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.

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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.

Metafore: The Coining

When I was married to a beautiful man, that beautiful man had a beautiful partner. Her name was Cordelia. She was my metamour, a new(ish) term coined by the polyamory movement, a word which basically means: “the lover of my lover.”  Sweet, lovely, enchanting Cordelia. I loved cooking with her; I loved our time in nature together; I loved weekends when we shut off the clock and played and played.

When that marriage dissolved, I stayed in contact with her. Recently we spoke on the phone. I said to her: “It’s odd. I still want to call you my metamour, because you still feel so important to my life—but that term really is no longer accurate, you know?” And to that she replied, “You, my dear, are my metamour from before—so, that makes you my metafore!”

In a rush of happy giggles, we realized she’d just coined a new term. Here it is, world. Take it if you like it.

 

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I Have Cherished These Days

Making love to my lover is a salty breath of ocean. It is a bountiful wave of sea.

Our lovemaking, it reminds me of an important fact: any “my” we may use for convenience of speech is really a game, a human-made illusion. For I do not own him or possess him and he does not own or possess me. He is not my partner, not my lover…not really. He’s wave; I’m shore. I’m shore; he’s wave. We come together, for a time.

water-lily-lotus-flowers-plants-725x544Making love to my lover, I watch stars burst and flower—first, white round orbs, stable and solid—and then they vibrate madly, changing from red to green to violet, then melting back to white again. Vibrating madly, crashing out behind my eyes—bombarding my full body with their delicious flares, ricocheting against my lover, too. These stars came with us. Where we came from: which is not so far.

Living with my lover: it’s like a pause. Coming home, embracing him.

Remembrances: what we used to know continually, before we decided bodies. Back before there was time. Siempre. Living with my lover. There are moments when he’s washing a dish or kissing my wrist when his eyes and my eyes see it. We see. There is no name and yet every name. We are a tribe, a family, something deeper than… yes, I am trying language here, pulling at concepts and grasping at archetypes…but what does naming really do? If I voice such rough approximations, do I not (subtly) declare that I am not—also—that? That I am not also what he is? That we are not what we are? The truth is: There are moments not made for human words, moments where, for this writer, all I have is sand for roses. Damned gorgeous, yes—but insufficient!

What we need: to plant dark wet soil. What we need is the bloom of silence: automatic. Behind all words and attempts to know. Given.

Finally, in the list of our lives together: Loving my lover needs patience. His gaze is a portal for locked-away snakes. Growing together, we’ve been the rose in winter, been the birth of sky in summer. I cannot now nor will ever quantify. We feel immaculate and also stubborn. Both heart-wrenching, while deliciously free. Through his abiding presence, the making of time and direction (north, south, east, west, wherever), and what games we can spin of these. There can never be opposites.

Understanding the impossible, finally,
I have come to rest.

 

Like this? Awesome. You might also like Opening Love, a compassionate guidebook through the challenges and ecstasies of polyamorous relationships.