This is a journey of self-love. This is a journey of finding and being okay. This is a journey where my lover is the pen and open air. This is a journey of surrender to Christ Consciousness, of becoming a vessel for the love of the Buddha and all the wise ones who came before.
This is a journey of surrender. Of opening.
This is a journey no one has taken and everyone has taken. This is a journey I am taking.
It is the first day of spring. It has been nearly a year since I began this blog.
I have been consciously celibate these past months. Since October. Perhaps the longest stretch in memorable history without a lover’s touch.
I look at the clouds and think—where do they go?
I remember when I lived in Puerto Rico. I remember the clouds and the rain. How I loved them. How the way the billowing clouds swooped in every afternoon during the rainy season and scolded us like an angry mother, announcing there was hell to pay. But then the rain always came and we always ended up safe. She loved us. She wiped us clean. One my first day on the island, I walked the three-mile trek to the beach in a white dress. She blew in, drenched the world in cold, incessant buckets for three hours, while I hid under a rock (because my phone, not waterproof, was in my pocket) and an iguana the size of a large dog stared at me with suspicion. I never made it to the beach that day.
Maybe the clouds go nowhere?
Maybe yes; maybe no.
I do know, however: that this is a journey I’ve been waiting lifetimes to take.
For two years before moving there, Puerto Rico was the lover of my heart. The main lover, surpassing any people. I wanted to return to her. I missed her. I spoke of her; I wrote of her; I dreamt of her; I even sometimes masturbated to her. And then when I returned, she took my heart and split it. She, a mighty vortex, crushed me, until I could not breathe. She showed me I am nothing—not the vast expanse of me, but the “little me,” the me that thinks I control things. She came in, Mother Puerto Rico, and she showed me, through her pain, violence, and insufferable madness that I am both darkness and the light. I am both the conquered and the conqueror. That it’s all the same.
For so long, an island was the lover of my heart.
So, now, the aim is this. To love me whether island or no island. Whether lover or no lover. To love me whether lonely or not lonely, whether happy or sad.
So the aim is this: patience. I must be patient: not knowing how the puzzle pieces can assemble, and knowing how everything works.
When I lived in Puerto Rico, I rented an unfurnished room from a retired professor. His sadness had seeped into every pore of his beautiful, multi-million dollar dusty and decaying beach house. There were rats and cockroaches, broken screens and mosquito bites.
There was so much the professor expressed but did not say. In every caustic joke, I heard him cry for his wife. The failed marriage ate at him, like the salt-air had eaten most of the ancient junk that cluttered his porch: odd-looking barbells and exercise equipment from the fifties, lawn chairs, hundreds of obscure books on tropical fishing. Things so old they crumble if you touch.
I went to the island, because I thought it was my home. And then, whilst there, I found that home was not contained in a place. Home was, is me. I found the meaning of home.
Home is my own skin and the loving words I say to myself every day. Home is the best friend I see in my mirror’s reflection.
As I type these words this morning, my heart beats: broken-open and full. I am heartbroken, heartbroken for the transition of humanity, heartbroken for all the tears I and everyone are simultaneously shedding. It’s got to became apparent how broken all of this is before we can evolve. Such pain.
I look out my window and see the clouds. The sun is rising and today is the first day of spring.
I stare at the clouds. They whisper words incoherent yet palpable. I see them in the sky. Orange. Grey. White.
This is a journey of loving. Of the ultimate surrender.
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