“This is our function in each other’s lives:
to hold the space for each other’s beauty…”
- Marianne Williamson
You don’t have to be broken to be
wildly, madly loved.
Love, to be wild, does not have to be
Frieda and Diego – that old romantic story of agony, arrows to the heart, wound after wound delivered by the beloved.
Love, to be stable, does not have to be
your mother and father – an arrangement bolted into place, where passion, like a wayward teenager, slipped out a dark window long ago.
That’s a paradigm you absorbed.
Stop telling the stories you tell yourself. Those stories about what you want and what you do not want; about what he needs to be and what he cannot be.
Sister, hear me: He doesn’t need to come bearing Dylan records – or whatever it is you imagined him carrying, once upon a time, when you first painted him in your mind – in order to be worthy of your love. You painted him as your mind wants him, and so he is limited. He is smaller than life. He is not real. He is a figment of your imagination.
Are you going to pass on a real man for a life spent looking for a figment of your imagination?
Let him come as he comes, carry what he carries.
Let him give you, instead of poetry, solidity.
Girlfriend, a man’s shoulders. A man’s kind of love.
Dismantle the stories you told yourself and tear up the paintings you made to illustrate them. Free yourself, and create space for honest, heavy, wild, real loving.
I use the verb form on purpose. Love is an action word.
Let him give you. Let him give it to you every way he can. Be open as an oyster in his hand, be shucked, slid, swallowed.
Girlfriend – be soulful.
Say, “I need you.”
Say, “I need.”
It’s alright to say it. That old “a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle” kind of talk belongs to another time.
This time we live in needs fusion, communion.
When you take communion, that holy host, you let it dissolve into you. You surrender. Not to guarantees, but to faith and spirit. You trust, and receive the body of God onto your tongue. When you take me into your arms, take me the same way you take Him.
Let a woman soften you. Brother, let her Holy Spirit move you. Women have been working this way for centuries. What can they not create? What can they not heal? She can give the love that kneads all those places your uncles taught you to harden. A woman’s touch can open all of that up. The way a woman’s body opened up when it brought you forth.
Give that kind of love. A tattooed on your bicep love. The deepest ink.
A love that kneads
Say, “I need a woman.”
Say, “I need.”
Have mercy, good God, be that kind of lover.
That loving changes people, shifts them, saves them…
What else can salve the wounds of this time we live in – its anxiety, its isolation, its alienation, its never-good-enough, its never-have-enough – but throbbing, blood pumping love?
We have been looking for that salvation in all the wrong places. It is not in our work. It is not in our closet. It is not in our pills. It is not in hardening beneath hectic schedules. It is not in drawing perimeters around our lives, and letting nothing out, and letting no one in.
Be not your mother, an icehouse when your father knocks. That is womanhood as weapon. That is womanhood gone mad. Be not your father, a fortress with no entrance. That is manhood without soul.
This is not their story. This is not their time.
Our time is now and it needs
love. Bursting Otis Redding kind of love. Talking about “come to me, forget the past, think of life we have ahead, my my my baby …” Move into Motown kind of love.
He is your soldier kind of love, and she is there, right beside you, in the deepest foxhole.
That kind of love. The all in kind.
That’s what this time needs.
You’ll have to come out of your computer screen for this kind of love. You’ll have to stand there live and direct, naked and unarmed. You can’t wear armor and have this kind of love. That’s why you don’t have it. Yet. That’s why you – drink, take pills, sleep with strangers, eat way too much cake, start a brawl at the bar, drown yourself in work, buy more dresses, blame everyone else, say things like, “All the good men are taken,” say things like, “I am unlucky in love.” Distractions. Escape routes. Diversions. All the ugly games we play to keep ourselves from leaping, from taking the risk, from OPENING THE FUCK UP. You can’t play safe and feel this kind of love.
You have to choose:
A figment of your imagination, or the real hot-blooded thing?
This is not your mamma or your daddy and it is not Frieda and Diego. It is not settling for either separate beds or broken plates. It is not either milk or whiskey.
This is not fireworks that burn your damn eyes out, scar your flesh, leave your hair charred and smoking.
This is not victim love.
This is love you have to own.
This is a good, strong fire that keeps burning in the hearth,
keeps you warm,
keeps you lit.
But it requires stoking, sister, attention, intention.
A fire like that is stable. And it is still a fire.
Strike his match. Be his kindling. Let him slide you into those flames, let him stoke you, warm you, ignite the two of you. Just shut up and let him.
This is something new emerging, a sublime creation. This is art, darling; it is an orchid thriving in lava rock, something twisted beautiful. It is sexy dressed in a grown-woman’s wardrobe: something left to the imagination, but everything bold and bursting.
Walls shaking but the house don’t fall kind of love.
Moans without breakdowns.
Giving without keeping track of what you gave.
My cup runneth over love. And my cup is bottomless.
Rock you, baby, love,
but not to break you, love,
to heal you,
love to rock you out of your closed parts, the cordoned, the shuttered.
“Come to me
for I’m begging, darling,
come to me…”
Love that transfigures. Ascension love.
Your kingdom come kind of love.
Rock me baby.
I will not break.