Love at First Sight*

elitefon-ru_13715

“There will always be words,”
said the little girl to the little boy.
“So…let’s write them!”

The little boy looked at her.
His face was the color of the sun,
and his eyes knew more
than his height would allow.

The little boy looked at her.
“Will you, too, share the moon?” he asked,
blinking. His fingers, shaking.

 

Together, they fell into a rapture.
Together they fell.
They remembered in an instant,      beyond
what their childhood brains could know…

They remembered the swamps, the forests,
the many many islands,
and all the deserts and the hells.
But most of all:
They remembered
every key
that could, or could not, be unlocked.
They remembered it all.

They kissed.
They kissed.

Their mouths fit!

And they called sweetly to the moon, then,
their voices in unison:
“Please, gentle mother,
please be our guide.”

 

And so she did.
(How could she not?) It was love, love at first sight.
It was the thing they’d read about, later,
as adults. It was the thing they’d always know.
The lightning and the jolt. The grasses and the green.
The day, and how it always begun.

They fell,
together:
and it was the moment when all the ends worked out.
When the woman in the well began to swim,
and the man in the high priestly collar
began to bend.

It was that moment.
That moment
Of seed,
That moment of miracle:

That moment

When the planting
Could truly begin.

 

 

*Dedicated to B, and all our many past and future lives together. 

 


 

If you enjoyed this poem, you might also enjoy Anya’s book, Opening Love.
Or, for a closer encounter, contact Anya today to schedule a spiritual guidance or relationship coaching session via phone or Skype.

Advertisements

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.


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

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


Like what you just read? You might also like Opening Love, a compassionate guidebook through the challenges and ecstasies of intentional relationships.

opening-love