The Kiss

Andy meets me at the Calgary airport. He tosses my bags into the back of his cherry red pickup and we head to Canmore where he lives. I lived in these mountains for 20 years. And today my two kids are with their dad in Victoria, and I’ve got three days to hang out with my lover in the mountain town I left two years ago.

Andy and I are good already after only three months (and that time we spent as friends 11 years ago) together. This getaway weekend is just what we need to nourish our nascent relationship. Andy puts on some tunes and we sing along with Frank Sinatra as the city recedes and we head west.

As the prairie succumbs to the big rock, I remember the decade I spent with the father of my kids in these same mountains. This particular piece of life – in a life full of meaning – was a potent chunk of life.

I finally learned how to stop running. I practiced commitment. Though we didn’t marry, I pledged to stay with it, no matter what. Which was good because we had children and if you don’t think that isn’t going to take you to the places that scare you, you’re not paying attention! We opened to the entry of two new humans who shared our DNA, we surrendered to the process of life as something not entirely (ha!) controllable, and we became aware of karmic imprints and entrenched neural patterning.

I see a familiar crest of hill, or something as equally innocuous, and -- why do I cry? Loss? Grief for what was -- all those hopes and dreams that didn’t come true? Or maybe it’s gratitude for the fantastic stuff that’s starting now? The overwhelming sense of trust I feel for the intangible yet impossibly powerful process of life? The opening and ripening of potential. The flipside of karma.

Tears slide so slippery and pretty over the crest of my cheek as we come down off Scott Hill and the mountains engulf us.

I turn my face to the right and look at the shapes of earth I remember from countless drives to the city and back home again. The cows and horses in the grassy fields are a reminder of how Rio learned to say “Moo Moo” and “Neigh Neigh” for their names. A train snakes its way through the valley, a Res dog lopes, head down, the aspens are so brand new, there's still snow in the heights. I see this place and that place that I know like the back of my hand, the silhouetted shape of a tuft of trees at the top of a rise.

I’m quiet as I cry, no hiccupping sobs, just measured breath and a lovely release of emotion as we move happily forward.

Andy blinks right and pulls off the highway, onto a side road. Where are we? Is this another way to get to Canmore? A back route I didn’t know about? I’m happy to leave the driving to him. I sit back.

He pulls over to the left shoulder of the side road, stops, shifts into first, and turns the engine off. He undoes his seatbelt. I watch him as he leans toward me. He removes my sunglasses and takes my face in his hands. Our eyes lock. In yoga this is called Trataka, a practice of gazing to develop concentration. When practiced eyes to eyes, it can bring two people into union, and teaches us that all human beings are one, we are not separate.

What exactly does that yoga babble mean? Well, we humans all share the human experience. Her pain is the same as mine, his happiness is mine too. My wanting is the same as the wanting of every other human soul. Who doesn’t ache to love, and to be loved? To be needed and to make meaning of our lives?

Andy’s hands are warm on my skin, his thumbs rest on my cheekbones, touch traces of my tears. He is quiet. There’s this elastic moment where the past meets the present and morphs into the future, and an entire mountain range of new possibilities thrusts up out of the earth.

We both track that, shake our heads in amazement, then smile to recognize where we are, what we have. Our love is new and already so strong, a hardy, practical force coloured with the rainbow of romance, imbued with confidence, and shot through with enough lust to make my heart beat faster as he pulls my face toward his.

Ah, he pulled off the highway to kiss me. He imagined this a few minutes ago, and here we are, in that gorgeous, thick, unwritten moment before the kiss. I feel longing and fulfillment. Desire and confidence. Welcome and excitement. A potent surge of energy erupts in the base of my body and gushes up through my sex, painting all of me with ecstatic bliss.

Dammit, get over here and kiss me already! Press your mouth to mine and in that meeting of our bodies we explore and communicate and share and release and rage and sing and laugh and ache and dance. In this union there is a promise of life so fine, the reward for good work, and the assurance of always more.

By the end of it we’re laughing and gasping, reaching for each other, pulling and grabbing. We want to get even closer, trying to prove that we are one.

Then we come apart, laugh, shake our heads, laugh again. He puts his seatbelt on, starts the truck, and drives onto the highway. We head toward his home, to a weekend together. Into our new life, whatever that may be, and wherever it will take us.

This kiss neither promised nor gave security, it was rather a dedication of themselves in comradeship to the danger and pain of living. And living is another word for creation; they knew that for one short moment they clung to each other; creation by body and mind and soul for a future of humanity whose nature cannot even be guessed at.
Elizabeth Goudge: Green Dolphin Street

Magic

A current of excitement zaps me as Andy shoves aside some boxes in his attic and uncovers the old Underwood Number 5. Goosebumps jump up off my skin, the experience registers at the top of my inner Magic-o-Meter.

Who can trace the trajectory of the heart? What is the alchemy that creates reality from dreams? And which of our dreams are the ones that are meant to come true?

A thought memory of Andy – a hurtling neural riddle of convoluted connection -- flashed across the video screen of my brain for a microsecond in February this year. At the same moment, two thousand kilometers away, a mutual friend mentioned my name to Andy. He decided to contact me.

Wow.

The old typewriter sits in the loft of Andy’s garage, parked on the floor amidst boxes of stuff – there’s the Boston Bruins # 5 jersey he played in when he was a kid, a collection of pewter dragons and knights, pots and pans that belonged to his best friend who died climbing Mount Temple, and at least a hundred empty paint tins intended for recycling rather than the landfill.

Underwood Number 5, circa 1931. It is a lovely little upright machine. I kneel in front of it, sniff metal. The red and black ribbon that I remember from a previous lifetime curls around two spools. There is dust on the keys, the R is slightly depressed, and one silver metal hammer sticks up out of the gleaming sickle of silver keys. Memories crowd the door of my heart.

“That’s the last key you pressed,” Andy whispers. “What was the last word you wrote on this typewriter?”

In 1995 I lived in a small basement suite on Wolf Street in Banff. 32 years old, I was on my own. Still in the closet as a writer. Single, I wanted a baby. Was aware that I needed a man to facilitate that.

In a private ritual by a glacier lake I cast a spell. “I’m ready for the child,” I called out. (I suppose I could have whispered.) “And I know that means I’ll need to find its father.”

Boom. Mess with magic and you will manifest. Try it.

Men streamed into Evelyn’s Coffee Bar where I worked. They brought me roses, stories, and jokes, and offered me excursions and advice. One man brought me this Underwood typewriter when he uncovered my secret life as a writer.

Not all who approached were accepted, but I made a point of thanking the Universe for each one. In poetry I wrote on the Underwood Number 5, with this red and black ribbon.

I also dashed off grocery lists, and hammered thoughts into words on the old Underwood. I banged out my prayers. Transcribed my guilt into gold. And tapped out my wishes.

I looked ahead and trusted. I knew what I wanted, I just didn’t know when. Or how. I left that up to magic.

Three men made the final cut (wishes come true in triples, watch for this): one man I let go, the second became the father of my children, the third is Andy, my lover now, here beside me in the attic.

I lean into him. Exhale slowly. Shaken.

He didn’t want children. He had his reasons. We were friends for a season and then we went our separate ways.

The delicate nature of our reconnection – thoughts and mental images whizzing across the airwaves, delicate currents of heart connection, the impeccable perfection of timing – undoes me. On one hand it is so powerful, on the other, it feels like we could easily have missed all this. If any of the decisions made in the past had been different -- even only one – we might not be here, in love and marveling at the mysteries of the universe.

I inhale. Smile. Lean forward and breathe across the keys. Andy reaches over and releases the R.

I begin to write.

Boom.

Be afraid; it is not easy

"Your children need your intact soul more than they need anything else from you."
Tina Pearson

This morning the ocean laps at the white sand of Willows Beach; I am content, satisfied, as full of salt and nutrients, wanting nothing but to shift my heavy waters in a tidal dance, to sink down and swell up in concert with all that other liquid life.

Colours morph, blue green goes gray, and a bulldozed bank of clouds at horizon blends new shades out of platinum water, blue sky, and sun sparkle. Constant change is the one thing we can count on.

I give thanks. Nothing is too small to escape the scrutiny of my gratitude. Scrape the barrel of your life and you will fill your belly with appreciation.

The children are with their dad this morning. I am alone at the beach, fully aware of the delicate and minute unfoldings of my vast and limitless soul. In a mountain town my lover prepares to start a new life with me, with us, at this water's edge.

In this new version of my life, my role of mother is redefined. In the beginning there was what I was given, what I didn't know. Then I opened my heart and I learned who I am not, only to have to face who I am now.

“Do I hear regret in your words?” Sometimes we need a teacher to point out our failings – Anne Douglas knows me. “What I see is that you absolutely couldn't have done this process any other way... because you didn't. The wounds, the disconnect, the betrayal, all arose within your brilliant Awareness for you to see through it ... and you DID!!! How excellent!”

My preconceptions and patterns were blasted out of the water of my karma, brought to light, and I am free to be me. As I uncurl from the fetal position, the intense pain of rebirth eases; I reconnect with friends, reopen to the world.

What else can I say, but find those opportunities life offers for transformation. Be afraid; it is not easy. The magic of neuroplasticity is potent, and it does require concentration, a certain stilling of the senses. Practice, practice, practice, pioneer, and I assure you, it is worth the work.

It feels brand new, like the first time. And this time there is no grouchy God to take away the apple. No. This gorgeous, holy body feels such pleasure, every cell, every curve of lovely skin, every chuckle, hiccup, burp, and fart is an expression of the divine.

Set your mark upon the path of the infinite. Go, take off your clothes and enjoy Eden.

And please, baby, tell me how it is for you.

the time we spend
as we pass this way,
we might not ever
be here again.
so hold on tight
to what you find
tom cochrane