A rush of coolness blows past and gives me goosebumps. Jack rubs my arms. “Finish your wine and let’s go to the tent.” I slide into the unzipped opening and jump into his sleeping bag. Mine is next to his. I’m about to give a gift that can’t be given back or undone, so precious and sacred.
I’ve learned to trust The River, the Flow, the Lover. It takes immense confidence in God’s goodness. I accept the risk—to be in the present, to try not to make things happen, to not push The River.
He slides next to me in the sleeping bag. “Are we both going to fit?” He kisses me tenderly. He is such a good kisser. Small things matter and enable Love to thrive—warm vibrations fill the tent.
He slips the dress sleeves down my arms and kisses my breasts as his hands fill up he cups and nips gently. He moves slowly like the earth’s rotation while this profound moment unfolds.
He takes off his jeans and helps me with the rest of my dress. We lay next to each other in our underclothes—so near I feel the bold beating of his heart. Our kissing turns passionate and fervent, about to cross the threshold… the Power of Love, the Spirit comes from an uncontrollable place.
He slides down in the sleeping bag, removes my panties and kisses me down there. He inhales a sublime wisp of musky, amber-vanilla, sweetness sending a quiver through him. While kissing the hollow curve of my stomach, he realizes I’m not moving. “Are you, OK?” He whispers. I cup his head in my hands and laugh, “Yes, I’m so relaxed, I forgot to breathe.” We’re grateful for the comic relief—I kiss him with permission in my movement. I’m untrammeled by fears of being used, pregnancy, inferiority, and self-doubt. I finally, do the most authentic and nourishing act, for, in the end, I answer to no one but my own desire.
He slides on top and with gentle precision enters me . . . In one vast, thousand-fold flashback of every kiss, touch, hours of sharing walks, talks, and laughter-we meld in gladness.
“I’m sorry it took so long to do this,” I confess in the dark.
“Nothing to be sorry about, I wanted to be with you, it’s all that mattered, everything else was a bonus.” A delicious, calm settles over us as we slept in each other’s arms. Our bodies fit perfectly, wrapped together.
The next morning, streaks of warm gold sunlight streamed into the tent. Because we waited, planned, and chose with deliberate precision, we were rewarded by Love’s Larger Knowing that holds everything including freedom from the need to know. It will give us the strength to live with uncertainty—the very definition of Faith.
I’m awake before him, my mind races. How can I be this happy at such a young age? I’d relive this moment and yearn for the naturalness of his physical affection. I lie at his side, cradled and protected in his warmth next to his heart, so Loved.
We’re up early to see the rising of the daybreak star. Wrapped together in a blanket we sit on the same rock as the night before. Our lips raw with Love after giving everything to each other. We watch the orange-streaked, burgundy aurora, welcome the day. The sunrise splendor is the final blessing.
God is in The River, he holds us in the calmness of the morning light. We cocoon in a blanket, Jack’s arms around me. We breathe in the cool, fresh, river scent with hints of honeysuckle, and watch the drifting mist bring forth the morning.
I Love You (Pantoum) Six Indian Languages (Apache, Cheyenne, Hopi, Mohawk, Navajo, Ute & Spanish) Shill nzhoo Nemehotatse Nu’ umi unangwa’ta Avor anosh’ni Nemehotatse Te amo, te quiero Avor anosh’ni Konoronkhwa Te amo, te quiero Tom ho’ ichema Konoronkhwa Tom ho’ ichema Shil nzhoo Tom ho’ ichema Shil nzhoo Tom ho’ ichema
10
God’s Garden
Love is repaid by Love alone. –St. John of the Cross
Oliver experienced it, the day he was drawn to The River for the first time. A line of a Rumi poem echoed in his thoughts: “Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really Love.” He’s pulled by an invisible thread of Love to The River. Deeply moved by his willingness, Love responds. We’re all moved by it—trust, surrender and it accepts the invitation. Only from a place of spirit does Love become visible and enable one to see clearly.
It happens to anyone who crosses The River threshold, we enter into God’s Garden—pure naked being, a springboard to the sacred. A way out of our heads and into the reality of non-dual thinking. A free-fall into the boundless chasm of Love: the bliss yielding, silver stranded, Eternal Now. Whether it’s a townie or a trust fund preppy entering into the majestic heart of The River, the blindfold of the ego vanishes, and the possibilities unfold.
It’s thrilling to share this new experience with friends; the first visible jolt—their gaze changes. The blinders removed, lenses cleaned, replaced by reverence, indescribable well-being, and awareness of the resplendent surroundings.
“Wow! What’s happening?” Is their most common reaction.
“Relax, let go, let the sublime beauty wash over you. It’s trippy at first, but once you open up, grace flows.” I assure them, and hold their hands or lead them by the arm.
When the senses open up to the Divine, the veil of everyday ugliness is lifted. The wild danger of awareness is a glorious side effect when having an inner experience with the Supreme Being. There is no separation between the secular and the sacred. Regrettably it doesn’t last, but as long as The River invites and opens up to us, we’ll return for more.
I refer it to friends feeling bent out of shape, distraught or fearful. “Go to The River for a spark up, or God shot at the mystery holding tank,” I assure them of its healing qualities. Mind-altering substances help deal with the intense, alluring pull of the mystical elements and its emerging theater of undiscovered beauty. Smoking enhances the celebration of pure delight, creativity, and Love that radiates from this place.
Cynical students from Sacred Heart School make fun of the naïve, “holy hippies” that party with the Chola townies. They say we drink hobo wine, drop acid, and get stoned till we hallucinate a mystical event. They send Mark Dusk, Editor-in-Chief of the school newspaper—The Bullsheet to check it out. He’s blown away by an encounter with the spirit of his father killed in Vietnam.
I meet Jack and Caleb on a sun-soaked October afternoon. We plop down on a limestone outcrop slopped to The River’s edge. We’re about to begin our ritual of tantric gazing at The Arkansas River when Mark Dusk startles us. He looks like a leprechaun with thick reddish-brown hair, twinkling eyes, and a stout body. He scuttles up, sits down, and nods at Caleb to fire up the joint he’d just put in his mouth.
They razz each other about a disastrous chemistry lab project with colorful commentary of the spaz teacher, when a robin flutters inches from Mark’s face and then, perches beside him. Like the surprising shaft of God light beaming or the brief brush of a butterfly, we hold our breath and wait for the bird’s next move. Tears trickle down Mark’s round ruddy cheeks.
“The last encounter I had with a robin was the day everything changed.” He said softly. “I was in my dorm room studying when a large robin flew kamikaze style smack into the dorm window. I looked up just as it’s flattened torso shook the room. I jumped up to help it, but it was gone. Then, I heard a sudden knock on the door and was summoned to Headmaster Rio’s office.
We watch the curious creature while listening to the lapping and soothing sounds of the water’s waves. After the bird flew away, Mark pulls out a red bandanna from his back jean pocket and wipes his face. “Thank you; this means so much to me. I know now that my father is OK.” He refused to let anyone ridicule