A Blessing Without Prayer


He had no idea the truth he spoke, when he laughingly mentioned that I might write a poem about our adventure today. He was partly wrong and partly right–I hate to be predictable–but I had already decided to write a blog about Mahogany because my spirit had been moved in a way that caused me to soar far above the mountains we traversed. Long before we entered the ascending tram, I had began an ascension of my own.

I had began apprehensively. I wasn’t quite ready to reengage with him. It wasn’t that he wasn’t somehow worthy, but instead that I had been left unsettled after our last encounter. No, we never had sex. We’ve never kissed. I’ve never enjoyed his company under the stars or on the couch while watching some political documentary or…Married to Medicine. But I had held him, and he I, suspended in a state of spiritual and intimate elation and liberation. It was beautiful. He is beautiful. We were beautiful–until it came crashing down. We fell victim to our need to control the environment that held our hearts–despite our stated commitment to, and interest in, vulnerabilities, honesty and the production of defiantly loving spaces. Our fears and the influences of detractors among us, bless their hearts, wrecked out minds and quieted the warmth of our spirits much like a small but persistent flame is tempered by the mounds of snow in a New England NOreaster.

But I said yes, before I realized I responded to the text. I had yearned for him in a secret place. A sensual space. A space long since forgotten, but never quite lost. Today we drove two hours to a mountain place and upon that drive, I felt that we were reaching a place within ourselves that might rival the peak that we were seeking to conquer. As he smiled–his beautiful brown lips opening to show the perfect imperfections of braces, holding teeth seeking stability and home–I smiled, seeing in this vision my own desire to hold and be held, to access stability and produce a sense of home. His high cheeks, accented with dimples and bright eyes underscored the youthfulness of his spirit and the abundance of life, love and joy laying just beneath the reservoir of pectoral flesh above his heart. I felt a deep desire to reach out and lay hands..just to see how his heart beat and if we were moving in tandem on a molecular level. But these were thoughts and desires and wishes harbored within me, he had been gone for weeks and his appearances were as lively and breathtaking as disappearances. He brought the sun, but he frequented the shadows. And I’m a sun child. I deserve warmth–not cold–and light, not shadows.

So I smiled as I continued to think and blink my way through the drive–knowing that despite how I felt and how he acted–something was happening in the cosmos. This gemini and I were on a collision course to connection–despite or because of our resistance. I like a challenge, especially when the Universe is my jousting partner.

Upon reaching the mountain, we hiked, we smiled and played as black boys do. We played dozens. Made eyes. Averted eyes. I followed. He led. He followed, and likely watched the rhythm of steps, hips and hair flips. The performance wasn’t for him, it was for us. We were dancing on the side of a mountain–to the rhythm of Mother Nature. But the beauty came upon our descent to the comfy chairs of the cafe/living room before the fire place. We spoke of our families, our stresses, our problems, our goals. He wanted 3 kids, I want four. We discussed gender roles. He would vacuum, I’d do laundry. Hypothetically speaking, we’d have 3 accounts, his personal account, my personal account and the housing account. We laughed. We smiled. We considered the possibilities and spoke them into existence as plausible, possible and our radars without saying as much. My spirit was seeking, his was speaking, they communicated and faces acknowledged such. We are not dating. We never have. I don’t particularly enjoy swimming in unknown spaces, but I felt myself being drawn to the cooling waters of his soul and it was there that I began to perspire in familiar places.

After discussing the stigma, politics and sexual predilections of the so-called gay “community” we sipped our coffee and pondered a space where gays communed with and healed instead of consumed..each other.

The ride home was everything. It was there that we took ourselves to the threshing floor. I had to know where we stood, if we stood at all. We owned up to both of our roles in the disjointed state of our connection–our fears, our fuckery, our missteps and assumptions. It wasn’t comfortable, but there was space for laughs, nudging, smiles and healing words. After a statement noting the possibilities implicitly acknowledged earlier, we delve deeper into communion. We praised together–noting and centering the importances of the Higher Power(s) in our lives, in our relationship to self/each other and the beauty/importance of Nature. It was there that I knew that if I never saw him again, I had already been blessed enough through a consensual, day-long communion with a piece of a Higher Power.

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