celal
It had been more than eighteen days though less than thirty. The girl couldn’t keep track of timelines. Somewhere around three weeks when the lemons were dropping on the dry earth and the bones of trees cracked from the weight of it. The home smelled of spruce, and the cats liked to sit in the corners where the girl placed palmfuls of green and brown kitty treats. When her friend arrived, she said, ‘I thought the bag was for me; I wasn’t wearing my glasses.’
The girl didn’t leave a welcome gift. She didn’t even think to leave the keys! She didn’t consider what would happen in the aftermath of her departure. She did consider the shape of the home by the smells, layout, and love she used to clean the place from baseboard to lampshade. She lit incense, picked a tarot card, scrubbed the toilet, wiped the mirrors, washed the sheets, and left a tin of espresso and a chocolate bar (dark cocoa with fig and hazelnuts) in the fridge.
She didn’t think about the keys, so when she left home, she locked the door, swept the stairs free of the olive branches, and didn’t look backward. She also did not answer the phone when her friend called because she was cycling - she felt the ripple and did not check her bag for the notification. What could be so important to interrupt the wind in her ears and the story of the sunlight against her face?
They broke into the kitchen window by prying out the screen with a screwdriver and sliding the glass to one side. They cleared space on the countertop, moving the glass mugs and silverware from the drying rack before hosting themselves inside face first and bum to the mountains. By the time the girl answered her phone, everyone was sitting around sipping Turkish coffee on the patio, passing cigarettes between trembling fingers.
Recognition would be a struggle for each young woman upon their next greeting. Both are drinking in the other as you would a glass of wine that's just a little too sweet. One said your hair is so blond; you are so tanned- when did you get a tattoo? You feel different, the other exclaimed, her hands in the air; you have changed, and I don't know how! The intellectual and the empath. One organizes their surroundings by comparison. The other probes gently into the aura to understand the subtle shifts in character.
One poured the warm white wine into glasses and set up an ashtray, while the other tossed mixed nuts and small dark chocolates into a bowl. We treat our guests the way we want to be treated. They sat on the patio with no moon to review but many interesting bugs to watch as they decadent their previous weeks. Do we remember or imagine the past? Do we reorganize our reflections how we want them to be tucked into our minds? Does it matter if it is fact or fiction?
Lessons are learned through the recantation, and the girls exchange their simple affairs of love, sex, passion, and pain.
You are a planner! One exclaimed, and the other got a bit annoyed by the accusation. Does it have to be an attack? She thought to herself, and the next instant: I am a planner. I like knowing what is coming- I enjoy the preparation! Does this make me fearful or focused?
Between the tiny sips of wine and palmfuls of cashews and dried apricots, stories flitted across that small wood table, and the women laughed, cried, and toasted to their tribulations, large and small. I am so happy to see you, they each said in their own way. One with her lips, the other with her eyes, and they understood one another.
It was nearly four am when the girls leaned back and sighed. The sky was still dark though the dogs had stopped barking. The earth sighed and settled between them. The cacti waved with the gentle breeze, and those pink flowers flickered with the soft light. Geckos scrambled across the deck, creeping toward the shadows. Partnering with a person means becoming aware of all sides of the psyche. The awareness becomes the foundation for acceptance. How do you accept what is while setting a boundary? What does it mean to tolerate someone? How do you love without getting wounded?
Synchronicities appear when you are in alignment with the cosmos, and the friends very quickly realize how they were living the same story with a different backdrop and costumes. How very unique we each get to be while the plotlines rarely vary all that much! As the secrets were unfolded and flattened as neatly as a handwritten letter spread across a lap, the women became more comfortable and confident sharing the ugly and depraved parts of themselves.
Whatever mirror we hold up is true at that moment. It is delicious to meet people who understand that the flux is always in fashion. Love is as dangerous as it is desirable, and the single thing the girls had in common was an embodied YES for whatever comes! Heartache passes, but the memory shapeshifts, and the lessons take root if you are willing to receive them.
What did you learn? One inquired.
To stay in my integrity, the other replied.
Would you change anything about what you experienced?
No, would you?
Not a thing.
Love is like this - it changes us for the better if we allow ourselves to experience the worst. It treats us to events we could not have ordained as a single unit. Standing at full height, erect and wanting, summer spreads open like a sponge, and the girl's toasting to its nectar.
Here I am, though one, and where will I be next time?
I will always say yes, thought the other until it is a very strong no.
What happens when we confront our past? Who do we become when we recognize the aspects of ourselves that we no longer are, no longer like, or no longer have use for?
How do you navigate love like this in the crux of constant change? It is not a matter of communication or understanding. It is not a matter of shared values or respect. It is so many things, and yet none of it all at once because when love strikes, there is no logic, and whatever you thought you knew or wanted no longer matters.
This is the beauty of being in love - being willing to transform. Staying open to the madness that ensues when you say, I don't know what I am doing! Staying open to the moment when you feel your heart flutter and your guts drop, and your body breaks open through the sensation of another being. Time does not exist. The days are innumerable; the minutes stretched like warm leather.
Ten days becomes ten years and you ask so many questions but don't really question the thing one bit because your heart feels it.
This is what it is to be pure.
Photo source.
