you can breathe. You can breathe deeply, my love. And that is what you must do. Breathe…

The word “breathe” comes from you like a purring cat; your voice echoes through my spine and heart. Reverberates and soothes. I can taste you in my mouth. I lean forward for a kiss. I always get a kiss when we dream together, so I know it’s okay. It’s part of our dance, ancient and thrilling.

You kiss me. You kiss me, Leonard! You are eighty-two years old but you are also a sweet child. You are both. The grey mingles with the new skin. You are my love. I kiss your cheek, so softly, and then somewhere in the midst of our cloud of kisses you begin to sing, gently, into my right ear. You always sing into my right ear. I soak in your love, I bask in the glory, as wakefulness begins to come…although I don’t want to, I gently sigh, letting go of the dream, letting go of your embrace…

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Leonard, we are both poets. We share that. We are both keepers and champions of the word. We know what the word can do. (And we know what it can’t do.)

Leonard, we are kindred spirits. You are my friend. You have been my friend, my dear companion, these years. No one can replace you.

In honor of you, Leonard, I shed these tears. We never met, but we did. In honor of you, I wear this scarf, wrapped around my head. It is purple patchwork. It is my favorite.

Anytime you like, come kiss me in dream sometime.

 

All my Love Forever,

Anya Light

 


If you enjoy this blog, you might also enjoy Anya’s book, Opening Love. Or, for a closer encounter, please contact Anya today to schedule an intuitive guidance or relationship coaching session via phone or Skype.

The Voyage Home

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Him and I, we are lovers again. We make love; we bring our bodies together. We whisper and smile and kiss on pillows.

We are lovers. The word rolls off my tongue and I blink in surprise.

It is endlessly awesome, this game of life! So many twists in the path, so many unforeseen ways and happenings. Leaving, then returning home again.

At this time, in this particular moment, I am surprised. By the indescribable beauty and simplicity of this love. This relationship. I am grateful for the calm beauty, for the reassuring presence. For the safe haven and the space to learn and grow.

I am surprised. By the man I said goodbye to but now am saying hello to, again. I’m beginning to lose track of how many times we’ve said goodbye and hello. I’m finally starting to come to terms with it. We follow our hearts, and that is all. This coming and going, this returning and leaving, it seems to be our dynamic. (Maybe part of the suffering, in this lifetime and others, has been our not recognizing that, not embracing that.) Sometimes, I have to go. Sometimes we say goodbye; sometimes we say hello. Sometimes it’s chaos and tears, and sometimes it’s utter perfection and peace. Sometimes we forget about the reality of impermanence and we (ignorantly) create labels and plans. Sometimes we remember that we remember and we chuckle together.

I feel there may be another leaving in my future, another adventure away, but I’m not sure when. I tell him this. I am as honest as I can be about the future I’m not sure about.

Right now, though, I want to be home with him again. I have voyaged home, and I want to be here. I want to wake on Saturdays and say: “Let’s play!” I want making love on Monday mornings before work. I want it all. I want the slow afternoon strolls out in nature and the long evenings of surrender and touch. I want gatherings and meal-makings and hosting our friends; I want flirtations and laughter. I want my knees rubbed and mouth kissed. I want to scratch his back and hear him moan in my ear.

At this time in my life, in this moment, I am surprised by love. And I love that I am surprised! I didn’t foresee this chapter.

Love. Wow, love. It never is what I think it is—it keeps changing. I am learning big lessons. I am learning that sometimes I have to venture out, into the darkness, without a map. I am learning how to stop comparing him to the One of that one beautiful year. I am learning it’s okay, truly okay, that love feels different with different people. (I thought I learned that before, but the learning is going deeper this time.)

I feel big changes coming. Not too far, on the horizon. But for now, I settle, I sigh. The soft glorious blanket of this love. I rest. His arms. I thank the Universe for this love. It is teaching me so much.

Three cheers, my dear. Here’s to another chapter.


 

If you like this blog, you might also like Anya’s book, Opening Love. Or, for a more intimate encounter, please contact Anya today to schedule your intuitive guidance or relationship coaching session.

Twin Oaks: A Story of Communion, A Story of Love

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As I step onto the Twin Oaks property, a fragrant wave of October air fills my lungs. My eyes absorb my surroundings: broad leaves overhead beginning their transition from green to orange to red, cows gently mooing on nearby hills, and serene, smiley-looking people walking down dirt paths. A wonderfully weird sensation washes over me. Have I been here before? What sort of déjà vu is this?

The truth is, I have not been here before. (At least, not in this lifetime!) Nonetheless…it feels so… familiar. Like a home I’ve left but can’t remember leaving. Like chords of a song, beloved in childhood. Or like looking up into a maze of stars on a warm summer night. Twin Oaks is something like that. Coming here is something like poetry, something beyond the logical and the rational. Something beyond the mainstream notions of what life “should” be.

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Twin Oaks is an intentional community in rural central Virginia, founded in 1967. It’s the longest-running and most well-known of all the egalitarian communities in the United States. Members of Twin Oaks (approximately one hundred people) live by the values of sharing, cooperation, nonviolence, equality, and ecology. Many members avoid the term “commune,” due to some lingering negative connotations with the word; however, that is exactly what it is. A commune. A communal way of life. Members are like family: they share income, they share their days, they share their dreams.

I’ve been visiting Twin Oaks on a three-week visitor period. I’ve worked and played and lived. I’ve tended the greenhouse, bottle-fed baby calves, worked in their organic tofu factory, harvested peanuts, facilitated Reiki healing sessions, made homemade pizza with wild mushrooms, and gotten lost in the breathtaking river and trees. It’s been incredible.

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I’ve been pondering how to summarize my experience, and realized one of the less-popular definitions helps me to describe how I feel here. A “commune” is a mode of communion, a way of communicating in a very personal or spiritual way. Indeed. Twin Oaks is a place of deep, intimate communion: with the land, with the animals, with the plants, with the Earth itself. It’s a place of opening. A place of expansion. It’s a place where one meets and is, finally, met. It’s a space of air. It’s a story of love.

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When I leave in a few days, I will leave more humble than I came. Twin Oaks has been a powerful mirror. It has helped me see myself more clearly. And, in that sense, it has much in common with a lover. Twin Oaks has been this beautiful, intense, intimate, and in some ways challenging entity that has helped me perceive some of my more hidden, pernicious character weaknesses (areas for growth!) and has also helped me strengthen the gifts, skills, and passions I naturally possess. It has reflected both the positive and the negative aspects of myself—a dynamic, of course, that hasn’t always been easy!

I came to Twin Oaks with the intention of adventure, and that is what I have done. Along the way, I have shared walks, work, smiles, silence, hugs, songs, and snuggles with dozens of beautiful souls. In short, I have communed with a new kind of lover. And that lover has just begun to be explored.

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Love this post? Awesome! If so, you might love Opening Love, Anya’s book about navigating the challenges and ecstasies of intentional relationships.