Last Sunday, I rode in the back seat of Kalilala, Dorian’s car, as we headed home from a sun and play filled evening at Sauvie’s Island clothing optional beach. Andrew drove and Dorian sat in the passenger seat in front of me. I kept touching her, reaching across the seat back to massage her shoulders, rub her temples and ears, and play with her hair. I needed to feel connected. I needed to touch and be touched. I needed something to hold me present, on this plane.
It was a beautiful moment. Several times I held my hands in my lap, looking out the window, taking in Earth, feeling into my heart. The sun was just below the horizon; the moon, a small sliver, only three days old. I was thinking back to the night of the new moon just past, the simple happiness that I felt. The trust I felt. Good, quiet music played. The sky layered with blues, yellows, and pinks. Beautiful.
I love Dorian so much. And James. Oh, how I love James. Such a depth of emotion that only grows deeper every time I look into it. Each well of love deepens over and over, and rather than taking from the other, each supplies the other. They must be connected by some underground spring. I am amazed to realize that the more I love James, the more I love Dorian. And Joyana. Angel. Serenity. . . .
The car turns a corner, and suddenly there she is. The moon shining, hanging above the Cascade hills.
“I’m happy to be alive, grateful to be on Earth,” I say, before I know the thoughts formed.
Andrew and Dorian express their own joy for me. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that.” And I am reminded how many times I’ve wished to be anywhere but here, any where but on Earth. I try not to think about how close those thoughts are to suicidal. Silently, I reach out, I hold Dorian’s shoulders, leaning my head against her seat’s headrest. I cling to the happiness I felt, wanting to stretch it out.
We arrive at home. We cram five people on my couch, a snuggly puppy pile. I’m happy for the rest of the night.
Tuesday, I get to chat briefly with James. He’s been in Sweden for a couple days. I walk away from my computer with a smile on my face and head down stairs, when a thought bubbles up.
Wow, I’m incredibly lonely.
I think about how many times I call Joyana in a single day. No wonder I wanted Dorian to spend the night. No wonder I was so freakin’ clingy while James visited. No wonder I enjoyed my road trip with Herb so much.
Isn’t love a double-edged sword? The more I love the more room there is for loneliness and pain.
Crying on the bus after dropping James off at the airport, I came to understand that pain in love is a symptom of fear. I’ve always perceived loneliness as a lacking, a gaping openness that I try to fill with company, friends, and kisses.
But I realized just yesterday, that to be lonely is to be full. So full of ALONE that there is no room left for love. So full of LONELY it’s all I can feel. All I can see. I can only see the gapping holes in my life, the gapping fullness. I’m so full of lonely that there is no room for new friends, new love, or more love. So busy sitting in a coffee shop thinking about how alone I am that I can’t take the time to introduce myself to the person sitting next to me. So busy being miserable on the bus that I can’t say “hi” to the person behind me.
My Reiki teachers like to point out that ALONE is actually ALL ONE. While I know intellectually that separation is illusion, until I’ve experienced it to be true, that turn of phrase will remain just that– an idea that’s nice in theory.
If I consistently release lonely like I do fear, what would happen? Is there an angel who’s special job is to take away lonely?
I want to keep swimming in the depths of my love. I want my internal pools of love to keep expanding until there is no room left for ALONE or LONELY, pain or fear.
May I be so full of love there is nothing else!
