Communication

To say that my lover and I communicate well is an understatement. It is very freeing to know that there is nothing that I cannot bring into the forum for discussion between us. Better to admit we are not mind-readers and instead reach out to each other with eyes and hands and mouths, straining to bridge the gap between Self and Other, to know, and to be known. Sometimes it is very intense, especially the struggle to find words to express the complexity and ambivalence of past relationships.

I accept that my current state of being could best be characterized as "dazed" and he does too. He worries a bit, but he knows that when I have them, I will reach out to him with words. In the meantime, I reach out to him with my heart, and his eyes meet mine and he is there, smiling gently at me, his arms slipping around me, his scent enveloping me. I rest my cheek on his shoulder and brush his neck with my lips.

"Still no word," he said. It was not a question.

The last email from My Beloved that had any real content was on the 12th. Since then, two "emails from the open road", one short and apologetic, one short and about... coffee. I've mailed him in the interim, expressing a willingness to work on carrying our heart-connection forward in our lives if he is willing to be open and vulnerable with me, as I am with him. No real word back, nothing substantive. The analytical side of me recognizes that he is probably still processing and taking care with his responses, but the feeling side of me wishes, if that were the case, that he would at least say as much.

Too restless to do sitting meditation, I did walking instead, along the stretch of Ocean Beach. The sun was warm, the wind cold, and the sand was a bit of both, and damp, underfoot. I focussed on the physical dynamics of walking, enjoying the animal-body I inhabit, appreciating it for all it does without need for conscious oversight. I allowed myself to feel my body, to feed my awareness of it, to notice the places where tension had accumulated, and to explore the emotions the little knots held as I caused them to relax. My body is the bridge between my inner and outer worlds, and my mind the road, sometimes smooth, sometimes bumpy.

The irony of meditation is that struggling with the chatter of my mind puts the clarity and simplicity I seek farther and father out of reach.  Best to accept the chatter, to notice it without judging it, or myself. My ego-self struggles, sometimes even flails about, but my spiritual self is balanced, calm, content. To touch it, I have only to cease identifying with the ego-self and its chatter.

What will be, will be. I released the anxiety and anguish into the wind for the second time in the same day, zipped up my coat, and drove home with the top down, drove home to my lover, who met me at the door with sympathetic eyes and a warm hug. The best communication of all :)

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Har den äran

High noon. I roll the car out of the garage. The top is already down. There is a blanket in the passenger seat, a book of Rumi's poetry, a bottle of water, and my camera. The weather is brilliant. I've got two days of sunshine left before I return home to Oregon, where it is raining. Of course. I love Portland for its rain, for its cool misty mornings, for the volcanic skyline and the unpretentious , surprisingly sophisticated people. But I am a California native, a 5th generation California Girl, and this--this land of golden hills and winding roads, of sunlight and fog--this land is in my blood. And in the past few days it has called to me, and I've recalled what I loved about it.

California Highway 1 again, across the Golden Gate Bridge. This time I do not stop in Sausalito, I press on, up to Mt Tamalpais, over and around, winding my way through groves of Eucalyptus and wildflowers that perfume the air with citrus sweetness. The car hugs the curves, growling up from the shaded sylvan corners into the sunny straightaways--the entire drive to Stinson Beach done in 2nd and 3rd gears. A blast of salt-scented air and warmth, and I am on the west side of the mountain, the car in neutral, gliding down the narrow highway toward the Pacific Ocean. A hawk follows my descent, gliding with me. Stinson Beach appears below, and I am awed by the power and beauty of nature. And deeply, deeply grateful that I am here to see, feel, and smell it. I am alive, despite the death and dying around me. And perhaps because of it, I am keenly aware of the joy and beauty to be experienced in my everyday life.
There are few people on the road with me. I thought there would be more, seeing as today is Good Friday, but I share the road with a few other people in convertibles and a lone highway patrolman. Most of the traffic on the road is cyclists, actually, and their stamina and svelte physiques awe me almost as much as the engineering wizardry that went into making this powerful car so very quiet. There is a 10 mile section of Highway 1 between Stinson Beach and the hook-up near Muir Woods where most of the drive is 20 miles per hour. Winding switchbacks that give teasing views of San Francisco to the South, before turning inland again.

The day, the drive, the car, me... it is all poetry. But it gets better!

Around 4pm I cross the Golden Gate bridge again, going south. I prop my camera on the steering wheel and got this shot, even:

Over the bridge, through the crossover to Presidio Park, make a right at Geary, two more rights to get onto Clement (it takes three rights to make a left in SF), and I am headed the right direction to pick up a very special cake for MR's birthday. My friend Janne is always talking about his swedish princess cakes and how much he loves them, and I'd despaired of getting one here in the States, but I found a German bakery in San Francisco called Schubert's that makes princess cakes. I know MR likes raspberry, and almond/marzipan, and I figured he would enjoy the kirsch custard and whipped cream and moist white cake. I mean, what's not to like? So I have my usual excellent parking luck in SF and got a spot a half block away from the bakery. I walk in and pick this up:
A swedish princess cake with a pale yellow-green marzipan icing, and the words "Har den äran Älskling!" which is the Swedish equivalent of "Happy birthday, my love" but literally says "In your honour, lover." It is a very light cake, airy. Even the custard is light. The raspberry layer is fresh raspberry, hardly sweetened at all -- it tastes vividly of sunlight and whole raspberries. MR approves. Yum and Yay.