5:00 p.m. - Friday, Oct. 06, 2006
my secret lover
In the morning she half wakes and lingers in that netherworld of neither here nor there. She is ending a dream, yet knows she is about to wake and holds onto a thread of it. She knows if she holds onto a thread, more will unravel. The dream being deliciously sensual, fulfilling, enveloping, yet it's too late. She longs to linger in her secret, dream lover's arms and feel his warm moving body. The alarm sounds. She leans over then turns it off quickly trying to slip back. It is no use.

After several minutes, it's time, time to get out of bed and start another day with a stretch and a yawn. First a toe, then one leg, finally the covers come off. She stands by the edge of peace knowing she cannot return. Reluctantly heading to the bathroom, one hand reaches automatically for the shower knob and turns it three quarters of a turn, not hot, not cold but slightly more than her body temperature. She has to fully wake up. As her hand runs across her shoulder to unfasten her nightgown strap, she feels the silken skin of her own shoulder. How nice it would be to be showering with him at the moment, like before, such frivolity that only two can share during their secret moments. She smiles. But he is off on a lengthly trip. With that thought her nightgown falls to the floor and she steps out of it, flips it aside with one foot while acrobatically testing the water with the other. Perhaps it needs to be cold.

She thinks of him and their life together. It's an easy, carefree life that can handle the hurdles, compromises, surprises that no one escapes. They have no demands of each other. It is enough to be and they choose to be in love.

Love, she thinks, what an abstract, ambiguous word. It's meaning is so subjective. I doubt many could ever, ever agree as to what it is. To her, it is an expansion, a reaching out, a blissful feeling, rooted in will.

Love is not a feeling, it is an act of your will. This is what she was taught all those years ago but then, love shows itself in expressive feeling so often, people think love is feeling.

She is not trite, not a sentimental goop or clinging vine but a sensitive in the Judith Vorst sense. She is love itself. Everyone is, though they know it not and learn its opposite. She cannot think of a single person she has ever hated, though she has been angry for months before she laughed at herself and let it rise.

There are no jealousies, no commands, no heavy expectations in her relationship. Why should there be? They enjoy perfect trust. Not once has there be a shifting of the eyes, forced pleasant stare or the multitude of revealing little nuances a sensitive is sure not to miss.

Love is a free flowing river. They each receive their hearts longing by not even trying. How could they replace each other? It would take a lifetime to find someone so in tune, so mature so as to let go and let be.

They don't strive, they live, they touch, they love, love deeply, love often. Mornings are like a rising of the mist

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