Purity

"Every moment of your life is infinitely creative and the universe is endlessly bountiful. Just put forth a clear enough request and everything your heart desires must come to you." - Shakti Gawain

“I’ve met you at precisely the wrong moment.” She said to the man in front of her. “Because now I have to be completely honest with you, and to tell you the things I would prefer not to tell." She placed her hand on his cheek and smiled at him, her pillow-lips gently twisted, slightly smiling.

He smiled back at her, thinking to himself that she was beautiful when she looked at him that way. They hadn’t known each other very long, but he recognized the expression - she was lost in thought and would come back to him when she was ready. He couldn’t push the conversation along, he merely had to wait for her to reveal herself to him.

“I don’t want anything from you except honesty.” He said sincerely.

She laughed out loud then, and stroked his face, tenderly. Already, he was accustomed to this gesture from her, and he leaned his cheek into her hand, her long, thin fingers caressing his face. Her eyes closed and he simply sat watching her. Opening her eyes, she stared at him intently.

He was remarkable, this man with the pixie eyes and soulful face. His mind was meticulous and calculating, yet philosophical and dreamy. She didn’t think she had ever known anyone quite like him. 

Even though they had only recently met, she found something comfortable in him.  It seemed as if he knew her in the ways that come only from years of intimacy, as if their souls had longed for each other for a lifetime.  He seemed to sense when her mind was adrift and he'd play to her romanticism. Conversely, he’d recognize when she was feeling playful and happily acted the clown - always to her delight, eliciting girlish giggles and an atypical shyness.  She loved him, of that she was certain.  In a way that was pure, and full of light - nothing she had ever known before.

Conversely, she instinctively knew that for all of the command and control he exerted over his life, he needed to be nurtured. She provided him with the sense of security and reliability he had long dreamed of, but never found.  Without intention, she was the shelter in his storm, a strong woman capable of standing next to him, supporting him and nurturing him.  

His competence and intelligence brought out the best in her, which was why she always caressed his face in that manner - tenderly, an almost maternal embrace. She wanted to protect him from the world, to prevent the lines that creased his face, betraying his age, from deepening. She patted his cheek with a bit more vigor than either of them could have expected and he recoiled.

The world had conspired to show her a path unlike any she had traveled before. She had spent a lifetime manipulating those around her to fulfill her needs, to give her what she thought she was missing. As one might expect, she was usually successful in accomplishing her goals. But she failed herself, each act an anathema to the natural laws of the world. She had promised herself that she would follow a new path, a journey to her soul. Truth. No matter what the cost.

Letting her hand fall from his cheek, she turned to him, drawn back to the present, and ready to present the truth to this man. She feared it would mean losing him, a thought that saddened her, because there was a part of her that had already started to fall in love. 

There was a light in his eyes. She noticed it the first time they met, and tried to ignore it. On their second meeting, the light spoke to her, wrapped around her heart and held tightly. With conviction and firm intent, she pushed it out of her mind.  This man, he just knew.  He knew her faults and failings, strengths and triumphs, pitfalls and panaceas - he knew it all - without her having to ask for anything.

As a rule, the relationships she had chosen left her feeling nothing. Parts of her were certain no one would ever be able to live up to her expectations, another part held tightly onto the dream that there was a man, somewhere in the world, whose mere presence would result in unfettered delight.

She told herself that she was a modern woman. Confident and competent. Independent and identified. Comfortable in control of every aspect of her life, down to the millisecond.

Nevertheless, the one thing she sought remained elusive. She longed to love another with the capacity she knew she was capable of. She dreamed of an honest love - built on mutual respect and trust - where both parties supported and encouraged the other to be better than each were individually, where both were free to grow and explore, knowing that a safe haven was never farther away than their front door. She dreamed of laughter. She dreamed of an intense sexuality. She dreamed of the ease that she thought must only come along once.

This vision had been implanted into her mind at a very young age. At times, it would leave her conscious mind and drift into the recesses, buried under high school proms, athletic victories and friendships gone and forgotten. It was during these times of regression that she would, on rare occasion, allow another man into her life, embarking on journeys down the path of folly.

Like fires that burned too brightly, the desire would quickly extinguish itself. The pile of ash that was left served as a stark reminder of what she had known all along, but simply forgotten. To deny one’s soul, one’s eternal Truths, for any cause created a deafening silence that could only be ignored for a short time. Then, the hands of the Universe would step in, and bitch-slap you back to reality.

“I doubt that anything you are going to tell me will be nearly as harsh as this anticipation.” His voice had taken on a commanding quality and she laughed. She could clearly envision him in his chosen profession, always in control.  She loved that about him, she respected him for it.

He extended his hands to her, his palms facing the heavens.  She placed her hands in his and was surprised at the strength they contained as they enveloped hers. With this man, she felt at ease, she felt at home.  

And now she sat before him, afraid to tell him about her failures, afraid to confess the parasite, afraid to lose him after just meeting him.

“Yes. I’m sorry. I’ve promised myself honesty and integrity and yet I find it so hard to share this with you.” He nodded at her to continue, his head turned to the side and she thought he looked like a curious puppy waiting for a treat.

“My soul is hungry. I have spent a lifetime seeking love. Not just any love, The Love. I have to believe that it exists. I‘m beginning to lose hope." She had hoped that the confession would relieve some of the pain. It didn’t.

“So, you’re looking for your Soul Mate?” He asked. His voice sounded sincere, but the corners of his eyes wrinkled in a smile, his amusement barely concealed.  His teasing wounded her.  Normally, she loved his teasing - but at this moment, it stung a bit more.  She was confessing her soul.

“I didn’t think you’d understand.” She said, resignation obvious in her tone. She withdrew her hands from his and leaned away from him. He stood and walked around to her, sitting close. With one rapid movement, he pulled her tight against him and onto his lap.

“Come here, babe.  You don't have to do this alone.” In an instant, she realized that he clearly did understand. He continued to speak, his voice gentle in her ear, “We are all fractured from life. Some falls hurt more than others. While life brings exquisite joys to us each day, they are not as meaningful as they would be if we had The One to share them with. You think your search is yours alone, it isn’t.”

He kissed her forehead and pulled her closer still against him. She breathed in his scent which was comforting and already familiar. She wondered if it was a scent she had known since birth, but quickly pushed the thought out of her mind.

“You do not know me.” She said.

“Then tell me. I can’t know you if you don’t let me.” He nodded at her to continue, his arms wrapped around her like a favorite childhood blanket, his mouth in her hair. She couldn’t see his face, but had she, she would have noticed that he was breathing in her scent, wondering too if it had been known to him since birth.

She inhaled deeply and began to speak. “When I am with you, the world is right. I am happy. I want to trust you, to believe the things you say to me, but I’m afraid. I know people think that I’m not afraid of anything. That I’m as solid the Earth we all stand on. But truthfully, my heart is quite soft and I’m afraid of having it broken. I‘m afraid that you‘re a danger to me.”

“That’s all very interesting. Do you think I haven‘t noticed these things about you? It‘s part of your beauty.” He said.

“What do you mean?” She asked, genuinely curious.

“Maybe your fear is preparing you for something bigger than you’ve known before.” He said.

Her head was still firmly planted against his chest and she allowed her hands to stroke his chest. She listened to the cadence of his breathing, hearing a pause before he spoke again, “The storm before the calm.”

She was amused at the way he turned the cliché around and wondered if he realized he had done so or if it was accidental. Either way, she found him charming and wondered how such a boyish head could contain such a wise mind.

“But I haven’t told you everything yet. I’ve done terrible things in my life. I’ve hurt people badly.” She confessed.

“I don’t need to hear every scar you’ve caused others. We’ve all made bad choices and we’ve all hurt other people. Sometimes, it is our own impotence that causes pain, sometimes it is a conscious act. Either way, it’s part of life. We hurt others, we get hurt."

She nodded, her head still tucked into his shoulder.  He didn't understand the hurt she had caused others.  He couldn't possibly understand how wretched it was to leave a good person, the father of her children, for an uncertain future.  He couldn't possibly understand the guilt she carried for believing that she would find a love that would justify her wretchedness.

Tucking her hair behind her ear he spoke again, “I see how much you have to give. I see it in the way you always caress my cheek. I see it in the way you listen when I speak. I see it in your eyes every time you look at me. You are very hard on yourself."

He lifted her chin and stared deeply into her eyes. She saw that special light dancing in his eyes and giggled up at him.

“Is it really different with us, or am I imagining things?” She asked him.

Her head fell back against his chest, a warmth emanating from his body and transferring to hers. As she breathed in time with him, she waited for his response. She lifted her face to his and tried to memorize each of his features.  She realized then that she didn't need to study him, she knew him - as he knew her.  

He dropped his mouth to meet hers and kissed her tenderly. She opened her mouth to his, eager to taste him. She felt his hand slide around her waist and land on her hip, the place she most loved to be touched, the place no man ever seemed to find.   

His mouth met hers, his lips enveloping hers in a soft kiss.  She felt her body melt against his, against her natural impulse to retreat.  In that kiss, she found much more than the answer to her question - she found her salvation.

Veritas

The metaphors and signs that exist in life are truly stunning. I recently finished The Zahir by Paulo Coelho. The novel is, like everything written by Coehlo, deep yet simple, complex yet clear, and able to effortlessly lug a powerful message.

The dumbed down version of the story is this - a woman leaves her husband without a good-bye, without a trace. Her physical absence causes his world to become turned upside down and he finds himself obsessing over her, she becomes his Zahir. According to the writer Jorge Luis Borges, the idea of the Zahir comes from Islamic tradition and is thought to have arisen at some point in the eighteenth century. Zahir, in Arabic, means visible, present, incapable of going unnoticed. It is someone or something which, once we have come into contact with them or it, gradually occupies our every thought, until we can think of nothing else. This can be considered either a state of holiness or of madness. Faubourg Saint-PeresEncyclopedia of the Fantastic (1953).


In order to find her, he must first find out truths about himself. I purchased this book while I was living with my husband, and was never able to sink my teeth into it. Coehlo's novels always stir me so deeply that I will finish them at lightning speed, easily eschewing sleep, or food until I'm done. But this one was different. I have struggled with it, wrestled to get through a page, put it down, left it for months at a time, returned to it, struggled to read a page and on and on until this weekend. I tore through it at my usual pace.

Here's what's funny. I wasn't ready to hear the message until now, which is why I was unable to read it until now. Now I have heard the message, loud and clear. Actually, I have taken several messages from the book and I will share them with you now.

The only way to come to terms with your personal history, to accept it and move past it, is to tell the story. Tell the story to anyone who will listen and in doing so, you relieve yourself of the mystery and magnetism of the story. That's why I have this overwhelming need to put myself out there like this now.

He mentions a concept he calls the acomodador which is the "giving-up point: there is always an event in our lives that is responsible for us failing to progress: a trauma, a particularly bitter defeat, a disappointment in love, even a victory that we did not quite understand, can make cowards of us and prevent us from moving on."

I've lived through some traumas, I've felt defeat. I've been disappointed in love. But these things will not be by acomodador. Nope. Not gonna happen.

The only way to achieve the love you desire is to be receptive to the truth of love - something freeing and enhancing, encouraging and elevating. He refers to love as being like the wind, "everything and nothing, I am the wind and I cannot enter windows and doors that are shut."

I do not know what love is, but I know what it is not. And to find it, I will have to be open to it. I haven't been open to much of anything for a very, very long time. I have spent the last several years of my life desperately trying NOT to feel. More recently, I have placed myself in situations that were not wise, desperately wanting to feel something, anything. And when that didn't work, I spent too much time engaging in other unwise activities, trying to get back to that place of not feeling again. Needless to say, neither tactic was terribly rewarding or productive.

"He said that my past would always go with me, but that the more I freed myself from facts and concentrated on emotions, the more I would come to realize that in the present there is always a space as vast as the steppes waiting to be filled up with more love and with more of life's joy. Finally, he explained to me that suffering occurs when we want other people to love us in the way we imagine we want to be loved, and not in the way that love should manifest itself - free and untrammeled, guiding us with its force and driving us on."

So what am I doing here? Freeing myself from my personal history, I suppose. :)

Control

Samothrace is the island from which Poseidon watched the fall of Troy. This is the longest story I've ever written. While most of what I write is fiction that contains something of me, this one is painful and raw - the fictional elements are used to tell the story.


As the sparsely populated ferry approached the island, I could not help but smile. Samothrace appeared in front of me as a solid rock rising dramatically out of the inky blue Aegean. It looked barren and desolate, seemingly home to nothing and no one. I often felt like a lone rock rising out of the inky deepness of humanity.

In the year since my divorce, I had entertained the opinions and voices of others almost non-stop. I needed to find my own voice, to drown myself in solitude and listen to who I had become. I needed to regain control.

Control. A central theme in my life.

No, it has never been about the need or desire to control others, only about self-control. I am most content when I rule my life with an almost monastic iron fist - constantly striving for the elusive goal of perfection at each turn and with every inhalation. It comforts me. At times, this has taken on an obsessive/compulsive sincerity, and I could feel myself teetering on that edge.

My constant craving for self-control led, quite naturally, to a love and fascination with ceremony of all sorts. I often found myself drawn to books on religion, yearning to have something in my life that provided that level of ritual without the commitment required to actually become a member of some church, without having to share myself with a congregation that pretended to know my thoughts and needs while knowing nothing of me.

This searching led me to find a novel based on the mystery religious cults of the classical world, which sparked an interest in this destination. The novel was weather-beaten and tattered when it fell into my hands, and I pored over it for days. Set on the island of Samothrace, it related the life of a member of one of these cults in a way that was charming and seductive. I was rapt. Shortly after finishing the novel, but still reveling in its secrets, I was invited to attend a wedding in Athens. If anything seemed star-crossed, this certainly did.

I rejected the idea of fate, or of things being pre-ordained as a matter of principal. Sure, I paid that romantic notion the same lip service as everyone else. But in my heart of hearts, I believed it to be nothing more than saccharine attempts to comfort someone when you didn’t know what else to say. Let’s face it, “Everything happens for a reason.” sounds better than, “Yeah, you really were an idiot for doing that.”

As the ferry continued closer to the island, the abject desolation gave way to a charming personality - small while houses dotted the hills, the barren landscape revealed low-lying bushes that reflected the light perfectly off their silvery-green leaves. A lone donkey grazed absent-mindedly on a steep hillside, and men in black caps bustled around the tiny harbor. The sun was impossibly strong, but a rapid breeze made the heat pleasant. A fellow passenger turned to me and said, “Beautiful, no?” in a heavily accented English. I smiled at him and nodded. It certainly was beautiful.

Upon disembarking the ferry, for a brief moment, I panicked. Me, Ms. Control, had traveled thousands of miles without a plan, without even the most basic plan - I had nowhere to sleep. My fears were quickly allayed by the approach of a woman so short and squat as to appear perfectly round. Dressed all in black with long silver hair curled into a messy bun at the nape of her neck, Kiria Apostolou had spent her life on the island. After the death of her husband, she earned a meager income by renting a room in her home to the occasional tourist. She spoke virtually no English, and I spoke virtually no Greek. It seemed a match made in Heaven. She carried a small notepad with her, and we agreed on a price for the accommodations by scratching numbers on the paper.

With a swift turn that seemed impossible for someone of her girth, she indicated that I should follow her. I was expecting to be led to a car, instead, she began walking up the hillside. We walked side by side in forced silence, an occasional nod and smile to each other our only communication. I giggled silently as I watched her stubby legs hoist her up the impossibly steep incline. An audible giggle escaped my lips as a mental image of her tripping and rolling down the hill and into the sea with a loud “splash” popped into my head. She reached out and patted my shoulder then, her kind gesture stirring the all too familiar sensation of guilt.

After a very long hike up the hillside, we arrived at her home - a charming and beautiful white-washed cottage with an unfettered view of the sea. I breathed in deeply and felt quite comfortable. She opened the unlocked door and stepped aside to allow me entrance. A small sofa seemed placed to hold up one wall while framed pictures of fishermen, presumably family, lined the wall above it. An archaic radio sat in the corner atop a tiny end table, chirping words I couldn’t understand. A tiny metal bistro table with two chairs occupied the majority of the kitchen. Minimal counter space was taken up by an old coffee maker and a microwave oven as large as her small refrigerator.

My room was tiny, but immaculate. A twin-sized bed was tightly wedged into the space, leaving no room for any other object. A window right above provided an almost surreal view of the Aegean. Kiria Apostolou beamed an almost toothless smile at me and proudly outstretched her arms to display my temporary residence. I beamed back at her and nodded approval. Her pride was visible, infectious. She turned to leave, her wide hips whacking the doorway and closed me into the tiny space.

Almost immediately, I collapsed onto the cloudlike mattress dressed simply in white cotton and stared dreamily out the window. I had no plans to stay. I had no plans to leave.

My first week on the island, I spoke to no one except Kiria, the two of us rapidly becoming an odd-couple with a well-developed routine. I would rise early each morning to find her waiting for me at her tiny kitchen table with impossibly strong coffee. I would gratefully accept the cup she provided, lacing my tennis shoes as we sipped. Nearing the bottom of the cup, she’d pat my hand gently, and I’d head out the door for my morning run. The island was hospitable to runners - donkeys outnumbered cars at an impressive ratio, but paved roads led up to an ancient church and down to the coast. I would start upwards first, popping into the church each morning to say a prayer of thanks - for the solitude, for the quiet, for the time, then follow the road to the sea. Once there, I’d leave my sneakers on the beach and plunge into the calm water for an easy swim.

Upon my return, I’d find Kiria again at her tiny table, an assortment of cheeses, breads and fruits prepared especially for me. She’d fill my plate until I dramatically collapsed on the table signifying my satiety, making her laugh each time. After lunch, I’d retire to my tiny haven and scribble for hours in my journal until the soul purging was interrupted by Kiria’s knock. She’d enter silently and lay a tray of food on the foot of the bed. At times, I’d pick at her offerings. More often than not, I’d simply continue to write furiously until sleep overcame me.

It was during my second week on Samothrace that I met Kiria’s daughter, Elena. I returned from a run one morning to find an interloper in my chair at the kitchen table. Elena lived on the island, just slightly up the hill, and had been beckoned by Kiria because she spoke English. Kiria was concerned about me, and Elena was present to serve as translator.

Elena relayed her mother’s concerns: I didn’t eat enough, I ran too much, I slept too much, I wrote too much, I spent too much time trapped inside of my own head. I spent all my free time with an old woman that I couldn’t even speak to. I needed to spend some time with people my own age. I was squandering my youth and needed to be living my life, at least as long as I was on her island.

My initial wariness of Elena quickly became a fast friendship as I realized that she was as warm and nurturing as her mother. Her charcoal eyes bore a genuine twinkle, her round face friendly and open, unlined from having lived a life that was simple and pure.

In an attempt to allay the fears of this wonderful old woman I was quickly coming to love, I relayed my life story to Elena. I was married quite young to a man who promised me the world. We would spend hours discussing the future we both envisioned and I was delighted to listen to my lover tell me that he shared my goals and dreams and was willing and able to jointly achieve them. My naiveté and desire to create a family, to forge a life worth living, propelled me into his arms. Immediately, we began trying to conceive our first child.

Shortly before our first wedding anniversary, I became pregnant only to miscarry on Mother’s Day. Instead of offering me support, he insisted we travel to visit his mother and robustly pregnant sister. The three hour journey lasted well over six hours - my profuse bleeding requiring frequent stops that served as a constant reminder of my devastating loss. I sobbed as he drove, only to hear that I was being overly sensitive. Once at the home of my sister-in-law, I was forced to place my hands on the wondrous belly, to feel a wee life beat inside a womb while my pale skin and raw nerves reminded me that my womb was empty.

Never one to shun my commitments, I continued to work towards the goals that I had set, with the singular sort of perfection I approached everything with. I maintained a home so clean and orderly that a drill sergeant wouldn’t have been able to utter a complaint. Not only did I learn how to cook, I made gourmet meals nightly. Not only did I continue to work, I excelled in my chosen perfection, rapidly rising to the top of my field. The neighbors commented on how perfect we were together, and I could see their point. Except that I was growing weary of working towards such perfection alone.

The following year, I suffered an attack of appendicitis. Overcome with pain, I fixed a scalding hot bath and climbed in. As I sat in the steaming water I screamed in pain. My husband entered the bathroom and told me to stop being so pathetic. I stopped being pathetic until I passed out cold in the bathtub - the result of septic shock. During my hospitalization, my husband never left my side and yet somehow I remained alone. Ten days later, I emerged from the hospital a skeleton, terrified from the near-death experience. Again, I used the pain to strengthen my resolve - working even harder to create the life I dreamed of, to maintain the perfect marriage that I suddenly realized was nothing but a construct of my own mind.

Three challenging and childless years passed and my obsession with motherhood grew. Countless doctor’s visits, fertility treatments and surgeries filled my days while my nights were spent begging my husband to make love to me and ultimately crying myself to sleep from the painful rejection. It wasn’t just that he was rejecting me, he was rejecting my desire to be a mother, to start a family.

Eventually, our union would produce two children, each pregnancy occurring at precisely the moment I finally found the resolve to leave him, an irony that was never lost on me. Still, I was utterly thankful for those perfect babies with their starfish hands and chubby legs and turned my attention to them, confident that I could create for them a childhood full of happy memories.
While my husband grew into his recliner, I persisted and I smiled and I embraced him - still willing to fulfill my promises to him, desperate to see my life plan through to completion. His fatigue grew into anger and from his leather perch, he’d bark - on every mundane subject imaginable.

His three minions grew silent, carefully avoiding the pitfalls that would begin the anger, our spines visibly tensing each time his hypercritical voice boomed over the rumble of the television. As gunfire erupted on The History Channel, my children and I would find ways to occupy ourselves that wouldn’t invite the ire. We’d go to the park, we’d go swimming, we’d color. Trips to the grocery store were a welcome escape and often, I’d buckle them into their car seats and drive aimlessly for hours at a time.

I took the children on a long vacation to visit my ailing grandmother. While on vacation, one of my credit cards was declined. I didn’t understand. We were financially secure - of that I was certain, I had worked far too hard for far too long for us to not be. Upon our return, I discovered that my husband had sold my sailboat - my only cherished possession.

It wasn’t much later that I discovered the devastating lies - the credit cards he had obtained in my name, the mountains of debt he had managed to amass despite our more than adequate incomes, his cavalier attitude towards what I had spent so many years diligently trying to create . The man that I had trusted had thrust me, unknowingly and unwittingly, into a deep and treacherous canyon.

To destroy my ability to trust another with my emotional security hurt. To destroy my ability to rely on another for love and companionship hurt. To wake every day and work towards what I thought were shared goals alone hurt. But those wounds I could heal. To discover that our financial security - the well-being of my children - had been destroyed was far too much for me to bear.

I left my husband then, leaving the home that I had poured my soul into, moving my children into a tiny apartment that lacked the space and the niceties of the only residence they had ever known. He begged me for forgiveness, he begged me to give him another chance but it was far too late. As sure as my commitment to our marriage had been, my resolve to leave had been forged in steel.

For months, I left our bright and cheerful new home only to work and to take my children to the park - we’d return to our sanctuary and I’d marvel at my breath - filling my lungs and exhaling - for the first time in well over a decade. They were happier too - I watched them play, let them scream and tickled them for hours on end before we’d all climb into my bed and collapse into dreamless sleep. Yes, it was silence I sought then. Silence and solitude and it’s attendant absence of lies.

In Kiria’s tiny kitchen, mother and daughter both stared at me, motionless as I recalled my life. I didn’t cry, and thought that I must have looked like a mannequin. I had been so devastated by the course my decisions had taken that I was numb to reality, numb to my life. I had finally reached the point where I wanted to live again - but I had no idea how I was supposed to do that. And so, I traveled far away - alone again - in an attempt to find that path.

The explanation seemed to satisfy Kiria. Through Elena, she told me that I was welcome in her home for as long as I needed to stay. She called me her “American Daughter”, then she told me to think about all the running, to truly try and understand what I was running from. She rose, kissed me on the cheek and spoke again. Elena said, “She wants to know how long you think you’ll be able to stay away from your children.“ I shook my head, genuinely saddened to think of them, but certain in the knowledge that they needed a healthy mother and that to return to them before I had found my own happiness would be a disservice.

During the third week, I returned from my morning run to find Elena taking up residence in my seat once again. “There is a party tomorrow night in the neighboring village. Be ready to go at eight. I will pick you up. Do you have any clothes?”

I laughed at the implication - she had only seen me in running clothes. I smiled at her, “Yes, I have a dress. What is the party for?” I asked.

“Someone was born, someone died. Someone moved back to the island. Someone moved away. Someone got married. It’s someone’s birthday. Silly girl. It doesn’t matter why there is a party, there is a party!” Her excitement propelled her up from the chair and towards the door. “Do you have lipstick? You’ll need lipstick.”

The following morning, I was actually excited about the prospect of attending the party. Kiria was excited as well. She continuously glanced at a small clock. As the departure time neared, she brought me a stack of fresh towels and a small bottle of rose-water perfume, nodding eagerly and pushing me towards the bathroom.

I was ready to leave Kiria’s house, ready to spend the evening with people my age, ready to dance, have a drink and to hear laughter. Elena arrived at exactly eight o’clock and nodded approvingly at my attire. “You look lovely. Skinny. But lovely.” She told me.

She was right. The running had taken a toll on my body. I felt strong, but I hadn’t noticed how thin I had become until I pulled my dress over my head and watched it hang limply on my frame. The drive to the nearby village was a long one, and Elena talked nonstop for our journey up impossibly steep hills. I clutched the door handle and watched my knuckles turn white as she sped around switchbacks telling me stories of her childhood on the island. With her, I laughed loud and hard - for the first time in a very long time.

As we approached the village, I began to feel strange stirrings - excitement, optimism, and joy. The plateia, or town square, was completely dressed for the party. There was a roped off area at one side of the square that created a dramatic entrance with flowers adorning a cheap metal archway. Tables were piled into the space, packed with revelers. I thought everyone on the island must be at this party. Children screamed and ran around through the legs of their parents. The short olive trees housed paper lanterns that cast an orange glow over the tables, lighting bottles of Ouzo and Retsina. Bouzouki music poured out of the open shops. A wandering band competed not only with the shopkeepers tunes, but with a larger band on the other side of the square.

I could feel my smile, and smiled even bigger because of it. Elena grabbed my hand and rushed me towards the entrance. “Fun, fun.” she said. I simply nodded.

I saw him the second we walked through the archway. I thought that he looked like a Classical Greek sculpture with perfectly proportioned features, a straight nose and an indefinable gentleness. He sat with a group of friends, leaning forward onto his knees, his broad shoulders toned under a simple black t-shirt. I was thankful that Elena was tugging me along by the hand, certain I’d be unable to move an inch without the impetus. I silently prayed that she knew him, that we’d be joining his group.

She dragged me just past him and I noticed him glance at me as we walked. I attempted a smile, but Elena was moving too quickly for me to note whether it was returned. After introducing me to a few of her friends along the path, Elena selected a table just behind him. I turned my chair so that I could watch him, happy to stare at his back, surprising myself by daydreaming about running my hands down it. I was shocked when I saw him turn around to look at me, and smiled broadly, pretending to listen to the conversation at my table. Over the next hour, we smiled and flirted silently, his head turned to look at me, my body turned towards him as much as possible.
Elena noticed the game we were playing and smiled at me. “This is ridiculous. Just talk to him.” She said. I shook my head timidly. She resumed her conversation, while the man and I continued our silly game.

The evening danced on and I enjoyed myself tremendously. It was refreshing to be out and about, with other people living their lives, the warm breeze rolling in from the Aegean, a handsome stranger nearby to flirt with, even if only silently. The night was drawing to a close. Elena looked at me and said, “ You have one last chance tonight. Introduce yourself or I will do it for you.”

I was in a quandary. I desperately wanted to talk to this man, but I was completely unsure as to how I was supposed to do that. I attempted to rise from my chair and introduce myself, but my body wouldn’t follow the will of my mind. Elena rapidly became frustrated by my stalling and leaned over me to speak to him.

“This is Anna. She is on the island for the summer, staying at my mother’s house.” She quickly backed away and resumed her previous conversation.

The man looked at me intently for a brief moment before introducing himself. “My name is Tony. So tell me, Anna. Where should I take you for our first date?”

I blushed and giggled. This man could easily charm me, he already had. “I will pick you up at six on Wednesday.” His certainty was comforting to me, I loved his willingness to make life easy for me, to make decisions and free me from thinking. He and Elena had a brief conversation in Greek then she ushered me out the door to her car. The drive back to her mother’s house passed in a blur, as did the following three days.

Tony arrived on Wednesday a few minutes before six. He was as attractive as I remembered although quite a bit taller and broader than I had thought. We drove, mostly in silence, to a small restaurant near the beach. We spoke about our careers, our leisure pursuits and our families. After dinner, we went for a walk along the shoreline. Our conversation flowed simply, and I was thankful to be with a man as easy and happy as the one before me. The darkening sky indicated that it was getting quite late.

Tony said. “I’d better get you home, I don’t want Kiria Apostolou to worry after you.” I smiled and nodded at him, and he held his hands out to help me up from the sand. As I stood, he circled his arms around my waist and pulled me firmly against him. My hands timidly landed on his chest and I rose to my toes to meet his lips. His kiss was sweet, but much deeper than I expected and the intensity shocked me. I pulled away from him abruptly, allowing my body to remain pressed against his, my hands trying to remember how to touch a man. He leaned down again and kissed me softly, his arm keeping me in close proximity despite my urge to pull away again. He released his grip seconds before his tongue snaked out to briefly tease my lips. He pulled away then and ushered me up the beach, back to his car, a self-satisfied smile dancing across his face.

I was hosting an amalgam of feelings that were all unfamiliar to me. Until this evening, it had been thirteen years since I had been in the arms of a man other than my husband. It had been two years since I had been in the arms of a man at all. I wanted to feel the feelings that were beginning deep inside, but I had long forgotten how. Nonetheless, I was happy and excited by prospects - Tony was a beautiful man - both inside and out. I couldn’t explain it, but he bled an innate sweetness, with just a touch of something salty that I couldn’t quite define. I decided to stop thinking, to allow life to unfold, but to be open to possibility.

Two days later, Tony arrived at precisely the time he had promised. Kiria ran to the door to let him in. He greeted her warmly, his voice soft and kind as he spoke to her. She was beaming. Tony was well on his way to winning me over, but Kiria was clearly already falling in love.

Once we were outside, he said, “What, I don’t get a hug?” and I was happy to embrace him. His arms wrapped around me and squeezed me tightly.

“What do you have planned tonight?” I asked.

He smiled at me, placing a motorcycle helmet over my head. “First, I’m going to feed you. Kiria just instructed me to do so. She said you never eat.” He feigned a look of admonishment and kissed me on the forehead. “Then, I’m going to take you to my favorite place on the island.”

“But I don’t ride motorcycles.” I informed him.

“I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you.” He said as he winked at me. And I believed him.

Our conversation flowed much easier than on our previous date, our mutual nervousness beginning to dissipate, and I discovered that Tony had a sharp wit and an agile mind. It was a delightful surprise. After dinner, we popped into a small pub and sat at a long table outside. Tony was affectionate and tender and as we continued to talk, I watched our hands find each other, fingers entwining and releasing, a strange flirtation that was automatic and very welcome. He noticed everything about me, and commented on it all - teasing good-naturedly at times, expressing approval at others. I was relaxed in his presence and perfectly happy.

Tony’s favorite place on the island was a very small plateia, with a fountain in the middle. The night was cool and breezy, the sky cloudless. We sat on the edge of the fountain, his legs wrapped around my body, mine draped over him as close as we could possibly be without being completely indecent.

As his fingers stroked my collarbone, he asked, “What are you looking for here?” I smiled at him and thought of how to answer. He knew that I was divorced, but the details of the situation were not something I had divulged. He saw me struggling to answer him and asked, “How long do you plan to stay here?”

“I will only be on the island for the summer, and honestly, all I can handle is a summer love.” I said softly. “I’m not ready for anything more. I can only think of my life in three month increments at the moment.”

“You always surprise me.” He said, kissing my cheek. He shifted away from me and began to speak, slowly, “I can’t fall in love with a woman that has children. I desperately want children and, I just thought you should know.”

I leaned into him then and kissed his cheek. His candor was refreshing and I respected his sincerity. I wanted to tell him that I understood, I wanted to tell him how long I had struggled to become a mother and how I would never deny another person the joy that comes from holding your own flesh and blood as they slept peacefully in your arms. I wanted to tell him that I thought he was the most beautiful man I had ever laid eyes on. But mostly, I wanted him to feel safe with me too. I wanted him to know that he didn’t have to explain things that were too difficult to talk about. I wanted him to feel the way I wanted someone to make me feel. So I kissed him deeply, fully allowing myself to express the passion I was feeling, surrendering myself to the moment.

With that, our relationship had been defined. We would enjoy each other for the summer, without a promise - either real or implied - of a future together. The arrangement suited us both just fine.

Our third date was far more intimate than either of us expected. We may have had dinner, we may not have. I really can’t recall. I clearly recall walking hand in hand to the beach and settling onto a blanket, a small cooler of beer next to us. We talked, we curled into each other, we laughed and we shared kisses that produced wave after relentless wave of goosebumps along every inch of my flesh. Tony noticed it, commented on it and I was embarrassed. But as he held me tightly against him, the embarrassment faded and I was happy to be in his arms. He curled his large body around mine. We fell asleep like that for about an hour with the cool breeze blowing off the water, the stars twinkling overhead. As he gently stroked my arm, I felt like a hothouse flower - prized and protected.

Our fourth date saw the consummation of our relationship and the sensation of being intimate with someone so utterly available to me was intense. Oddly, I don’t remember the details of the evening - I was too overwhelmed with expectation, too unaccustomed to sharing my body with men - to pay attention to the details. But I remember the way he undressed me slowly, the way he bathed my body with approving kisses, the way he made something that felt so unnatural to me feel so natural.

We talked easily and often on a variety of subjects, but mostly avoided the more serious topics - past relationships, future expectations - preferring to enjoy what we both knew was limited time together. We laughed together easily, and he never, ever pushed me. He’d sense when a topic was becoming more in-depth than my comfort level and he would immediately back off. “Don’t tell me anything you don’t want to tell me.” He’d say. His openness and his willingness to just let me be was more comforting than his arms wrapped tightly around me.

Similar to the routine Kiria and I had developed, Tony and I naturally began our own routine, both of us taking care not to tread too firmly on the other. Every few days I’d head to Tony’s house. Most of our dates involved food - and it always pleased me that Tony realized I’d simply forget to eat were it not for his insistence - a small gesture, but one that nurtured by starving soul.

I adored the way he treated me. When we were out, Tony was attentive and considerate, the obvious product of parents that insisted he be the consummate gentleman. I never opened a door, his hands were always touching me sweetly and he paid attention - to everything. When we were in, the situation was much different. Tony was completely in control.

Shortly after our relationship became physical, I was standing at the breakfast bar in Tony’s kitchen. He placed my hands on the bar and moved his over mine.

“Don’t move your hands.” He said.

“I want to touch you.” I replied.

“Do not move your hands.” I could tell from his voice that he wasn’t smiling.

Slowly, he began to undress me from behind. I stood before him nude, motionless, as his tongue worked it’s way down my back. As he kneeled before me, I could feel my legs begin to quiver. Slowly, his tongue worked his way back up my body until his mouth was on my neck, his face tucked tightly into the small space. I jumped as I felt a firm smack on my ass, seconds before he grabbed my shoulders roughly and turned me to face him. His mouth found mine and he kissed me aggressively before picking me up and carrying me to his bed. I was shocked and more than a little nervous. I really didn’t know this man. Would he hurt me? My pulse was bounding as adrenaline poured through my body, my arousal pouring down my legs.

“I love the way your mouth does that when you’re excited.” He whispered, tucking his head into my breasts. “And you don’t even realize you’re doing it, do you?” I didn’t. I still don’t know what he meant. I smiled at him as he kissed me deeply but briefly, pulling away to watch me come to him. I remained still underneath him, smiling. He grabbed my face hard and held me against the bed while whispering in my ear, “Don’t you dare hold back with me.”

With one hand, he captured my wrists, turning me around and shoving me onto the bed. I watched in a strategically placed mirror as he drove into me from behind, ecstatic in his firm grip, enthralled with how small I looked under his body. Without holding back, I screamed his name, feeling wave after wave of pleasure rock my body. The louder I was, the more aggressive I was, the more he enjoyed our passion and I felt his release occur in harmony with my own. After, he gently lifted me onto his bed and curled his body around mine. I slept as he tenderly stroked my arm, peppering my back with gentle kisses. I surrendered myself to him that night, a decision I’ve never regretted.

One morning, I showed up at his house with a sprained ankle. I had twisted it on my morning run and was suffering greatly. Tony wrapped my ankle in ice and sat me on his couch. He fixed dinner for us, then joined me on my perch. He was concerned and it showed - and I allowed myself to feel his caring. It was given freely and without the guilt that was usually associated with such tenderness in my previous life.

I closed my eyes as he stroked my hair and caressed my cheek. He laid on top of me and began kissing me. With my eyes closed, I could see him - his amber eyes, his perfect nose, his straight teeth. I pressed my body up against his, shifting to feel more of his weight on top of me. My mind began to drift. I could feel his breathing quicken against my neck, his fingers in my hair. I stretched my neck out to him. His fingers curled around my hair and he tugged firmly to stretch my neck further. I gasped at the sensation and was instantly pulled back to the moment, back to him.

As our relationship progressed, the expression of our physicality progressed. My hands would be bound in his, his large hand would wrap firmly around my throat, he’d sink his teeth into my flesh so aggressively that I was certain I’d bleed - all without ever leaving a mark on my sensitive skin. His body did not fair nearly as well as mine. During our morning showers, I’d be apologetic when I discovered the imprint of my mouth etched clearly into his shoulder. I’d be horrified when I saw the blood-streaked scratches that regularly covered his back. Tony would just laugh, “You’re my rabid little kitten.”

By dominating me so completely, Tony forced me to let go of my own rigid need for self-control which freed me to focus on the sensations, completely present in his presence. Aware that I was no match for him physically, he forced me into vulnerability - a place I spent a lifetime avoiding - and that vulnerability forced me to trust him and freed me to feel each touch, each kiss and each earth-shattering orgasm with an intensity I had never experienced.

We made love on the edge of a knife - with no past and no future. But to call what we shared “lovemaking” would be untrue - we were never in love. We enjoyed each other in every sense, but neither of us would relinquish enough control to fall. Sometimes, I think neither of us wanted to be the first to scream “Uncle”. Sometimes, I think we were both just fulfilling a need for the other. Like most things, the reasons are largely irrelevant, but in him, I found my salvation.

As it became obvious that my time on Samothrace was drawing to an end, I became a bit somber, a bit withdrawn. I would miss Kiria and Elena terribly, but the longing I felt to hold my children, to return to them a healthier and happier person was becoming unbearable. Tony had reminded me that I could be all things - that I could be a mother, a lover, a friend, a colleague, a traveler and a runner - without having to run from any one thing.

I didn’t expect that saying good-bye to Tony would be as painful as it was. I’m sure he knew that my departure was nearing, but we never discussed it. The morning I arrived at his house to tell him, he noticed instantly that something was wrong. We chatted casually, both of us pretending things were normal but fully aware of the small dark cloud high above us. As I said goodbye, I began to cry. Tony held me tightly on his lap as the tears gave way to sobbing. He said the appropriate words and he apologized for holding back with me.

For a time, I’d send him emails telling him where I’d be at any given moment, hoping against hope that I’d look up to see him walk through the door. I imagined myself jumping into his arms with a beaming smile and saying, “I‘ve missed you, baby.” But that shit just happens in the movies, it's never that way in real life.

I never told him how much I had held back with him, and part of me will always wonder what it would be like to love him, deeply and purely, with an intensity that we are both so capable of.

It wasn’t until later that I realized how much I miss him. I miss his soft laughter, they way he noticed everything, his gentle teasing, his sly smile, his openness, his perfect kisses and even the way his fingers turned upwards at the tips. I often wonder if he thinks of me the way I think of him, if our relationship meant to him what it meant to me.

As I was leaving, I told him that he had been very good for me, and it was sincere. Our meeting was not fated, nor was it meant to be, but I’ll never understand why something that felt so right was not.

Inspiration

"I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no brief candle to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations." - George Bernard Shaw

There are three authors/thinkers/writers who always sing to me. They are Oscar Wilde, George Bernard Shaw and Paulo Coehlo. You'll likely find lots of tidbits from them all here as I turn to them for inspiration and hope.

Guidance

The name "Huda" means "guide". This is a story that was written largely for my best friend, with apologies to the band Wilco for blatantly stealing a line.


I surprised myself by knocking on the door. My rational mind seemed to be on sabbatical. I had read my horoscope incessantly for days, consulted those who knew me best and browsed self-help books in bookstores. Now I found myself knocking on the door of a palm-reader. It was a whim, I had merely been driving by on my way to the grocery store, when the sign with the colorful palm, thickly painted lines and a pink, radiating heart caught my eye. Involuntarily, I pulled into the parking lot, dust flying and gravel grinding under my worn tires.

As I emerged from the cool comfort of my car, the sun bore down on me and wrapped my body in a moist heat. Even birds were stifled, tucked into the trees overhead, motionless and silent. During the walk up to the path to the house, I tried to talk myself out of seeking counsel from this mystic. I was sure she’d be a caricature of a Gypsy, eager to feed me the tales I wanted to hear and to take my money with a smile. Despite this knowledge, I found myself climbing the three wide steps before knocking gingerly on the door. The door shook and creaked under my soft knock and I heard nothing but silence from within. I waited a moment, then knocked gingerly again. A few moments of silence passed and I turned to leave. I glanced up at the tree overhead, in time to see a crispy brown leaf twirl slowly to my feet. I did not hear the door open.

“Hello, dear.” A soft voice came from behind me. I turned to find a slight woman standing in the passageway, dressed immaculately in a long white skirt and a matching white blazer. Long black tendrils hung down her back, cascading over her shoulders. Her pinched mouth smiled cautiously and I guessed from her demeanor that she was in her fifties, although her skin was unblemished and clear. I stammered back an appropriate greeting.

She took a step towards me and stretched a hand out to mine. “Come inside. We need to talk.” I smiled at her and found myself grabbing her hand and following her inside. I squinted as I entered, the darkness of the room in sharp contrast to the glaring brightness of the outside world. “Sit here,” she said, leading me to a chair right inside the door, “I’ll fix some tea and then we’ll discuss your situation.”

I was appreciative of the moment to be alone as my eyes adjusted to the new lighting, to my new surroundings. The room was large and open. Dark green, plush carpet lined the floor, reminiscent of a jungle overhang - a discomforting sensation that made me feel as if I was standing on my head. Spotless white furnishings lined the walls - a blend of soft sofas and erect chairs were packed tightly between the occasional end table. Each table housed a white lamp whose base was a replica of a classical sculpture carved out of some cheap material made to resemble marble. I recognized the Venus de Milo despite the large white shade perched on her head, and I thought I saw Michelangelo’s David across the room. Gold framed mirrors covered the walls, packed as tightly as the furniture, almost as high as the ceiling.

I was in awe of the room - a Hollywood set director couldn’t have painted a more stereotypical image and I reached for my phone to take pictures. Realizing that I had left my purse in the car, I stood and turned towards the door. At that moment, I blurted out a laugh as I saw a large hookah-pipe standing in the corner. “Unreal. It’s too perfect.” I muttered. The screech of metal jarred me and I turned to see the mystic pushing a cart towards me. Perched atop the cart was a beautiful silver teapot unlike anything I had ever seen. A matching bowl held sugar and an assortment of sweets sat nearby on a plate. I smiled at her. “I left my purse in my car. Will you excuse me for a moment?”

“Your purse will be fine in your car. Sit.” She said it with a smile, her voice a soft ebb and flow, but it lacked the novelty of suggestion. I sat instantly.

“My name is Huda. It is a pleasure to meet you.” She sat primly on a chair caddy-corner to mine, the tea tray between us.

“Nice to meet you, Huda. My name is Anna.” I smiled back - a forced and tight smile, and noticed I was sitting erect in my chair.

“Anna, will you accept the things I tell you and learn from them?” She asked me, a genuine look of interest overwhelming her face. I noticed a small mole at the corner of her eye, a charming nod to a femininity that was innate and nurtured.

“My story is somewhat complicated.” I said. “It all started with…” she held up her hand to stop me.

“If you tell me your story, nothing I tell you will make a difference. You’ll think that I tell you what you want to hear, not what you need to hear. In my country, there is a proverb that says, ‘Seek counsel of him who makes you weep, not of him who makes you laugh.’. You tell me the things that bother you, then using nothing but common sense, I tell you what you want to hear. You leave laughing, bothered that you lost fifty dollars, but amused. But, if you say nothing, and allow yourself to listen, you may find that there is a benefit to stopping here today.”

I stuttered an acceptance. Huda folded her hands neatly in her lap, quickly unfolded them and poured each of us a cup of tea. Every one of her long fingers was adorned with a gold ring, each more elaborate and detailed than the next. I stared at her delicate hands wondering how they could manage the burden of so much adornment. Handing me a cup, she continued to speak in her beautifully accented English. I was curious as to her country of origin, but knew that I should not speak. “You came here because you are upset. It doesn’t matter what is upsetting you, although it is probably a man.” She rolled her eyes, her head shaking from side to side. “To that end, I will tell you another proverb. Believe what you see and lay aside what you hear.”

She shifted towards me taking a delicate sip of her tea. I followed her lead and the flowery warmth and sweetness of the tea filled my mouth, relaxing me a little. I leaned back slightly, desperately curious to watch this woman speak, hopeful that she would be able to offer some tidbit of wisdom, completely unaware that she already had.

“You do not need answers from me, you have answers within your soul. However, you are here, as a guest in my home seeking answers from me, so I will share with you what I know to be true, the things you need to hear. Afterwards, I will read your palm and tell you what you think you want to hear. It will be completely useless to you.”

“I’m sorry, I’m somewhat pressed for time at the moment. Perhaps we should reschedule.” I said, timidly.

“Don’t be a silly girl, Anna. You have nothing but time. Your errands can wait.” She patted my knee. “The knowledge you acquired in the cradle is what carries you through life. Nothing more, nothing less. Newborn babies are ignorant, they lack higher reasoning. They know discomfort - hunger makes them cry, laying on their arm but not having the ability to pull it out from underneath them makes them cry, soiled diapers make them cry. Mother nurtures - solving these problems, sometimes easily, sometimes after trying other solutions, but mother instinctively performs the actions to soothe the baby, cuddling, feeding, swaddling and cleaning all the while bestowing affection and care on her. Baby learns quickly that her cries bring mother and that mother will tend to her needs. Some time passes and baby begins to trust in mother, learning that the breast will still come at predictable intervals, the diaper will be changed and comfort will be provided, whether baby cries or not.”

I couldn’t deny my curiosity. Her voice was rhythmic and light, betraying the sincerity of her words. I felt myself humbled in her presence and leaned back in the stiff chair, my tea cup perched gingerly on my knee, secured by fingers that held on as tentatively to the cup as I was to her words.

“Do you understand what that means for you, Anna?” She asked.

“I think so.” I replied, unsure.

“No, don’t think so. You must know so. It means that, when adequately tended to, you trust that the nourishment you need is predictable. You shouldn‘t have to ask for it, it should be given freely and selflessly.” She looked at me through heavy eyelids, questioning me.

“I understand.” I said, even though I suspected I really did not. “Maybe I should be taking notes.” I smiled at her.

“You don’t need notes, you need to listen better.” My attempt at humor was either lost on her or irrelevant to her. I found that either way, it didn’t matter.

She continued to speak, “Babies are such perfectly selfish little creatures, taking what they need and giving precious little in return. Mother infers the things she needs from baby - interpreting the sleepy sigh as being especially for her and capable of being elicited only by her, claiming the toothless smile as her reward. But the young goose is a good swimmer and as baby grows, she learns that the selfishness that served her so well during her first years of life is not socially acceptable. She is forced to share toys when she would rather not, she is required to participate in activities she would rather not and she is forced to show affection to those she cares little about.” Huda’s head shook gently, as if her revelation was an abomination.

“Such a shame really, if we’d retain those self-serving behaviors, we’d be much more content.” She said.

“But we’d be lonely.” I said in retort, thinking I had made an astute observation. I felt myself grimace.

“How do you fight loneliness? You pretend that things are acceptable to you that really are not out of a fear of being alone? It’s absurd. You make useless sacrifices for no good end. The people that love you will continue to love you when you disagree, when you are needy, when you’re having a bad day. So, you think you are fighting against loneliness by swallowing your own needs when really, you are inviting a deeper sort of loneliness by embracing relationships that don’t serve you well. ”

“No. All relationships require hard work and effort.” I told her, my tone informational and stern.
She smiled at me maternally. “Do you really believe that, or is that just what you’ve spent a lifetime being told?”

“I absolutely believe it. I can share a proverb with you now. Anything worth having is worth fighting for.” I felt that I had trumped her, that she would fold to my way of thinking with enough time. I was ready for a debate.

She admonished me with a laugh. “You American women struggle so much. It’s all your fault, it is your own fight. The things you want should come easily, provided you aren’t asking for things that you do not need.” She continued to scoff at me, “When a door opens not to your knock, consider your reputation.”

Her proverbs were beginning to muddle my head. They were so vague, difficult for my logical mind to comprehend. I wanted, no needed, to understand the words she spoke, I felt that her counsel was critical to me at this juncture in my life, even though my original questions had slipped from my mind.

“But I’m not very good at letting go of anything. I believe in seeing things through to the end, I believe in making an honest effort for something you want.” I felt like a pouty teenager.

“Stand up and look at your face in a mirror.” She instructed. “Tell me what you see.”

I did as she said. “I have blue eyes.” I said.

“No, no, no. Don’t tell me what you look like. I have eyes, I see you. Tell me what you see.” Her voice trailed off and I concentrated on my own reflection.

I looked harsh, world-worn. My brow was furrowed, my eyes seemed cold, my mouth was screwed into a tight knot. I told her these things.

“Exactly. Your face will always betray the words you speak. You may feel that your heart is ready to love others, but you are prepared for battle. Only the most basic truths of human nature can be realized during a war. You will learn that all men will sacrifice to fill a hungry belly, you will learn that men are capable of atrocity when they feel their own existence is at peril and you will learn that only a few people are capable of miracles during times of ugliness. It is human nature to save ourselves at the expense of all else. And as with the newborn, our selfishness serves us well.”

“Huda, you are terribly depressing. I believe in the good of people.” I said, a lone tear rolling down my cheek against my will.

“No, love. Man is not evil or bad. But, you cannot have what you want or need when you are prepared for battle. Life is not a war and people are not the enemy. The fight you fight is inside of you, and I see it in your American sisters daily. Have another cup of tea, dear. Compose yourself and I’ll continue in a moment.” She rose from her chair and disappeared into the back of the house.

I inhaled deeply and rubbed my temples. I could feel a headache beginning, a tight knot beginning to bulge in the back of my neck. I rubbed the spot absent-mindedly for a moment then glanced at my watch. I had already been here for far too long, I had things to do and the urge to leave began to overwhelm me. Huda returned with a beautiful strand of beads in her hand. “Hold these, occupy your fingers while I occupy your mind.”

I studied the beads, their beauty in their simplicity. No two beads were identical, a nod to the fact that human hands had labored over them, creating something lovely and precious only because of their imperfections. They rolled under my fingers and as I played with them and I found myself drifting off into a dreamy state, receptive.

“Being loved by another is far more of a burden that bestowing love.” She watched my fingers manipulate the beads. “As you play with those beads, you are searching for their meaning. They are meaningless. They are a string of beads.”

I wanted to sleep. Her words confused me and I struggled to deduce meaning out of the contradictions she shared. I was entirely unsure of her intended message, but the headache intensified and I wanted to leave. Despite my discomfort, I could see that Huda was not done speaking to me and that to leave at the moment would be a grave mistake.

“Until you learn how to accept love, you will never be able to give love. Stop searching for meaning in that which is meaningless. You must be like the oak tree that you were watching when you arrived, giving your shade to the outside.” She reached out for my hand. I extended it to her. She spread my palm out and scooted closer to me, placing my hand on her knee, my palm open to the sky. A bright red fingernail scratched the lines of my hand.

“He loves you, but he is not capable of being loved by you. Perhaps it’s bad timing. Perhaps it’s you, perhaps it’s him. But you cannot force him to love you just as you cannot force a hungry man to eat. Stop fighting. Be the love you want and you will find the love you need.” She said, never glancing at my hand. “When love is pure, it is always easy.”

I felt a smile loosen my face and I stood to leave, glancing in one of the mirrors that covered the walls. I saw myself differently - the furrows in my brow were beginning to fade, a light shone from deep behind my eyes and my smile was genuine and light. I hugged her tightly and felt her lips graze my cheek. She pushed me away from her briefly before pulling me in close and kissing my other cheek. With her hands on my shoulders, she whispered into my ear, “No one ever waited at the gates of patience.”

Truth

"That is why it is so important to let certain things go. To release them. To cut loose. People need to understand that no one is playing with marked cards; sometimes we win and sometimes we lose. Don't expect to get anything back, don't expect recognition for your efforts, don't expect your genius to be discovered or your love to be understood. Complete the circle. Not out of pride, inability or arrogance, but simply because whatever it is no longer fits your life. Close the door, change the record, clean the house, get rid of the dust. Stop being who you were and become who you are."

From The Zahir by Paulo Coehlo (and yes, he is brilliant).

Velocity

"I must learn to love the fool in me - the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laughs and cries. It alone protects me against that utterly self-controlled masterful tyrant whom I also harbor and who would rob me of human aliveness, humility and dignity but for my fool." - Theodore Rubin, MD

“Have you ever had the beauty of life educated out of you?” This stranger seemed to be speaking to me, but surely he could not have been.

“Are you talking to me?” I asked, genuinely puzzled. Random people never spoke to me, certainly not on an airplane, this early in the morning, while my nose was tucked into a weighty novel.

“Yes, you. You seem confused. I’ll speak slower.” He repeated himself, emphasizing each word of his original question as if I were a toddler. For reasons I can’t explain, his condescension piqued my interest. I had learned early in life that the questions of “why” were better left to psychologists. I just placed one foot in front of the other and marched along, happy in not understanding human motivation.

I turned to look at him, the airline forcing a proximity that was unsettling. I mentally lambasted airplane designers for not respecting the most basic principles of personal space. As I turned to look at him, one corner of his mouth curled into a slight bow. I noticed that he must have had his nose broken at some point in his life, the curve so pronounced that it could only have occurred from some trauma. “Every single day of my life.” I replied simply. I did not return the smile he attempted, nor did I continue looking at him. I returned to my novel, although it was challenging to concentrate. I could feel his stare burning the side of my face.

“It was a serious question, you know. You’ve got your face buried in The Alchemist, of all things. It wasn’t random.” The irritation in his voice was easy to recognize, I was feeling it myself. We were an hour into our flight. I didn’t have the energy to continue this sort of discourse for the next six hours.

“Yes, I constantly learn something that ruins life for me. Happy?” I asked him.

“No, I’m not happy. Give me an example.” He leaned towards me.

“Sir, you are dangerously close to having your nose broken again.” I said, not looking up, and shifting myself closer to the window, a near-impossible attempt to create more distance between us.

“Nice. You are observant. And ballsy. Ballsy women are a total turn-on.” He snorted a laugh.

The morning light beamed into the tiny airplane window, creating a glare that made reading impossible. I stared through the window and thought that the mere act of flying was one of those moments. As a child, I would stand on the ground and stare up at the clouds, amazed at their softness, overwhelmed by their distance. I remembered believing in God then, thinking the rays that formed a prism through the clouds at certain times of day were His light, a visible harbinger of the invisible.

I remembered the first time I flew, bumping gently through the clouds and sobbing. My father reached for my hand and asked if I was afraid. I told him that I was. Dad launched into an explanation on the mechanics of flying, a complex and characteristically logical explanation meant to explain the simplicity of the feat and to allay my childhood fears.

I curled into my fathers shoulder then, breathing in his familiar scent, thankful for his attempt to comfort me. While I felt secure in my father’s arms, I was unable to explain that it wasn’t the act of flying that was upsetting, it was the realization that we were airborne due to human ingenuity.

God wasn’t reaching out of the clouds to carry our plane from city to city. Even at the age of eight, I knew my father would be unable to accept this sort of confession, ill-equipped to alleviate the mental burden I carried effortlessly, tucked neatly into my Bee Gee’s backpack. Coming out of my reverie I laughed at myself. ‘Such ego.’, I thought.

I turned to look at the stranger, my mood softened by the memory. I briefly considered sharing my recollection with him, then thought better of it. Being forthcoming was not my strong suit. There was a glint in his squinty gray-green eyes that was familiar to me - it was a look I often saw reflected back at me in mirrors - impish and amused. The look I adopted when I was on the verge of inciting another for sport - my own perverse entertainment.

“You just realized one of those moments. Tell me.” He said.

“Why are you still talking to me? Have I not given you enough signals to let you know that I’m not exactly the chatty type?” I was looking at him fully in the eyes, finding myself smiling against my own will.

“That’s a lie. You’re desperate to talk to someone.” He was right, of course.

“What are you, a therapist?” I asked. The smirk on my face was surely evident, and suddenly I realized that I was enjoying our conversation. “If this whole little existential discourse is your attempt to get me to suck you off in the lavatory so you can say you’re a member of the mile-high club, you’re engaging in an exercise in futility.”

I closed my book and tucked in into the pocket of the seat in front of me. Unwillingly, I shifted myself, legs crossed towards him, my hands shoved tightly between my legs.

“Your self-righteousness is funny.” The glint in his eye became a full sparkle, lightening his face, gentle wrinkles radiating out from the corners of his eyes, reminiscent of the rays of light that emanated from the clouds in my childhood recollection. “I’m a pilot. I could easily find someone to run into the lavatory with for a quickie. But you sure have a way with words.”

“Now I’ve caught you in a lie.” I said. “You’re too tall to be a pilot.”

“Self-righteous, foul-mouthed and willing to engage in stereotyping? Wow. You’re the trifecta.” I saw him shift away from me as he spoke. The withdrawal annoyed me.

I closed my eyes and rested my head against the window. The cool morning air was comforting on my face, I hadn’t noticed a heat rising from deep within my body, and wondered if my cheeks were flushed. I was annoyed with myself for being so abrasive.

My best friend often told me that I sabotaged everyone that attempted to get close to me, building personal walls out of bricks and mortar that were so secure no one would ever want to attempt to crack them. “You’ll have to meet Superman so that he can fly over them.” She would tease gently, knowing that her message was not lost on me. I hated this aspect of my personality.

I gave myself a little pep talk. The whole purpose of my journey to Brazil was to let go of the old ways of life, to free myself. For thirty-five years, I had counted every calorie, stopped at two drinks, exercised five times a week even when sick, bowed gracefully to my marital vows at my own expense, tended dutifully to my children and neglected the things that were important to me. Hell, I had long forgotten what was important to me. ‘Just talk. You’ll never see him again.’ I told myself. I inhaled sharply, summoning my courage.

“Sounds like you may have some interesting stories to tell.” I beamed at him, my smile feeling overly done and forced. Would he notice?

“I might.” He leaned in towards me again, returning my smile. He looked like the Cheshire Cat, and I felt like Alice - if only I could find the bottle labeled ’Drink me’. “Why don’t we take a step back and ease into a conversation?” He tapped his knee with his index finger.

“Wonderful suggestion. I’ll start.” I said. I was forcing out words in an attempt to sound natural, aware of the thud of my heart in my chest, curious as to whether he could actually see my pulse bound. “Why are you on going to Brazil?” It seemed an innocuous enough topic.

“I’ll be flying this plane back to Miami in a week. I have this week off, so I decided to spend it in Brazil. Lay on the beach. Do a little surfing. It’s good for me.” He replied flatly. “Your turn. Same question.”

I thought about how to answer. Should I tell the whole story? No, likely I should not. I had yet to master the art of self-confession, unsure of how to reveal some of myself without divulging my soul.

I had spent my entire adult life married to another for whom the term ‘verbal diarrhea’ was almost certainly coined. Not only did he welcome every random thought, he forced confession out of me with the ferocity of a KGB operative. This had an effect opposite to that which he intended. Instead of strengthening our marital bond, I isolated myself against the constant barrage for self-revelation.

It seemed to me that some of the wonder in life was in not knowing another wholly. Passion wasn’t born of the words we spoke, it was only discoverable in the silent moments. The devastating beauty was the way your fingers automatically intertwined with your lovers as you walked along a busy street, the automatic knowledge that it was his laugh you could hear intimately across a crowded room, the salty taste of his skin as you curled into him spent and satisfied. No, words rarely served a strong purpose.

The knowledge that each of us contained multitudes - thoughts and desires that could never be fully expressed - was the magnificence. It was what leant meaning to relationships and made the journey to know another so pleasurable.

I thought then, for the first time, that it must be the fulcrum on which relationships existed. The crumbling point must be the moment when there are no more secrets or discoveries to unearth. That’s when the dull ache of monotony sets in, the moment you either push up on the seesaw and hope your partner does the same when it‘s his turn, or you simply dismount and leave the playground, plucking splinters out of your ass.

“I’ve never been to Brazil.” I stated simply. “That’s why I’m going.” My answer was predictably safe. I bit my lip, mentally urging myself to try harder. “And maybe I am on my own quest for some meaning in my life.” I acquiesced, nodding towards the novel.

“A journey into the abyss?” He asked, rubbing his palms together devilishly, a mockingly sinister grin plastered on his face.

“No, a journey out of the abyss.” The confession startled me to my core and I felt my body tense. I snorted a chuckle, “You know, I don’t feel as desperate as that sounded.”

“It didn’t sound desperate, it sounded honest.” He said.

“Yes, it was honest.” This man was beginning to interest me in earnest. I noticed his hands, palms down on his knees, rubbing softly, his face soft and thoughtful. I thought I’d feel very comfortable with those hands controlling the plane. He seemed so comfortable in his own skin, so certain of his own soul.

I was suddenly very curious about his life, his background and his plans for the future. I shoved my own hands harder between my legs, fighting a conscious desire to reach out and stroke the tortuous veins that lined the surface of his soft hands. I felt foolish at the realization and glanced towards the window again.

“Death, drugs or divorce?” He asked, startling me with the bluntness.

“Are those my only options?” I laughed sincerely.

“Yeah, I think they are. And since you don’t look like a drug user and you seem to be alive - at least by the conventionally accepted definition of life - I’m going to guess divorce.” He was toying with me and I was enjoying the taunting.

“Impressive!” I chortled. “Not much gets by you, eh?” I was happy. For the first time in recent memory.

“Well, good for you. I wish I would have just taken a trip. When I got divorced, I got a tattoo. I was almost forty, sitting in a tattoo parlor in Miami with a bunch of twenty year-olds, getting a fucking tattoo.” He ran his hand up his cheek and into his dark hair before a boyish laugh emerged.

I was charmed. “You were supposed to buy a Porsche and screw the babysitter.” I informed him.

“Yeah, I did that too. But that was after the tattoo, it’s a BMW and she wasn’t the babysitter.” He laughed. “I still love that damn car.” He placed a hand on the armrest between us. I wanted him to touch me, to feel his hand grasp my thigh with urgency and intensity. I shivered.

“Is that what your husband did? Fuck the sitter?”

“No.” I replied. “Sometimes I wish he had. I wish that I could tell people that there was a good reason I ended my marriage. I think people would be less critical of me. As it is, people just look at me like I’m selfish for leaving a perfectly adequate marriage, for destroying the lives of my children without an acceptably good reason.”

“Are you?” He asked.“Yes, I suppose I am.” I replied. It felt good to admit culpability, to accept the accusations that I had heard repeatedly for the previous year. “But I’m not sure if it was selfishness or self-preservation.” My second confession startled me as much as the first and I felt my heart quicken.

“What are you looking for? What do you really want?” He asked sincerely.

“At the moment, a drink.” I winked at him, surprising myself with the assertion, mentally continuing to prod myself into an openness that I had spent years turning off. “For the future, ask me again when I see you next week. I‘m planning to find that in Brazil. Now, tell me about your tattoo.”

“Oh, well, to hear the story of the tattoo, you’re going to have to find it first.” He grinned at me. I thought the offer was certainly tempting.“I knew the invitation to the lavatory was forthcoming.” I said disdainfully, rolling my eyes dramatically for effect. I hoped he could tell that I was engaging him, toying with him as he was me.

“Do you really think you’re going to find what you’re looking for in a week?”

“Well, a week is all I have. The meaning of life can’t be that elusive, can it?” I knew my tone conveyed the intended sarcasm.

“You’re searching for the meaning of life? Well, that’s easy. I can fill you in on that one.” He nodded his affirmation, “and free you up to play on the beach with me for a week.”

“If you can enlighten me before we land, I‘ll take you up on that offer.

"He reached out to me, his hand gently brushing my knee. I could feel each hair on my body stand to attention, his touch an electric shock awakening me from a loss of sensation I hadn’t realized existed until that second. I felt my panties moisten against my will and shifted, made uncomfortable by the remembrance of the long-forgotten abilities my body held.

“Learning to fly.” He said. I was puzzled.

“Learning to fly is the meaning of life? All I have to do is jump in the cockpit, learn the controls, and thrust into Nirvana?” I asked. “That sounds easy enough.” I fought the urge to roll my eyes at him.

“Don’t be so literal.” He informed me.

“You really don’t know me at all.” I smiled.

“OK, fine. I’ll dumb it down for you.” It was his turn to wink at me, the action causing the breath to catch in my throat. He reached between my legs and pulled my hands out from their secure place.

He placed his right palm against my left, looking at our hands before lacing his fingers through mine and continuing, “Suspend logic for a minute and just listen. Close your eyes.” He uncurled his fingers from mine and stroked my palm with a finger. “Keep your eyes closed. Are you ready?” I nodded, letting my head rest back against the seat.

“Throughout human existence, people have wanted to fly. But, from a very early age, we hear that we need to ‘keep both feet firmly planted’. It’s a dichotomy that we all experience. As young children, we watch birds and believe that if we just will it hard enough we’ll find lift. We read the myth of Icarus and Daedalus, we idolize the superheroes that can fly more than the ones with superhuman strength, we learn about the Wright Brothers in history class, all the while being reminded of the importance of being grounded and logical humans.”

He laced his fingers in mine again, and I gently squeezed his hand to let him know I was paying attention. The tone in his voice changed slightly, lowering just a touch, softening noticeably. I felt my mouth curl into a gentle smile.

“But it isn’t solely the act of flying we seek, it’s the escapism. Of course, we don’t realize this in our youth. But to be able to propel yourself away from any situation that‘s less than rewarding, well, that’s magic. It’s the ultimate freedom.” I could sense him lean into me and suddenly, I could smell his skin, a scent foreign but inviting.

“There’s the sensation of it that’s amazing, too. You know, being propelled forward with the wind all around you. It’s the antithesis of inertia.” His feet began to tap a little drum riff.

“It’s also possibility. So, you don’t like where you are? Fly out. Go ahead, flap your arms and go somewhere else.”

He leaned even closer, his lips brushing my ear, “But here’s the biggest secret. It’s fun.” A barely audible giggle escaped my lips.

“When I was a kid, I would stare up at the sky, at birds with wings outstretched, dancing gracefully among the clouds and think that it looked like so much fun. That’s why I became a pilot, more than anything, flying is really fun.” He leaned back away from me.

“But, you know, when you actually learn how to fly, it’s not as magical as you originally thought. Some of the beauty disappears when you realize that it’s mechanics and physics. That’s why I asked you the question this morning. I just didn’t think you’d make it so difficult to explain.” He said.

His confession made me reflect on my earlier musings. I thought how eerily uncanny the similarities in our recollections were. I briefly toyed with the idea of fate, tossed around the idea of whether our meeting was somehow preordained. ‘No’, I thought. ‘Don’t attribute this to something bigger. Just accept that as humans, our experience is fairly universal’. I was able to breathe normally again.

“The meaning of life is freedom. And fun.” He poked me in the ribs to emphasize his point.

I squeezed his hand tightly and beamed at him, the largest, most genuine smile that ever graced my face. Almost miraculously, I was having the beauty of life educated into me. A lifetime of questioning suddenly condensed to one single beam of pure light. I looked out over the clouds, realizing that I was on the right path at long last, the path to freedom.