A black and white graphic hangs on the wall of the Center Healthy Sex. A wide, paint brush circle in black with the words, “Chop wood, carry water.” A simple Buddhist reminder to get back to basics, take it one step at a time and do first things first. It’s the only way out, really — of bad habits, unhealthy relationships, less-than-stellar care and feeding of yourself. When I was there in LA, unpacking my character defects, that image kept me grounded. As in Maslow’s hierarchy, take care of survival needs first, then relational, then spiritual.

This morning I awoke to the sound of rainfall. I was transported to the family room floor in my childhood home, where I’d lay along side the sliding glass door with my pink blankie and contemplate the drops on the glass. Such a simple, peaceful thing, the rain. And I realized how much the same I am. Though I know I am growing.

After spending nearly 30 years in relationship with a man who was always up in his head, never his hands, or his heart, I was desperate for touch, for connection. My first stage of healing came to me in a most basic form. A partner who revels in scents and flavors, in textures and sounds, in the simple beauty of the rain.

But he is primitive. And I am evolving. He has fed my body and brought me from the brink of starvation. But I am climbing the ladder upward and I yearn for more.

I don’t know what his timeline for evolution looks like, nor, as I’ve learned in recovery, can I manage it for him.

But my transformation from fire and stick to empathy, connection and divinity is swirling within me and I must not get in my own way.

For now, I’ll listen to the rain and ask for guidance on how to chop the wood, where to carry the water.

(Title borrowed from REM. I hope they don’t mind)

They asked me where I was from. I answered suburbia. And what brings you to LA? The quest for truth? Like why do we look in the wrong places, the wrong faces for live and acceptance?  Why do we doubt that what was created was true?

The receptionist looked at me askance. I guess they’d never met someone like me before. Someone who was broken and put back together with such fine lines of.glue they weren’t visible to the naked eye. It was only when you got close enough, stuck around long enough, that the cracks were revealed. From afar it appeared that everything about me was intact. That was my skill, my magic power. To keep my real self, my real wounds hidden. So that you’d feel hopeful. And less alone.

Two weeks ago, 
out of the blue, you declared that, "We could still be 
friends," 
And that we'd, "Never actually gotten back together anyway," after the most recent 
break up, (they've been happening so much more frequently lately).
Silly me, 
I should've known better, than to un-steel my heart, 
after the last 
time. 
(And the time before that). I should have pulled away from your kindness 
and 
your gentle touch. But just like before, I fell back in. Again. distracted 
Then last night,  
it was I who was 
mean
joking about something dear to you. Was I trying to hurt you? I apologized 
too late. 
I am tired. Too tired. It is time to get off of this beautiful, magical
ride.

October 11, 2020