Night has fallen. The wind stirs branches to frenzy; they crash and scramble to hide within each other’s arms. It smells like rain. The thunder rolls in, the lighting speaks, I am taken in embrace by its words, its poetry. With an angry burst the rain descends, pounding through frightened leaves to hit the ground, a sudden glory.
I’m not given to pain today. I’m tired, reflective, introverted. For the last two nights I’ve either cried in my sleep or have been releasing some undigested hurt. Sharp little inhales prevail and I struggle to take full breaths. I feel as though I’ve been crying and I don’t know why.
Right now, I’m given to love.
I’m given to the passionate dance of the storm; to the enticing seduction of its rhythm. I inhale its fragrance, truth in the air, wet grass and nourished earth. This is bliss. This is when I feel most at home. This is the storm in the night. It is who I am and who I become. If you listen you will feel, you will understand. You will know what anger lies beneath, what fluid pain finds release, what love there is to make. Take it from me for I bow at your feet; wet and naked in the Garden of Eden.
Surrender.
The nectar of surrender tastes sweet in this place. A single flame glows, hypnotically tracing curves. Soft curves, quiet curves, gentle caresses and yes; the rain is falling, the thunder still rolling and the leaves are making love.
Everything cracks during a storm. A part of me dissolves yet I am stronger. Leave me out in the rain during a storm and there is a good chance I’ll be electrocuted. Yet near it, near it I am all the wind carries and more.
I am the sadness and the loneliness of the sky as the rain falls. I am the utter failure, the empty warrior, dead inside and still alive on the cold wet earth. In this storm, I am the mystic who’s lost her way, beckoned forward with each damp step by some unknown being pulling me along.
In this summer storm, it is me who is. There is no accurate way to describe who you are but this rain, this storm, this scent, it is me.
My body is expelling its cry. A slight judder has surfaced as I write this. Is there a healing somewhere in these words? I don’t know. Is there a healing somewhere in your arms? Maybe.
The fire of the flame, it breathes. Notice its way of being, it expands and contracts in and out, in and out, sensual in its movement. I would pass my hand across your forehead, your face, by this little light. I would stare into your eyes, searching for the reflection of your soul, already in me. By this little flame, we would make love and tremble until we are both healed.
Flashes of lightning would reveal our very essence as one. We would cry, my love, some part of us retrieved. We would weep, silently if need be, in embrace, I would hold you upon my breast. Yes, let me hold you above my heart. Let its rhythm assure you it is I who loves you this night.
Continued on Tuesday July 5th 2011
Until then, I remain yours,
Lesley
Hallelujah Heartist
What a wonderful way to capture all feelings in a buman. We often get so stuck in thinking that love is only bliss, but all of the experiences you described are pleasure in the deepest sense.
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