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.

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That One Beautiful Year

o-couple-holding-hands-facebook

Young couple holding hands with sun-flare.

There were many miles between us. Oceans. Birds. I met you, and fell in love in an instant. There was nothing else—just your eyes.

And then we parted. A few hours later, we parted. I had to catch a train.

It felt like a trauma.

For a year, there were emails, letters, phone calls, Skype. For a year, there were visits. Plane tickets, savings accounts happily and ecstatically drained. There were moments that cannot be recalled because they will never need recalling—they will forever be at the very center of every waking moment from now on. They are me.

You are me.

For that year, that one beautiful year, I began a habit of singing to you. When I crossed green forests alone or sank deep into a glorious bath, I sang to you. My voice rang out, cancelling in an instant the seeming realness of so many miles. My voice rang out, clear and unburdened by the day. I made up beautiful songs. I never knew I could sing. I even joined a choir.

I learned the meaning of the word “yearn.” I discovered all amounts and measures of pain. Sometimes, before visits, I would say things like: “only a few more weeks, Beloved.” I would cry, oh how I would cry! Bittersweet tears of longing. Bittersweet tears of joy and ecstasy.

And then, one day, something inside me awoke. It was my heart—my own beating heart! And I realized I’d been singing to it this whole time.

This whole time…singing to my own heart. Coaxing it out of hiding.

My love, my dear love without end, through that year, through our love, I found my way.

Thank you.

Thank you.

 


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.

As if it were New

souls

I came into this body to love you.

…Do you remember?

The mirror was blank,

so we could not see our face.

We did not like this.

Our fingers: they were of air,

so we could not touch.

We did not like this.

And so,

Gradually

Gradually

The perfect incantation

came; the perfect song.

It was a way forward for us,    into limb

and bone.

We began by singing it together—

and then, by the end, you were the one singing,

and I was humming along.

We came into these bodies. Separate countries.

We came into these lives.

We thought it would be sweet,

So sweet, to meet:

To say Hello, again,

As if it were new.


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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.

 

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Recipe for Love

 

recipelove

Drunk on orgasm, moan.

Drunk on knowing, not-knowing.

A recipe for love.

A recipe in bed.

 

Step One:
We do not know who we are. In fact, we don’t exist. Or, we might exist and be, simply, nothing. Nobody. The nobody Emily wrote of…the nobody of the poets; the nobody of the visionaries; the nobody of the seers and changemakers. The rebels with some beautiful, crazy cause.

Step Two:
Slowly, slowly, his earlobe and my finger. Touching. Touching. Nobody. My finger might be his earlobe. I’m not sure.

Step Three:
We’ve come a very long way in a very short time, he whispers. I nod. He knows I agree without opening his eyes. The lilt in his voice. This bed. The lilt. I could listen forever.

Step Four (Finale):
Drop into all possibilities. Here I am, in this faraway bed, in Ireland, with him, in this moment—but I am also in that other moment under the bridge, two days ago, in England, when the rain struck hard and the thunder fell and the boats in the canal seemed to bask in our mad kiss and grin.

We’re going to go down in the history books, my dear. 

 


Follow more of Anya’s mystical musings at AnyaLight.com or her book Opening Love, a compassionate guidebook through the challenges and ecstasies of polyamorous relationships. 

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Diamonds on the Wall

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I met you in Puerto Rico

I met you in England

I met you in Hong Kong

Madagascar
Lemuria              Mars

everywhere

 

When I was a child, you kept watch
in my blue bedroom:
always a few feet off the floor—
always a few feet (somehow) above
mother’s screams,

and the posters

that would take themselves         down off the walls.

You protected me.

 

Lovely my love is our love
when we met
in the quiet,
when we met in the Zendo,
when we met in the street,     when I was with the priest.

And it is true
I have always loved you…go on meeting you…
way before
the terrible pop songs…
and
eons after
the ruffled,       pompous waltzes…

They never did teach me how to love you

and yet I’ve managed to

and yet I’ve managed to

 

But now
it is eternity…here…where we are,
and we dance in the garden of all seed:

the place outside of time
the place outside of chance
the place we continue meeting:     you

and me.

The place with diamonds on the wall


 


 

Follow more from Anya at AnyaLight.com, and her book Opening Love.

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A Love Story We Are Writing

Being Lovers_painting

We are writing quite the love story, aren’t we?

It begins in England; it begins in the moors…lands of Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights: lands of smoke and hay. It’s a land we’ve been to, millions of times, millions of dreams, other lifetimes and knowings.

I am here to teach; you are here to live. We meet. It’s a city called Hebden Bridge, known as “the San Francisco of England.” Lesbians everywhere, holding hands. Old, wide, young, thin.

Hebden Bridge: where, on afternoons, soap bubbles blow from that charming soap shop: they say it’s their gift to the city; they say it’s for free. And, every spring, hundreds of plastic ducks on the river…crowds gather to watch the race and rejoice: ice cream, picnics, children, blue skies. This is Hebden Bridge. A place I’m not sure exists.

We are writing quite the love story.

In the beginning is you seated: dark sweater and a scarf you wear. A quiet meditation hall. I don’t know this bowing ritual yet, and so I find my eyes drawn to you, to your beautiful body, as you make the movements. I dip my head reverently to the wooden floor, which represents the Earth; I dip my head and rise my palms for Buddha. (Not in worship but in Yes. A state of connection and calm joy.)

There is no difference between who is bowing and who else. I have Buddha nature, so I bow. You have Buddha nature, so you bow. We bow to All. I keep looking at you. You are always two seconds ahead, to my right. I keep looking at you.

The story begins with your eyes and my heart. With hello, as you try, unsuccessfully, to dodge me. You’ve seen me with the priest…but you don’t yet know I am not his—not anybody’s.

Our story begins with a headache. My headache. I cannot yet face them, the rooms of expectant people. I am tired of eyes looking at me, tired of talking, tired of explaining what seems so obvious. It’s almost time for my book reading, and I’m dreading it.

Just ten minutes in the Zendo, I tell myself. Just ten minutes of meditation: that’s all I need, and then I’ll be better. So, I rise from the bed, shuffle downstairs, and push open the old wooden door.

It is you! You are there! You are already seated, on the old wooden floor. My heart is made of firecrackers. My heart is made of chocolate. In total surprise, I say: You!? We then smile two smiles that seem to join oceans.

We agree to sit together. At the end, you ring the bell, like you always do. You are the keeper of the bell; you are the bell that awakens us. I don’t remember what we talk about then, after we sit, but it’s something that flows. Some minutes pass, and suddenly we remember clocks: they exist. We say we are both reluctant to join them, but we do.

And then the story, well, it really begins with my card, given to you… And then your question: Want to take a walk? …And then, a few streets later, my question: May I kiss you? Your mouth is dry and you laughingly complain. We look around. There’s so much, and suddenly. The moon is big and the river is near. It is the end of summer. I don’t live here, and you do, so you show the way. We walk. I can’t remember if we hold hands at this point. I know that when we get to the bridge, we do. I remember resting my head in your lap. Your hands upon my head, so gently. I tell you I’m a healer. I tell you everything. No secrets, already. We talk of magic. And, after awhile, we walk a bit more, back toward the house. After awhile, you say something—and I fall to the pavement…because what you’ve said collapses time: because my legs, apparently, need time to function. I fall to the ground with ecstasy and with total love.

Back at the house, later, you kneel to write your number on a scrap of paper. While writing, you look up at me. I’m in the chair, so close, legs crossed. You shake your head, disbelievingly, and like a giddy child you say: I don’t know you, but I love you.

We are writing quite a love story, my love. It includes more things. The letters, the emails. The six-hour calls. The orgasms and dances across space and all that seems real. You and I in the forest, that afternoon. Those precious minutes. Back; forth. The label “partner”; the label “friend”; and how all that, eventually, not mattering. The now. The precious now. How your laugh surprises me still; how I’ve heard it all before. Some past life.

How crickets can signal not the end but the beginning of a summer.

How the bird who sings…

is singing for itself. For the song.

1f6c86284198f855dd712e93135194dd


Many thanks to Julie Rose Clark, for the sharing of her beautiful painting featured above. Julie is an artist living in Hebden Bridge (West Yorkshire, England). Commissions taken. Learn more at: www.julieroseclark.co.uk


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