he still comes to visit
always bringing offerings
entering the front door
breathing in the scent of my stairwell
ascending
he looks around my living room
smiling at a friend
and then begins
the ritual unpacking
one by one
he places on the countertop
lilikoi (I’d said I liked them)
lemons (I’d said I needed them)
avocados
three ripe bananas
ginger root
turmeric
a handful of freshly picked allspice leaves (he has one in his shirt pocket)
and a glass jar filled
with his latest brew of noni juice
a natural exchange
I serve
salad with cucumber and pumpkin seeds
mist
the air with rose water
thread
a chunk of jasper for his neck
and when we say goodbye
I’m saying
thank you
practicing the present
pretending
(though it could be real)
that we may never meet again
So the wee hours of yesterday were spent crafting words that swirled in the updraft of blossoming hearts and golden love.
This morning, I’m all mom.
For some unknown reason, Jeb wakes at 5:23am and never goes back to sleep. Though he knows this is my writing hour, he can’t help but interject his seven year old self as I type. There’s that dream he had last night with Harry Potter and the lightening bolt.
Or, “Just real fast mom,” he opens his palm full of 50 dimes, “do you have a five dollar bill to trade me.”
Counting coins before 6am (there’s a lot of jangling coming from his room) would be unnerving except that it’s buying me some time here at the keyboard.
The post that was brewing will most likely not be birthed here, as my living offspring – though being respectfully patient – will soon need breakfast.
Yes, the thread I was following, which I thought to share with you, was something on the topic of privacy. Ironically, this morning, here in the Archives, Jeb’s peripheral presence does not quite allow me the typical private space I rely on to express myself.
Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved
It’s 6:20am now and the sun is rising to shine light on all things tender. Yesterday’s post, “Love with the Capital L” still stirs in me with all its vulnerability. There is no one on my small island with whom I have revealed this sacred sharing. What compels me to post a piece on the world-wide web announcing an affair with a character deemed the Bohemian Lover?
Perhaps all of this loving, sweet magic has gone to my head, simply clouding my discretion. Maybe.
If so, my current mood says, “so be it.” There seems to be gold in the sharing. Something rich in being this raw in uncharted territory. Maybe these words are survival instincts. Tossing breadcrumbs in my wake, hoping that if this trail leads to overwhelming places, I’ll have some lifeline to lead me back.
Oh how I wish there was the time to really articulate these thoughts, but breakfast calls. I am a woman putting lunch snacks in Tupperware, crafting poetry in my head over dirty dishes and sifting in the memory of strong arms around my waist as my son asks me “how do you spell ‘wizard’?”
These morning words from me, simply breadcrumbs, while I follow the thread.
Oh, how I wouldn’t love to hear us turn that a into an o. Lasko.
But I’ve been reminding myself since the day I met this Bohemian Lover that he will never be mine. That the only way I’ll make it through this heart-opening is if I keep it to love in the Highest. So that would be Laska with a capital L.
There was only one word spoken between us on the day we met. I looked all around as he looked at me. “Beautiful!” I said.
Still gazing at me and smiling, he nodded. “Beautiful.”
The day before our chance encounter, I found myself perusing and collecting vintage photographs of women. Most seemed sourced from Eastern European countries. One picture in particular touched me deeply. A woman exuding utter beauty and peace, ethereal and magic, yet real. Perhaps she was my harbinger.
Spending time with the Bohemian Lover is an experience in fantastical beauty. We beam at one another and say, “Nice dream!” Watching stars, eating kale, letting evening breezes wash our skin. Sometimes I will look at him in awe. He sparks colors of gold and green. Sculpted arms, the warmest hands. He is some sort of greek statue, come to life and reaching out to me. Loving eyes, completely unafraid to look and truly see.
“Whatever you do, do it with love,” he says.
And he does.
And we, we will never be together.
As in, happily-ever-after. There is nothing conventional about this connection. I know the stars that crossed our paths will continue crossing.
Lasko – My Love, this means my love. This love that he evokes in me, already resides within my heart. It is my own true love I’m feeling when his thumb gently traces my cheek.
And even more than mine, the Love that touches me is greater than anything that can be possessed. It is Laska, that capital L Love that lives between our gazing.
Love, free-flowing, is the ever-present wellspring bubbling forth from our hearts – yours and mine – beating at our center in each living moment.
Some days we may be barely conscious of a dull pumping in our chest, that life-force pulsing us through our days. Sometimes we may hardly remember we are breathing.
And sometimes there wanders into our world a dreamy reminder of Love’s vital essence. Once in a while we may be gifted by a soul with which we can share the beautiful.
And in their presence, for however long or short is promised, that’s exactly how you feel.
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