We were both tired for a millions reasons, but I could tell he didn’t want to disappoint me (it had been a little while since we’d seen each other). Transparency is one of my top relationship values, so I tend to simply say what I see.
“Are you too tired, but don’t want to disappoint me?” I asked. “That’s exactly it,” he said with loving remorse. “It’s okay,” I told him. “I am a little disappointed, but I don’t blame you. I’m tired, too. I’ll be okay.” He sighed gratitude then went to the bathroom.
When he came back in, we made out a little bit, then I vulnerably asked, “I know you’re tired, but will you kiss my boobs a little before we go to bed?” My body was hungry for the love of another’s mouth, and I was working to change the habit of thinking I don’t matter. “Definitely,” he responded, then moseyed down on the bed, took a long intentional look at me, and kissed my breasts with his whole heart.
He was generous – with his time, his touch, his tenderness. And I quivered and melted and exhaled real wide the way you do when someone loves you with the warmth of their tongue. When he rolled over beside me, I laid there real soft and cried and cried and cried.
A week later, it was a rainy afternoon and the sky was gray and the palm trees were swaying sublime and sad. I couldn’t focus on my work, so I went upstairs to take a rest, but decided to pleasure myself instead.
“I love you, I love you, I love you” I mantra-ed as I tend to do. And the tears were right there. And they smeared soft mascara down my face. And I didn’t wipe them off; I let them nourish my skin like the Mystic once taught me to.
And I found myself asking, why am I crying?, almost incessantly, like crying is somehow bad. And then I found myself quickly letting my question go. Who cares, just be here, beautiful girl. And I let the tears nourish my skin, and I turned on Case of You by Joni Mitchell, and I took this tender picture, and the words fell into my mouth: the earth-shattering beauty of a rusty heart re-opening. And nothing else needed any explaining.
A week later I was telling a sacred love story to a client, and it opened her heart real wide, and she cried and cried and cried the kind of tears that smear out when you’re finally hearing the magic words to unlock the door that’s been holding in all your hope, all your heart’s true capacity to love.
“In the open heart,” I told her, “there’s all the sadness you carried strongly through all those days – all the ways you held it together and braved the world alone. But there’s also all the warmth, all the magic, all the hope. Trust me, I know.” And she nodded real reverent, and let herself whisper, “That’s what I want. To feel them both.”
I’m over here whispering a sweet hello to the hopeful part of your heart that may be hiding behind bars or may be stretching open farther than it usually does. Here’s to letting the warm sad love tumble out. Here’s to trusting we’re allowed. Here’s to the beautiful tenderness of our rusty re-openings. Here’s to it all.