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.


That One Beautiful Year


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.

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.

Recipe for Love



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. 


How to Love An Irishman

3067e8a2ea074f4c1e6cf620c9af9891My lover lives in Ireland.

This morning, I prepare a fresh, green juice. Cilantro, cucumber, apple, celery, peppers, and a bit of lemon.

After dropping thumb-sized chunks into the black, whirring machine, a thick liquid emerges from a silver spout.

One of the final steps is to remove the excess pulp by hand. With a small wire strainer, my breakfast streams lusciously into a tall Mason jar. The juice is silky, aromatic, and the brightest of green. I don’t yet know how it will taste; I’ve never tried this combination.

Seconds later, seated on my favorite blue couch, a pillow across my lap for a kind of lazy-morning comfort, my head tilts back to receive the verdant drink.

Slow breath.
So this is how it is.

My lover lives in Ireland. He seems quite delicious. His eyes are on the computer screen; everywhere.

And yet I don’t know.

When I was a girl, my mother and father would play Irish records, especially near Christmastime, and especially when they were happy. I grew up with the fiddle, flute, bagpipes, broadcasting the silent yet palpable message: We are sometimes happy here.

 My lover lives in Ireland. He has no body. We are together, and yet we are a floating atomless mist. An everywhere.

Once, long ago, I told my mother: I will fall in love with an Irishman.

My lover and I use the phone; we mail letters. We send “psychic packages” to test and expand our intuition. (He guesses what I’m thinking at two o’clock; I guess what he’s thinking at three o’clock.) We schedule video calls. We see each other’s face. We watch mouths move. My lover lives in Ireland.

I was writing a book about love, and he offered to read a draft. Flipping pages faster and faster he had said to himself, Oh—her!

Now he recites poems to me, in the sexy, subtle accent of one who has also lived in America. Voice-to-voice, over the phone, or recorded onto messages while I slumber. Irish poems I don’t know by Patrick Kavanagh. Poems we both know: Dickinson and Yeats…

When I told him I loved him, it was in a dizzy breathless way. Girlish. A flabbergasted release. Almost a tizzy. Then, an endless pause.

We made love on the phone that night. When it was over, neither of us wanting to hang up, something like 3am in his corner of the world, I felt a place unfurl inside my chest.

What came next was a surprising and distinct flash of pain. It was a piercing: as if a small sewing needle pulled the thread of him through me—once, twice. I inhaled sharply, and then it was over.

Pulling my hands up from my wet, joyous thighs, I began to tap my fingers to my breastbone. Morse code, morse code. I have a lover in Ireland; I have a lover in Ireland; I have a lover in Ireland I tapped…for the first time strangely panicked; for the first time, believing it to be true.


Like what you just read? Groovy! You might also like Anya’s book Opening Love, or her spiritual musings at AnyaLight.com


Reincarnation is Real



Our first kiss came, and then a week or two later we made love. The air was July, thick with campfire smoke and dandelion. He came to my apartment. It was afternoon.

This is our story.


The sweat of our bodies, already present when he knocks on my door, intensifies. Mingles. I had only recently learned from him not to fear that. This time, the air conditioning stays off.

His soft, long brown hair, no longer parted down the middle but whisked into stormy waves upon my face, neck, chest. A pillow holds my thrashing head. His lips, finding every…single…place. Gently yet commandingly he lowers his body, full, against mine. His form is heavy, solid. Masculine indeed. His lips. His sweet lips. Slowly, he raises his head, his face parallel to mine, hovering over, a few inches away.

Bedroom blinds are drawn, yet there’s enough light to sense the expression in his eyes.

He smiles, and it’s such a curious smile. I know it’s time to say something…because there’s suddenly a bubbling feeling—a heart that is growing hotter, a flame that is rising to some strange end. Without knowing what the words mean and in one breathless burst I say I’ve known you before! My voice sounds strange—deep and husky; it doesn’t sound like mine. His eyes which were so wide open now melt a bit and his smile broadens. Lover pulls his torso upward, legs now straddling my hips. He inhales deeply and speaks. At least, this time, you don’t have to watch me die.

Everything goes black.

I have no choice at this moment but to allow his words. There is a stabbing sensation in my chest. A most horrible pain! I bring my hands to my heart, urgently twisting my torso to the side in a silent request for him to move. I curl like a fetus. There is nothing now but a black swirling empty hole—empty yet not empty, and a wind. A very strong wind. I am a tree, blown over in the storm. I begin to howl violently. I shake, a heaping mess, an insane small child. He rests on his side, front facing my front, embracing. Thankfully, he has a thousand arms.

We hide in bed for hours. Tears; mouths; kisses. We whisper of the past, remembering details from that particular death, and others. I start to write poetry without paper. We unravel the knots by speaking them. Horseback, swords, a nearly-relentless rain. I begin to understand. He has already understood.

Check out more of Anya’s writings at AnyaLight.com and also her book Opening Love, a compassionate guidebook for intentional relationships.