The Private Door Swings Open – a Letter to Lulu

Hi Lulu,

You are my witness, you know, and I want to tell you about the Big Sur getaway.

You remember… the rocket scientist from India that I met at Esalen. I know I told you about our meeting.  The three hours talking in the hot springs, my fingers pruned beyond description.  Soaking in every word he spoke I was entranced in the steam and moonlight.  We stayed up all night – watched the sunrise colors in the sky – then parted ways and said goodbye.

Only I made my way back to Big Sur to meet him.

He had picked the sweetest cabin for us next to Castro Canyon creek and it became our haven for three nights and four days.  In the mornings we would wake and look out the little window – white framed panes and bevelled glass – right by the bed.  The cabin was nestled flush against the hillside beside a cedar tree, huge and lush and towering.  The morning sun would sprinkle in through the skylight and illumine the raw wood walls of our tiny room.  It was a little chilly but beneath the covers we were warm.

photo by Jessica Dofflemyer

I would venture out of bed and plant my feet on the thick, deep red, oriental rug to start the electric tea kettle.  Cue up my favorite iTunes playlist and be DJ for the morning.

“Have you heard of Katie Gray?”
“No, hon, I don’t think I have.”
“Ok, listen to this one…”

We were half-dressed and making coffee, dropping chunks of orange chocolate in our mugs, adding spoonfuls of white spun honey and peeling the tangerines I had brought from my grandfather’s tree. The lavender I cut was sitting by the bedside table and every once in a while that beautiful, prince-like, Indian man with deep dark eyes and full lips would look at me with such adoration and kiss me on my smiling mouth.
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You Are the Masterpiece

photo by Jessica Dofflemyer

art 1 |ärt|
noun
the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form such as painting or sculpture, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power

art 2
archaic or dialect 2nd person singular present of BE.

 

Magic Warriors

“I don’t have magic inside of me,” Jeb says with a wide, gap-toothed smile.  His body is electric with giddiness as he utters this denial.

“Well, you’re smiling so big that I know that you don’t really believe that.  You know you have magic inside,” I reply.

“I can’t help it.  My body won’t let me stop smiling,” he says, busting an even larger smile.  He is brimming with happiness as he renounces his power – obviously pure lip service.

“That’s because your body knows, Jeb.  It knows the truth.  Magic is everywhere and you have it inside of you.”

Two geckos chirp simultaneously in the dark of Jeb’s room where we lie in his bed. “Now that’s magic,” he says.

We are quiet for a moment.  The nightlight illumins his face.  I look out the screen window above the bed and see clouds moving slowly, lit by moonlight.

“Magic is bravery,” Jeb offers.

“Ahh, yes.  That’s true.  And what’s bravery?”

“Facing your fears.”

image by h.koppdelaney

I love that he knows this.  I’ve been teaching him his entire six years.  Selfishly, it’s just a way to remind myself.

I met an AT&T rep on the phone today whose last name was Warrior.  Now that’s a hint.  And I bet he still sometimes forgets.

We’re all warriors remembering the magic.  The power of our thoughts.  The freedom in our choice.

Sometimes it can be so frightening to truly express ourselves.

Flirting with annihilation, I keep coming to these keys.

from the Henry Miller Library ~ photo by emdot