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…

leonard

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.

Advertisements

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.


Like this post? Try Opening Love, a guidebook through the challenges and ecstasies of intentional and 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.

Sip.
Slow breath.
Sip.
Again.
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

opening-love