By the Gate

31 Jul

I haven’t written anything of consequence in a long while. Maybe its because the end of the school year was filled with a few well placed kicks. Maybe its because I have been trying to come home and I can’t find the last path. Maybe its because I get a bit more lost every summer. So I’ll make this short and a little bittersweet because I see a light on the hill, but it just keeps moving, going dark. A glimpse of it came this summer. I know that I’m definitely at the front gate of a place called home.

Home is not a physical space, nor a person they say. The platitudes of folks obviously not walking with my feet ring of home being “a place inside you”, entirely belonging to you, perhaps a sense of union with the Divine. A spiritual place.

I believe that.

I have felt that.

That’s Love.

The big rushing love of the Divine which lifts the spirit into unity with All.

But it isn’t the home to have on earth. It isn’t a home that sustains a human indefinitely as a loving being all by herself… all on her own. It’s the home one goes to when she dissolves into God’s arms. It’s the home my grandmother so desperately seeks these days. I understand her longing. Her breaths are numbered; her spirit is tired. She longs to be rocked by her own mother again, for eternity. I’m not there yet.

Home on earth lies within a loving intimate human relationship. It belongs to two people with whom that intimacy is mutually shared in a way that is right for them and in a connection that reflects their paths. It doesn’t have to be the same for everyone; it just has to fit. The connection fits them; they dance in it together. They wear the love shoes. They are a pair that belongs. A match.

It’s incredibly hard to find.

Most folks wear ill fitted shoes.

Most folks disregard their favorite pair.

Most folks pretend to like being barefoot enough to not complain of chill, nor remain too long on hot sand.

Our feet are the most precious part of us, the most vulnerable. This is why we wash them for each other as a sign of empathy and love. We kiss them in submission; we surrender in unconditional love before them. Perhaps the suffering is what gets us there.  To a place where we let out the breath and give in to the unknown. To a place where we can see love when it walks toward us unshod.  A human connection of where we go at the end toward the Divine.

Home is the place of comfort, contentment…rightness.

Here on earth, I don’t believe it’s a solo venture. Facebook memes have it all wrong. Screw Pinterest platitudes. I want to shake Elephant Journal writers and ask them how they can prescribe what should or shouldn’t be for all of us when shoes that fit are as varied as the stars in the purple indigo  of night over the deepest of green oceans. When they are living the life I’m living, walking without shoes that fit, THEN they get to tell me how to live.

Don’t tell me I just have to love myself. I do

. . .AND I want to share that as well.

Don’t tell me home is a place inside me that the Divine fills beyond measure. I KNOW that

. . .but does a brown robe come with it?

Don’t tell me to stop wanting to find something outside myself, that everything inside me is fulfilling enough.

I AM a whole self, should I not engage and enjoy the world in all its sensual glory? With others?

Home is not a place of solitude, otherwise dying soldiers would not cry out for their mothers. Home is the place of ultimate love and ease, of acceptance, a place where the sleep that was slept in childhood lets a person lie hip to hip with a beloved in unconsciousness. It is the breath breathed together in lovemaking. It is co-creative , the synchronicity of heartbeat which comes seconds after looking deeply into a beloved’s eyes. It’s in the mystery of chemistry that snares one DNA strand at a time. Unexplainable, often confusing, terrifying but worth every conscious moment.

That it actually scientifically happens is proof. We are made to be in union with one another. It’s only when we stop dancing that the music ends. Like dancers, we can only be with one another in conscious movement. It’s wordless, this language goes back to our human beginnings in touch and energy. I’m not saying we don’t have issues that mess us up. Like Oprah says. “e’r body got issues”. But I think I have to stop looking at issues as needing fixing. Rather they may just need healing and some cannot be healed alone. If I wait to fix all my shit before I engage another human, I’ll die before I live. The language of this type of love engages mind and spirit with the body. Like the Trinity, this union requires all three.

I have been working on this series of color prints all spring and summer. In April, I became angry at a “masculine” Universe. I had told God, “Enough”. Deserving a shoe that fits shouldn’t be this hard. After all,  like a shoe, love is pretty simple. I deserve ones that truly fit me. So I talked to Mary. It seemed easier. Mothers understand when you have problems of the heart. And soon the image of Mary Magdalen bloomed in my consciousness, a human woman who loved a human man. . . who was also god. And he returned her love as human but also as a sacred being. This is what I believe. I am convinced of it. In the end she was forced to sacrifice him because he sacrificed himself.

But he truly sacrificed her, too. It isn’t all about him. They were partners in a divine dance. I cannot separate the bride from the bridegroom. I will not separate the human from the divine. It is all we have here in our breathing body walking. We must honor this oneness the best way we can.

I haven’t finished her feet. . .but the last few steps will come.

I learned what home is this summer, what it feels like. And now I must find how to open the gate, discern the path, and recognize who will be there at the door to welcome me in.

I’m ready to come home. It’s been years. It’s time.

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