Love Letter #5: I Am Seven Sleeps
Read the previous Love Letters here:
How does one count down something like this? Should I say seven sleeps like I do for other things?
Other things? How could this be like other things? Like a doctor’s appointment. Or a holiday from work. Or even Christmas.
This is so different… seven sleeps.
Seven worst… or is it best? fears realized.
Seven miracles birthed.
Seven truths revealed.
Seven kisses deliciously offered even though my lips are still.
Seven embraces of pure love even though my arms are closed.
Seven dances amongst the clouds even though my feet shall not move.
Do you know how much I love to dance? With you? With Angel. With Cristin. With Vanessa. Alison. Sam. With Jen the Prophet and Tara the Talented, even though we haven’t danced yet. So many gorgeous souls that I have adored on the dance floor.
How? With a box step with Alex. A guitar solo with Rich. A floor touch with Jimmy. A zumba with Mom. A karaoke with Kim. A twirl of delight with Emma. A tango with Jake, my handsome little man. An imaginary affair with Lionel, my musical dark-skinned Muse.
Something tells me that you do. You’ve seen me. You’ve seen the way my chest cracks open and my divine feminine essence escapes. The freedom of the connection into the melody brings out a layer inside me that I usually keep quiet. Keep still. Keep sullen. Keep forbidden. Hidden. Banished, even.
But when She, that goddess, dances… the sun explodes, birds soar to new atmospheres, black-holes implode, planets erupt, angels get their wings, and babies learn to laugh.
She…the old troublesome child who is me. I love her, I do. I know you do, too. Everyone always does. She’s irresistible, even to me as I try to shove her back in. Thank God, sometimes she gets the best of me and escapes.
My hips sway. My light shines. My wholeness glows. My center heats up and generates overflowing Love. She tastes like Cherry Jolly Ranchers and Tangerine lip balm, every single time. Delicious. If I could get anything done with Her out, I would leave Her on my breast and bask in the glory of Her beauty. Her flavor. Her intensity. Her nourishing milk.
Dancing with Her is beyond this physical plane, even for me. It is intimate in a way that physical love can only hope to mimic. Could only hope to resemble.
It is the same for you when you dance. I know because I see it. I see Him. And He is so handsome and pure and gorgeous. Probably the sexiest thing I have ever seen. The most glorious thing that has ever been intertwined with me.
The ultimate connection…I remember. Do you?
Will you allow that? It scares you, I know. Maybe even more than me…love, the last monster under my bed. After all, how many times has my heart been like the ocean to you- pull you in and then slam you out, crashing you against the shore as I turn your beautiful shell into a fragment and call it sand.
As if you could ever be something as scratchy as sand…
Sometimes I feel you remember.
You might not believe me, but I can always tell when you remember.
No matter what I’m doing, I just pause and drink you in while you drink me.
In and out I breathe, swaying back and forth even though no one knows it but me…as you drag me back to some secret room in one of our so many lives together. The three minutes here. The seven minutes there. The joy of it. Love with you always so clever and funny. Tender. Never once terrifying…which is something for someone like me to say. One whose sex and vulnerability has been used against her so many times. So many abuses. So many scars. So many battle wounds that might never heal. So many times when I still thought being a victim served me.
What a fool I was! Silly me playing all these stupid characters and calling them me. Oh, well… I was doing the best I could at the time.
I see that now. But damn (sorry) did I have to learn it in such a terrible way, not unlike Jolene in A Sinister Vision strapped and tortured? Why didn’t I learn it like Elise in the same freaking story, in such a different way in my darling Blackwater’s arms? So yummy and precious my Blackwater.
I love him, that Navajo piece of brilliance. Did you know? I bet you did. You knew before I knew, I bet. You always know me so well.
Me such a prior victim…. I did it. I did it all, all those terrible things to myself.
But not with you. Never from you. Or even for you. Never, not once in all those seven minutes.
Seven minutes. Seven eternities… Seven thousand times infinity lives.
I keep coming back to it. Back to what it means…that you probably don’t hate me. That on some level, no matter how small, you still trust the goodness in me. You have been so intimately intertwined with me after all. Surely you remember how my goodness felt. Tasted. Lingered. Smelled.
Seven sleeps. Until…
I remember the first time I tasted it–the flavor of giving my Love away unconditionally. I was maybe three years old? Maybe four? Even back then I knew I was Mother. And maybe she was just a plastic doll, but I loved that babydoll unconditionally so I could practice for loving the real ones that would follow. Ah–that giving unwavering love to a child would be the greatest gift I had to offer in this life.
Seven loves. The five I lost and the two I got to keep in this life.
This life of learning patience and unconditional offering…no matter what.
No matter what.
Do you know what that means? No matter what.
It means sitting in a total place of unending, unshakable patience. It means never expecting. It means only offering. Not for the receiving, but the giving. It means that the Love is offered regardless of Its acceptance or reciprocation.
No matter what.
It is what you are teaching me?
Or what I am teaching us?
And when I learn it and you see what I have become because of it…then you will learn it. Me the student and the teacher. You the teacher and student.
Delightful, isn’t it, how the lesson turns around?
Back to my story. Back to thirty-seven years ago. I went to sleep late…too late for someone so young on the cold surface of a Furr’s booth. Mom and Dad working well past the moon’s rise again that night.
I can’t say where my brothers and sisters were. On the floor? Another booth? Wrapped in a blanket on the table? In a broken stroller? Who knows? My eyes were dry, tired, and scratchy, unable to fight nature any longer. So I closed them.
I think it was probably my first lucid dream. My first astral travel.
Now I do it all the time. Sometimes on purpose. Sometimes not on purpose…straight to Hell and madness where my monster finds me. Or should I say, I find him so I can let him torture me when I still feel like playing victim to remind myself how much that fucking sucks. Anyway…
But I do it, travel in my sleep in the subtle realms. It is how I visit you. When you ask me to come be with you, anyway. Where you will still have me. Where you still remember how much you have always loved me. Always will love me.
In my slumber (37 years ago), I awoke in an “adult” world. One where I knew who I was and what I was. Back Home. The big Home…not that small town of mine.
He was with me. The baby I would give away some fifteen years later. Surrender. Murder. Sacrifice. Exchange for the lessons I came here to learn. Swap for the service I came to offer through the pain of abandoning him. Knowing that little King, it was probably his idea to begin with.
I held him, tender in my embrace, my Spirit flowing in and out of him. Like an elixir of unending glory, I inhaled him. Then he returned the favor, breathing me in, and we joined the eternal glory of our souls in an ecstatic union of pure white Love. The kind that Christ offers to those that are willing to receive it. Those ready to remember what it feels like to see the Truth of what we already are. Lovely.
Anyway, something startled me and I was torn from him and our glorious exchange. My Baby-love stolen. My Beloved child ripped away. My Livie kidnapped and me transported back into the body of the three-year-old child I was in this version of My Life. I was devastated. The longing so deep, so painful that I knew I could never survive. Would never feel whole again. The chasm was just too uncrossable.
I grabbed my baby doll, always at my side, and threw it on the floor. It was a nothing. A joke. A pretense compared to what I knew was possible even as a babe. Surely I cried for hours, days even trying to find my way back. Me, a stone cold nothing compared to that vision of true love mothering. Like Christopher Reeves in Somewhere in Time. Me, the dead and empty child, lying on a bed with a copper penny in my pocket and old photo on my chest.
But that feeling. That expansion. That version of true Love is what I felt when I remembered I might see you again because time is just an illusion after all. You so close to me even if it will be so far apart. Even if I do not see you at all.
Anyway, if I could, I would bottle this awareness and never sell it for all the riches in the world.
Seven copper pennies.
Seven old photos.
Seven dolls picked back up.
Seven true loves.
And just like that gorgeous baby of mine who I held all those years ago, know that I am offering myself to you. Completely. Unabashedly. Yet your response to my offering not mattering to me at all.
Why you ask?
Because it rests safely protected and utterly unaffected by your acknowledgment of it. It is. That is all that matters. That ever mattered. That ever could matter.
No matter what.
Why you ask again?
Because no matter what happens here, I know the truth of who we are remains. That is what you are teaching me, even if you don’t know it yet. What I am learning from you…from us, even on the days that I forget when I am both student and teacher.
Today I remember. This day of sevens. Of perfect numbers. Of holy countings.
Tonight, I will lay my head down to sleep. Pray the lord my soul to keep and know that when I wake tomorrow…I will be six sleeps. And so will you. So will Cristin and her delightful babies. The ones who have known me forever…like you.
And all the love I have offered you again tonight will come racing back to me in a multitude of gorgeous and different ways…even if none of them are from you. This you, anyway.
It’s a lovely group of thoughts isn’t it? Figuring it out. A bottle I would never sell for all the riches of the world. Knowing six is much better than seven. Seven, the number which is supposedly perfect. Five, even better still. And so on and so on.
Soon it will be no sleeps when we are both ready.
Not yet, but soon. Why? Because I am not seven sleeps…that was yesterday and this is today.
With Love and hopeful anticipation,