When He touches her

“Come upstairs,” He said. He knew what she wanted, what she needed. She rose and followed him obediently. What precisely awaited, she was never quite sure. All that she knew was that it would fix her tonight, and somehow He knew the formula. He took care of things. He took care of her.

What would it be tonight? Would it be slow and gentle, melting into her curves, gentle licks on her nipples, stroking her hair? Would it be reaching between her legs to feel the hot wetness, slowly stroking her until she begged?

Would it be hard and fast, primal, animal, almost angry, filling her with life and drama and erasing the tangled mess in her mind of her fucked-up day? Would He enter her within minutes of access to the body He adored and desired?

Or would it be creative, taking His time with the ropes, slowly, limb by limb, one body part at a time, making her His beloved charge, and taking her as wholly as He wanted her, as she was unable to do anything but receive the pleasure He knew how to give perfectly, completely? 

Or would it just be…quiet? Touching. Stroking. Nothing sexual, but wholly intimate in a way that almost made her weep, recalling it later.

Any of those things, all of those things, were part of a life she was learning to enjoy, to feel she deserved. And it mattered that all of those things were with Him. Not with anyone else. Him.

Strange and funny, charming and weird, difficult and desirable: He was a different kind of thing, of relationship, of life, than she had ever known. And oh, she was scared. But hopeful and happy and strong enough to know that whatever the future held, and however long or short it lasted, this will have been worth it.

A weird envy.

In reading a book that I've been reading for far too long (it's a long book), I realized something: it's not uncommon for people in relationships to be jealous of their partner's wholly separate interests or passions.

I admit that when I was younger, I was guilty of this. I wanted to part of my significant other's life in every aspect. I didn't want him to have significant things that I wasn't a part of. And honestly, I think that feeling was mutual. But that relationship eventually ended, and in my next one, we had some wholly separate passions. And it was good. I did not envy the time he spent away from me on his interests, because it allowed space and time for me to either a) pursue my own or b) just be me. That relationship ended as well, but the space and discrete interests were one of the more successful elements of that coupling.

I understand a passion for something can become an exclusionary thing - and that it can be purposefully so. It can be a reason to be absent when you desire the absence instead of confronting difficulties. But it doesn't have to be that. It is just a thing your partner likes, and you do not share.

That doesn't mean you can't appreciate your partner's passions in some capacity; I think it's good to encourage them and to at least talk about it, if not experience it once in awhile, with them.

But jealousy? Nope, that's not for me, and hasn't been for a long time.

The touch

She’s not sure why
Her face is red
Raw and wet and streaked and
Fallen
Lines this way and that
Telling a story she can’t
Eyes clouded with
A pain fresh but old
A scar torn open
A wound too deep
She wants the touch
that heals, that soothes
But ever doubtful
She deserves
Can she ask?
Can she receive?
She begs for dark
And peace from the trembling.
And maybe
A touch can reach her
There.

What is one of your greatest blessings? (from 300 Writing Prompts)

This is from a notebook of writing prompts...it ends rather abruptly as I ran out of writing space in the notebook and didn't want to "cheat" by writing more here.

*****************************

One of my greatest blessings is my intelligence. I have always been quick and bright. As a child, I was considered "gifted." I never quite believed I was truly any smarter than my peers; I just simply loved to read and learn new things. And learning and remembering came quite easily to me.

But I have realized, twenty years into adulthood, that being/having above average intelligence makes my life easier. I have had to endure a number of fairly difficult circumstances, not the least of which is my son's illnesses. Many things have to be researched, thought about, and decided upon; my intelligence makes it easier to sort through them with deep understanding. And I have a solid sympathy for others going through the same things, only with less ability to understand and solve them.

Of course, it means I fear any kind of dementia a lot. I would find that devastating, because quite simply, my brain is probably the thing I am most proud of.

Only - or already?

It just hit me that I'm only 40 and a lot of things could still happen to me - or I could even make them happen. I admit I've mostly been thinking that I'm already 40 and everything has already happened; the rest is just repeats.

But I'm starting to understand that maybe that's not true at all.

Tracking...

She knows this.

Believe her when she says that you are in kind of a bit of an extraordinary way. She sees things - she notices. The way you speak to him, so small and furry and dependent upon you for everything. The way you listen and understand the things she says and doesn't say. The willingness to engage in the minutiae of her life in a real and helpful way. The way you've brought her into your world - the reality of it, not just the ethereal beautiful parts (although you do that too, much to her delight). And the way that you allow her - and yourself - to have the kind of space that grows a relationship in a healthy way, letting two people be individuals who can still care deeply about one another. You allow space that creates longing, not doubt.

She knows because she's been where it wasn't kind. Where it wasn't a highly valued thing to the person she loved most, the person who said he loved her most. One of the things she wanted most of all - he couldn't see past his anger and pride to give to her.

So when she says you are kind: believe her.

Simply

You're making art...

...touching my heart.

Keep going. Keep doing. Keep me.

You may miss my face...

   ....and you may miss my body...


But I'm searching for someone who misses ME.

Unpronounceable

Now I spend
My days and nights
Looking at
A depression on the sofa
And over time it flattens out
But I am still depressed

Your name it is unpronounceable
Distorted and illegible
I never figured out what that was
If I couldn’t then I know I never will


-They Might Be Giants

Where that place used to be...

Although I’m no longer religious (at all; I’m an atheist now) a place that I will always hold dear to me is Kansas Christian Church, in Kansas, Illinois. I tell people that I was raised in that church, and it’s true; I spent many hours in that beautiful building, not only learning about the Bible but forming bonds with a community in a way I have since found very difficult in any other setting.

I started attending that church in 1983 when, at the age of 8, my mother, sisters and I moved from Virginia to Illinois to live with our grandmother. Our mother was dying, our dad was in no condition to take care of us, and that was what was decided. My grandfather had been the preacher there in the ‘60s; he died suddenly in 1970 but my grandmother stayed on and continued to live and worship there.

When I was young, my favorite church experience was a Wednesday after-school group called J.A.M. (Jesus and me) where we’d have games, snacks, and lessons that were fun. As I grew older, there were more serious times; Sunday school and small groups and Bible studies for teenagers wanting to get more serious about their faith. I also spent many Sundays volunteering in the nursery, helping take care of little ones so their parents could attend services. Sunday nights were middle and high school youth group, where I had not only a great group of friends, but also a youth pastor who was funny, talented, and more generous with his time and love than I even appreciated at the time.

The building itself was full of memories for me – not just the usual Sunday worship, but all the other events: potluck dinners in the basement, revivals, funerals, weddings – including my own first wedding. I can recall so many individual moments in that place, and in the tapestry of my adolescence, it features prominently.

A few years ago, the church burned nearly to the ground. The morning after it began, I was getting updates on Facebook throughout the day. I wept that day – a lot. Although it was no longer a place of belief for me, it was still a monument to how and where I grew up. And it was, within a matter of hours, gone. The beautiful stained glass windows - shattered. The sturdy brick I thought would last forever – crumbled. The plaque commemorating my grandfather’s service there – melted into oblivion.

I was back home recently and walked through the newly built church for the very first time since the old one was destroyed. I knew it would feel strange but I wasn’t prepared for the rush of emotion that swept through me as my sister walked me through and showed me the gorgeous new building. Tears sprang to my eyes as I kept thinking, “This isn’t it.” I always said, when I was a believer, that it wasn’t the building that was the church; it was the people. And while that is still true, those bricks and windows and beautiful wooden pews and brass fittings meant something to me. And they are gone, for good – just like my faith was, long before the structure ceased to be.

In a way I am glad I live so far from home; I’m sure being there would make it difficult to be honest about who I am now; a non-believer. And it would be sad for me to be in that new church building from time to time as I know I would have to be, realizing I was standing in the same spot but in a completely different place. And so I will keep my memories and live in my present, grateful that I can keep them separate most of the time.

The church on my wedding day in 1995...

Me at the piano - about age 16 or 17

The night of the fire

The aftermath