Call It Moving On

She’s been dead a couple of years,
my soul mate. Lots of people’s soul mate.
That was her gift. She belonged to everybody
and nobody at all. She was very much
her own woman or the Goddess’ woman
or at least a powerful woman; no less
nor more than I, myself; but still.

We are stratified into more subtle layers
than most people care to discover,
a bit of fairy dust really, and yet.
It matters less and less only we did
understand one another, and upon death,
suddenly our work comes more alive.
People are searching for answers.
Our passing reminds them of this.

I keep wondering if I ought to be shaking
bits of her out of my body, but where
then do I put the pieces? I who am
daily reminded of footprints and planets,
the excesses of my own species. And still
I am reluctant to see those remnants go.

It’s not that I cannot let her progress,
she is doing that splendidly, even now;
and images come alive in heartbeats
out in the garden by the clove tree
which could never cast those memories
into fires of forgetfulness, knowing deep
as sap the need for proliferation of kindred,
her now-forgotten mace and nutmeg.

Friends and Companions

I am a lover of history when it comes to people, a determined sustainer of relationships. I look forward to nurturing and maintaining these dear connections.

I love the lines in your face, the liquid sparkle in your eyes when you smile. I love that you do not shift your eyes when speaking to me – it makes me trust you, even if we have just met. I am moved when you confide your secrets and your sorrows, for it is then we share in a profound vulnerability.

I know that water over the dam is deep stuff if we can swim in it. With time comes the occasional misunderstanding. Personalities clash, egos get bruised. Picking up the pieces affirms our faith in one another’s goodness. Without adversity, we never leave the shallows of the heart, fearing the depths. And I love swimming in deep water – it’s where I get to glimpse the extraordinary.

For all my friends who still look at success through a financial lens or in terms of sheets that never cool, I am conversely deeply, soulfully nurtured by those shining links in my chain of companions – dear ones who push the boundaries of comfort, who search, soar and free-fall, who seek to forgive and be forgiven. And although I am a lifelong questioner of beliefs either fed to me or absorbed through thin skin, I realize many simply cannot continually hold their belief structures to the light, fearing collapse of the shaky foundation upon which they stand.

That box you live in might be comforting in its familiarity, but it also stunts your growth.

I watch with sadness as that light in your eyes morphs to a Stepford glow and eventually extinguishes. And though bearing witness to death of the spirit deepens my compassion, I find it difficult swimming through grass and rushes and murky water. I mourn the dimming of your soul.