From the Mouth of Babes

Death of a Light Bulb

Someone I knew just died. He died a horrific death, one that I would not have wished on anyone. I can only hope that his fear was comforted, his suffering brief, and his ending swift. I can also only hope that his family is able to find comfort in the lives they shared, and joy in the moments they remember.

I do not want condolences for me. I didn’t like the guy, issues stemming from high school bullshit that it seems I haven’t gotten over. Yet, as I read the story of his death, and saw the pictures of his loving family, the memory of anger began to be replaced by the experience of love. His young son will cry tears of great sorrow, tears that will effect him his entire life to come. His beautiful and devoted wife will miss her husband, her partner, and she will find an empty space beside her for some time to come as fate has dealt an ugly hand.

I don’t know his family, and I didn’t know the man, now.

He seemed to be an accomplished man in societal terms, having built a business doing what he seemed to love. There were mentions of his athletic prowess, his volunteering in working with kids develop their own athletic prowess. It appears his son has the same skills, and the same passions.

One can only hope that light is not dimmed, and that what inspired this young man continues. Yet, we know that loss can be a harsh teacher. A boy without his father is not the same boy at all.

The man seemed to have been a church-going man, and was described as a man comfortable in knowing his soul was prepared for whatever end that was coming. I think our souls are always prepared, it’s our minds, disconnected from the awareness of divine confidence, that aren’t. It seemed he had found some connection there, a connection I am sure served him well when the time came.

The reason I am sharing all of this is because the experience has offered me a vast realization. Regardless of how present we may normally be, or how enlightened we may feel, or how peaceful we may see ourselves as, there is always something to remind us of our humanity. There is always something that reminds us of this dream we call life, and our power within it.

I sat with my decades-old anger. I replayed scenes over and over again as the child in me raged with the wounds newly exposed. I could feel the salt rise, the passion replace the compassion, the fantasy overtook my reality.

I didn’t’ try to stop it. No, resistance is not only futile, but gives the beast great power. Instead, I allowed that river to flow, staying out of its way while compassionately observing it. I sat, firm, in the resolution that I needed this experience, and I would honor it for what it was going to teach me.

And teach me it did. Anger is now gratitude, chaos is now peace, and the rage of then has now been replaced by the love of Now.

I don’t seek accolades for this. Instead, I just wanted to show the great power of loving Awareness. We can heal ourselves, but first we must love ourselves without questions. We must stop vilifying ourselves for our thoughts, our reactions, our humanness.  We have to embrace who we are, lovingly observe who we are, and sometimes do nothing but allow the natural change that comes. A change that will come quite naturally if we just stop hating ourselves and trying to restrain who we are.

I don’t hate the child in me, so I let him have his turn. I marvel quite joyously and his anger, and give him due. He deserves his moments, for he’s lived enough to have them. I realize, though, that his influence on the Man I Am cannot be long. I hear his voice, and I feel his reactions, but ultimately the Man I Am decides what the present moment will bring. So, I figuratively love the boy I was as the Man I Am, and from that springs all things.

So, in this morning’s meditation I was able to hold the man I once knew in high regard, and forgive the boy he was. I realize neither of us truly exist anymore, so holding onto such a low standard is my fault, not his. I suffer at my own hand, no one else’s.

He who does not know himself cannot truly know others. In this moment I can hold the man’s family in such loving compassion and do whatever I’m called to do to comfort. I can freely move within a world not always friendly, but always loving in wisdom. I can love openly having loved despite myself.

Peace.

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Posted in Miracle Moments, Short Stories, Spirituality | 1 Comment

A Glorious Sentiment by Amy Noble (Guest Writer)

entanglementWhen will I ever learn that I cannot write away someone who is a part of me?  I cannot do this any more than I could breathe without lungs.  I have lost count of the endless journals filled with memories of your eyes.  Page upon page lubricated with the flow of my heart.  Those eyes~ of which I will never gaze upon again but some nights they still haunt me in dreams.  I know with certainty that you still reside in my bones.  You formed layers around them making my flesh transparent.  You were the exposer of my hidden.  So much that surfaced to your hands.  The ones waiting to hold the depths of me.

You are and ever still my endless string of prose.  “You are the stillness, the fleeting.  You are the slow burn of a good word flow.”  The memories of us are my keepsakes.  The ones buried in my hope chest.  The ones I sift through on endless nights where nostalgia and I share the wine.  Although I will never again kick up my feet and collapse into the sofa that love,  I still feel you near me at times.  Entangled in the magic that only you and I exude.

You are a beautiful mess, so much my equal aren’t you?  You are in many ways my male reflection. You are a down home rhythm to my rhyme.  If only our melody had played on a bit longer.  At day’s break it is your form I sometimes reach for, sleepy-eyed, before I realize I am grasping for a ghost.  At day’s end it is you that finds a way into my poetic prayers.  I have found a cleansing through the wreckage that loss leaves in its wake.  You have become something I no longer wish to ignore.  We were a part of something grand if only for a while.  A cherished sequence of fate that will always define parts of my being.  I do not regret you.  You are a part of my story.

So I will continue to scatter parts of you, parts of what was what is and what is to become, into my prose.  I would be lying if I said the way you once looked at me will never find its way into the stories that I tell or the characters derived from our love.  The aftermath of you no longer swallows me with sorrow but brings me to the floors of thankfulness.  Thankful that I was given a taste of raw, a drink of real, a breath of kindred.  Maybe you will be reading, listening.  Maybe you will smile and be warmed, knowing you found your way out of the chasm of this heart and into a glorious sentiment.

 

From Amy’s blog. You can visit this post at http://www.amymarienoble.com/2015/04/29/a-glorious-sentiment/.

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He asked “Why are you a writer?”, what came next changed his life forever.

“Why are you a writer?” he asked across the table.

“I needed to find my lover,” came the reply.

“How?”

A sigh, a moment, and then the letting go.

She came to me in words, in the music that flowed from somewhere out there, into me, and out through my fingers. She’d whisper to me in songs that set my mind to dancing, and in music that set my body into motions I have never known. She’d wake me from my sleep with rays of light peeking above my life’s horizon. 

She blinded me with love so that I would always, always, see. I write to paint the pictures of her that my open eyes now see. I use words to beat a path through the underbrush, a path that leads to me. I share bits of me that I leave laying on the ground, hoping she’ll follow that trail into my open arms.

She came to me a million moments before I met her, and I’ve loved her from the first. There is no rhyme or reason, or words set to page that can tell you how I really feel. Yet my words are not for you, they’re for her. She knows, and one day she will be, and my story will be complete. 

“Wow,” said he, “that’s amazing. How do you know she’ll come?”

Because she has to. She can’t help herself. Be it in this life or some other, she will come. Until then, I set my pen to page, my heart to beating, my soul to searching, and I love her just the same. 

I’ll never need to let her go because I will never have ever trapped her. She is, as we speak, flying freely and bathing in the choices of her design. When she comes, we’ll be ready. Until then, there is a life to live and a space that needs preparing. Love is, or should be, like that. We don’t find each other suddenly, we’re in each other all along.

“I wish you well,” said he. “Sounds like a fairy tale to me.”

Perhaps it is. One that ends, “and they lived happily ever after.” We all live in stories, I wish mine to end like that.

“Me too,” said he. “I never thought of it like that. Thank you. I don’t feel so bad about being single.”

We laughed, we toasted, and set to waiting once again.

 

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Posted in Love Quips, Short Stories | 5 Comments

I am Him

You don’t know me. Well, you do, but you don’t. I’m the one you barely notice in the sunlight, barely speak to in the rain. I’m the one you brush by on the sidewalk, the one you hardly see in your hurry to move along.

I’m the one who comments on your beauty, who makes whimsical remarks about your day. I’m the one who notices the soft lines around your eyes when you smile, and the way the sun reflects off the softness there. I see the tempered curves of your lips and the beauty of your lines before I even see the beauty that surrounds you.

I’m the man who loves your comments, who sees the wisdom of your words and the comedy of your ways. I listen to what you offer about your day without any effort, and know what parts of you need my attention before you’ve ever uttered the request.

I’m the person who would become an oak if you’d only lean in his direction. I’m the man who would become a crystal clear stream if only you’d bend your thirsty lips his way. The world would hear me roar and feel my bite if only you needed my protection.

I’m him. I’m the one you’ve been hoping for. I’m the one who answers your prayers in the night, who holds your hand in your moments of need. I’m the one whose embrace reminds you of some great sanctuary, of whose words take you to treasured places where no darkness can reside.

I’m the one who calls your name when the silence becomes too great for me to bear. I’m the one who’d never let you walk alone, even if that meant walking far behind you. I’m the one whose waited his entire life just to hear you say his name.

If only you knew me. If only you would know. If only I could tell you.

No greater pain hath man wrought on himself as the one of unrequited love. It’s there, upon the iron throne where the armor of fantasy and the sword of reality mesh, where flesh is pierced and prayers are answered. It is there I become the Master of myself, and it is there that I wait heaven’s great promise, either in this lifetime or the next.

I write, with an open heart and peaceful mind, waiting.

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Posted in Short Stories | 1 Comment

Maybe

He felt it, around, in everything, in everywhere. In the sounds of a passing airplane making waves in the blue, spring sky. In the songs of birds enjoying a respite from the cold, harsh winter.

He felt it. Everywhere. He felt her.

He doubted she thought much of him, yet he didn’t care. The sparkle in her eyes set his mind ablaze, and the coolness of her thoughts rose his heart to joy. There was little in the flames of this passion that burned him, and there was little in the space between them that offered him much comfort.

There, the loner felt his aloneness, and the thinker felt the weight of his very soul.

There was little he could say about the youthful golden locks that brightened up his day. There was little he could offer in prayer to the green pools of beauty that saw things he wished he could see. There was nothing of her form he could touch, and he simply sighed his way to the gaps between them, the space between their stars.

The thinker sighed, the lover lamented, the man resigned himself to folly.

Somewhere, outside the vestiges of thought, lied the man about his life. He could not offer himself up to such a sacrifice, where love’s torment is met by utter silence. He could not spread his wings in the vacuum between those heartbeats. How could such an angel be left with nothing to raise him up to heaven’s gate, when love’s sails have no wind to give him flight?

Sometimes, that bird is left safely on its perch. Sometimes, feet planted firmly on the ground provide the only clouds a hapless man could ever hope to feel.

So play the tune
And watch me go,
Forever lost, 
I shall not know. 

Yet truth be told, 
I'm happy still, 
Where this compass points, 
Is where I will.

He’d hum his mantra when he felt her. He’d whistle at the very sight of her, imagining her voice whispering to him as the Sun set, her body nestled nicely upon his lap. He’d brush her hair aside, casually tasting her skin even when there was nothing casual about it. He’d show her love. Pure. Unapologetic. Love.

He could only dream. This dream. Countless nights torn between the song he sang and the music coursing through his soul. Maybe one day he’d get lucky, and his muse would set their world on edge with a simple, enduring harmony. Maybe, one day, she’d know him beyond the mere boundaries of mind, of body, of things that never were before.

Maybe.

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Two Lovers

“Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.” ~Rumi

I think I fell in love with you, he said.

When? came her reply.

Before I met you. I was staring into space, with nothing going on around me, and I smiled. It was then that I fell in love with you.

You knew me?

Yes, in the subtle ways the breeze comforted my sweaty brow. In the Sun’s rays as they woke me through my bedroom window. In the way I knew that one day you’d fill the empty space beside me. Yes, I knew you.

A smile crossed her moistened lips.

I fell in love with you, too, she said.

When? came his reply.

Before I met you. I was walking alone through a trail in the woods. It started storming, and yet despite the lightning and thunder crashing all around me, I felt at ease. I felt safe as the wind bent the trees to prayer, and I felt comfort in the way the rain washed away my tears. It was in that moment that I fell in love with you.

Their eyes met, their hearts embraced, and they kissed a lover’s paradise.

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They Fell in Love (Adult)

In the early morning muse that sets their tones ablaze…

They fall in love.

Lovers fall in love in the way their body surrenders, in the way their eyes meet, in the way the throb resonates with all around them. They grasp at nothing as they hold on to everything, and they dance to a rhythm created when he enters her, when she surrounds his Being.

They fall in love in the way his mind rises to her occasion, in the way her’s embraces his passion. The make love in their words as subtle tones mesh with overt attention, in the way their thoughts ooze from loving depths to bubble at the surface of their spring. It’s as if the mind has fingers that caress the naked truth, creating bumps as testaments to something only lovers know. Lovers know nakedness, they know vulnerability, and they know each other through the throbbing gauge of their courageous desire.

Oh, that throb. We all know it. We know it in the strong hand that is pulling at her hair, in the soft touch that is guiding him in. We feel it in the screams of ecstasy when he hits that spot, in the groans of his passion as her tongue holds firm at the place he loves the most.

It’s in that throb that they love, and it is in their love that the pulsing begins. No mortal man has ever known the heaven that true lovers know. Only gods and goddesses alike can visit those spaces where fucking becomes love and love becomes fucking. Only the brave can let go enough to allow entrance through those gates, and only worthy warriors need arrive to the place where lovers play and life begins anew.

You may have been there before. If not, tread lightly there, for you will never be the same again. It’s not for the feeble, or the faint-of-heart. It’s not for those children who play well at being adult, or for the hills who play mountain in the theater of this life.

One must have known suffering, anguish, and true despair to really know this place. One must know these things if only to realize the value in letting go of them. In the vacuum of suffering’s escape comes Love, and in the departure of physical servitude comes the passion we all were born with, but have forgotten. In the presence of truth the lies will flee, and in the presence of courage fear knows itself as a true friend to Love. Upon this altar you will worship your wounds, and in this church you will caress the scars of your lover. Those scars will lead you to her promised land, and there you will dwell in the oasis left plush by rivers of love invading spaces rendered bare by retreating fear and pain.

It is there his mouth with have her screaming prayers of pure delight while her hands grasp at the relics of a life well lived. Her mind will know true focus as he takes her to his sanctuary, his tongue issuing silent mantras of his Love. The Lovers’ minds will meet at her holy place, and their skin will melt together as two hearts beat one true testament to Nature’s pure design.

Her mouth will take him in, and his manhood will jump for joy. She will take him to heights of holy pleasure, and he will surrender to the prayers she issues in her muffled moans. There, nothing exists but the two of them, and nothing diverts their focus from the present. The two are there, as One, where nothing else can be.

He will enter her, and she will be filled. Her gasps will guide his thrusts deep and hard within her, and her fingers will paint loving marks upon his back. Her legs will grasp at him, her insides will tighten around him as his pulsing sword demands more of her, and takes her just the same. There will be no silence here, only the limitless banter of two souls swirling into one, climaxing as the creation of life itself abounds in the art of making love.

Even in the passion of orgasm there is that throb, reminding them of who they are as they lay silently intertwined. Making love never ends, it simply transforms on the lover’s stage. They make love in a glance, in a touch, in the words they choose to grace each other with. Even their battles are of pure and holy sex. They know the places where their tongues should travel, and the spots they must never leave forgotten in their trance.

It was there they fell in love, each and every time.

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Posted in Erotica (18 and over only!) | 2 Comments