undiluted: not reduced in strength or concentration or quality or purity

Days before a man I loved passed from this life he blessed me with a label that spoke straight to my soul.  Weighing his words with his graveled accent he said definitively,  “You’re undiluted.”  It was a curious statement.  For a moment I considered the possible translations the word had undergone from his native Italian to the Queen’s English.  The word itself stubbornly refused to be transmuted into any other adjective.

And so I sat there allowing it to set up camp inside my head.  I pondered which element he must believe I represented in such rarefied concentration.  I reveled in his unqualified flattery.  For his part he spoke no more on it, allowing me my moment as he often did.  Moments such as this one would prove precious, for they would be all we would ever have between us.  We would have a life time from October through to November and no more.  This man, my anachronistic Knight Templar, would slip from me silently the following Thursday.  He would die alone in a crowd of strangers.  The flesh would indeed fail and the frenetic beatings of his heart would undo us both in dramatic fashion.  I was not there, though I can imagine.

I would like to tell you that I felt him go, that some intangible part of him was able to form our goodbyes.  I did not.  What I felt was his struggle, his fight to stay.  I closed my eyes and felt his arms around me Thursday evening and they have never let go.  I am left with the burden of unpacking our experience, examining the contents left behind and finding their proper place in my life.  I sit here and breathe the life that never quite was so I can exhale and live again.

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Love bears all things.

It is the promise of the vacant cross lit by the rising sun,

and the sacred fire tended within the temples of the gods.

It is the burning forge of the illuminated soul.

Our impassioned witness,

our silent confessor,

and our merciful salvation.

The permeable yet unyielding light that wraps itself around the many faces made in His image.

Those images…

reminding us that we are all capable of so much more.

We have our own way of Drawing Down the Moon,

You and I.

With lips and fingertips,

evoking a savage tenderness.

An embrace becomes a lifetime.

And in it we dance,

we die,

and are reborn a thousand times.

“I think God was a beautiful dreamer…” ~ my 5 year old daughter, The Alchemistress

I may be naive, but I believe I have stumbled upon the antithesis of mediation.  If the objective was to take a rather chatty and comfortable couple and antagonize them separately until neither could see straight, then she performed beautifully.  There are a host of things, both reasonable and unreasonable, upon which my ex The Politician and I do not agree.  Unfortunately, the only common ground we found yesterday was that that meeting was a tragic waste of time.

You wrap your arms around me and hold the Earth still.
The soft musk of your skin,
The heavy thud in your ribs that recalls the beat of tribal drums,
The charred taste of burning embers coats my tongue,
Lingers….
I slip away with you,
Down into the earthen hollow,
The center of myself.
Warm tangled flesh presses deep into the dampened soil.
On hands and knees you bore me back into the light.
Lover. Shaman. Bear.