Category: love

What’s in a Dream? Messages of explanation?

Remember that I told you that Dhillon suddenly stopped calling altogether, I mean really sudden? It’s just not like him because never has a month gone by since 2002 that I haven’t heard from him.

That’s 20 years, over 20 years. Mostly, even if I wouldn’t pick up the phone, he tried to call me every week. If he was anything, he was persistent.

Anyway, last night I dreamt that I went to my grandmother’s house and Dhillon’s whole family was there. What I didn’t know was that we were all gathered there for Dhillon to tell me that he had a baby with a woman named Lois. I asked him if he had gotten her pregnant while we were still together and he said yes. I sensed that there was someone in the bedroom and felt it was Lois and maybe his baby.

He had aways raised my suspicion. I had no reason ever to trust him. And here was the proof. My thought was that he had cheated on me and so sadly and somewhat distraught, I tried to leave. But before I could leave,  everyone, but his Indian ex-wife, hugged me and had tears in their eyes which, never would have happened. Not one person in his family ever liked me in the least, not as his girlfriend and not even as his friend nor even as a person who helped him as a secretary.

I dated Dhillon for 8 years and still, he did not ever say to them what I was to him. Dhillon tried to talk to me but I turned and walked away and closed the door behind me as he was moving towards me. I had no reason to want to talk to him.

Strangely, Tony, an old friend, was sitting in a chair by the dining room table against the wall. It appeared that she was a friend of the family. She did not get up. I looked at her and asked if she knew about all this and she nodded her head. I told her she was no longer my friend and I didn’t want to ever hear from her again. That did not seem to phase her.

I then drove to a small apartment downtown where more of Dhillon’s family (maybe cousins) were living. They were in the tiny kitchen and the stove was pulled out from the wall at an odd angle stretching the gas line. It worried me. They told me it was because their dad had told them it had to be that way even though I was trying to shove it back into place. So, I pulled it back out to where they had it initially.

I asked them about Dhillon and they weren’t really interested in talking to me about him. There was another close friend of mine with dark hair, I can’t remember exactly who it was, standing in the kitchen. I asked her if she knew about Dhillon having had a baby with this woman named Lois, and she said yes. I also told her that I never wanted to speak to her again and that she was not my friend. Just like Tony, it didn’t phase her that I was hurt and wanted to never see her again. She also seemed to be very close to Dhillon’s family.

I went down onto the street and some children, who were also Dhillon’s family, were standing across the street waiting for Dhillon. I looked to see that he was walking up the street towards us. I could see him at least two blocks away coming from the direction of his first restaurant. I wanted to see him and yet I didn’t want to see him. When he got close, I turned to walk away and he wanted to walk with me and talk to me but I rejected him, telling him to go away.

I awoke remembering the tiniest, what seemed to be,  insignificant details.

I thought the answer to why he had disappeared from my life, so suddenly and curiously,  could be in this dream. I had conjectured that he couldn’t contact me because of family but I couldn’t know for sure. Since I rarely remember a dream, I believe the answer is somewhere in there, perhaps only in the symbols.

You Know You Wish You Knew This Before.

Sometimes people walk away from love because it is so beautiful that it terrifies them.

Sometimes they leave because the connection shines a bright light on their dark places and they are not ready to work them through.

Sometimes they run away because they are not developmentally prepared to merge with another- they have more individuation work to do first.

Sometimes they take off because love is not a priority in their lives- they have another path and purpose to walk first.

Sometimes they end it because they prefer a relationship that is more practical than conscious, one that does not threaten the ways that they organize reality. Because so many of us carry shame, we have a tendency to personalize love’s leavings, triggered by the rejection and feelings of abandonment. But this is not always true. Sometimes it has nothing to do with us.

Sometimes the one who leaves is just not ready to hold it safe.

Sometimes they know something we don’t- they know their limits at that moment in time.

Real love is no easy path- readiness is everything.

May we grieve loss without personalizing it.

May we learn to love ourselves in the absence of the lover.

(~an excerpt from ‘An Uncommon Bond’, available at any bookstore through Ingram Distribution, and on Amazon (Kindle, Paperback, audio) at https://www.amazon.com/Uncommon-Bond-Jeff-Brown/dp/0980885957/)

Stay Away from Married Men: Why I don’t sleep anymore.

  • Sleepless

My dearest,

I lay awake and my mind dwells on the unfathomable words you have spoken on my unfulfilled desire to give you my heart and my life. More than anything I want to give you my time. I am lonely. I hear words that I don’t understand and I spin them around in my mind. I try to hear your voice. I try to remember how you said them and what they might have meant.

I lay awake and suffer because of my own decision to stay. I could leave. I don’t have to be here but you are so beautiful to me. Your skin, the color of your hair, your lips and more than that your eyes. But I don’t understand you. The trouble is that I know the truth. I am alone. You’re not. You want me to make that easy for you.

I lay awake with unshed tears and trembling body. I haven’t seen you… it’s only been two days and I miss your touch. I want you to want to me like I want you but I can’t say for sure that you do… I can’t say that you don’t.

I am like so many women who want more than they can have. Am I unrealistic? Should I be satisfied? Don’t I remember the last time you were here and the words you spoke? But they don’t sustain me.

I lay awake because I cannot tell you what I am feeling. What does “I love you” mean? Don’t those words leave so much unspoken? I want to tell you that I want you in my world. I want to be with you every day. I am alone. I eat alone. I walk alone. I travel alone. I shop alone. I sleep alone. I look at the stars alone. I experience the moon and Mars alone. I only have the hour that you give me at random times on random days as I am getting less time with you. I do remember Friday and Saturday last week but what about this week?

I lay awake and breathe. I feel my body. My hand feels the soft skin of my belly, the muscles under the skin of my thighs, my bones that surround my heart and my lungs. It all feel so precious to me. It is the treasure that I give you every time we lie down together. I look at the dark ceiling and picture your face above me. There are things that I don’t understand. Your kisses are so real, at times they hurt. I am left with bruised lips. Your hands are so soft and sometimes so hard when they delve into my soft places. So quickly you roll off and push my arms and legs away from you as you lie spent next to me, too hot to breathe. I want you to hold me as you swiftly pull on your pants and pull your shirt over your head. My body pleads for you to hold me but you have to run. So few are the times that I have been able to curl up in the crook of your arm. I can count them on one hand.

“I want to go home”. I know what you mean. You have to go home. You have given me an hour by your watch, which you keep glancing at. No, I don’t forget last weekend when you crept away in the early morning hours just before she arrived home. It was sweet sleeping with you.

I lay awake. It’s 3:00 in the morning and I shed tears that you don’t want to see. “Look at your eyes”, you say. “Your face is different”. My tears are my blood that I cannot give you… they are the beat of my heart as I hold it in my hand and ask you to take all of it. My tears are my hopes and my dreams and thankfulness. They are my tide that has come to shore and overflowed my banks. You have rejected them and I cannot stop them. I cannot stem them anymore. I cry because I want to give myself to you… because I want you in my world… because I don’t want to wonder anymore… because I have only hurt once before and I am scared… because you are so different from me and I don’t understand you… because I don’t know the future.

I lay awake because you say that you love me and I am not sure what you mean. I asked you one time, “what about me?” You quickly said, looking into my eyes, “When she leaves, my children are coming and I will buy a house and then marriage”. But you leave and I don’t know what you have said. Have you said that you want to marry me? You wear a wedding ring. Some days you don’t… most days you don’t. What do the days mean when you do? Questions. I have questions and no answers. When will she go? Will she really go? When your children come will you still want me? Can I meet your children? Can I meet your family? Can I meet your friends? Could I be more lonely than I am without you?

I lay awake and wonder. I only have this. Am I being fair? Do you give me as much of you as you have left over? Left over. Am I the splinter that never ceases to molest you? Or am I only the sure thing, a diversion? That is why I lay awake. Why can’t you call? Too many questions.

My tears will come now though you reject them and tell me that you only want us to be happy. I will cry when we are together and it may be the reason that you do not come to see me. I want to release you. I need to release you and be with you either because I choose to or leave you because I need to release myself.

I have always said, “Leave when you have to. Stay as long as you can.”

Not always the best advice.

Love Wrapped Up in Christmas Cards

My mom loved getting and giving cards for all occasions. At Christmas time, she had a list a mile long because she had a very large family and many friends. When a card would come in from someone not on the list, they would be added.

My cards this year.

Mom would set up an aluminum TV tray (remember those?) in front of her living room chair. Beside her was a tall stack of cards with envelopes and her list with names and addresses. From right after Thanksgiving until her list was complete, this is where we would find her, when she was not at work, or cleaning, cooking, doing laundry, shopping and wrapping presents.

For Christmas, as the mail came in, she’d cover the fireplace mantel with cards, then when there was no more room, she’d tape them on the door jams in the living room. Every year, when the holiday season was over, she would gather the cards and stash them away in a box along with her list.

Mom and me in 1966. See the Christmas cards?

When Mom passed away, it was hard to throw away her memories that were her only treasures. She didn’t leave us money or property but she left us something more precious, her unconditional love for everyone. Cards and photos and letters were overwhelming as evidence.

I’ve never sent cards at Christmas. Kristi (my sister) had taken over this tradition from Mom. But this very special year, my cousins (on mom’s side) and I decided to send cards to each other. We needed to say, “I love you” in a very tangible way. Some of us are very alone or suffering in other ways. There are well over 40 of us. In such a large family, one never knows what heartbreak might be.

I can’t tell you how much this has meant to me. I could feel Mom stirring in my heart and see her in my mind’s eye, sitting in her chair, head down, handwriting her cards as I wrote my cards, addressed the envelopes and stuffed them into the mailbox.

And now, I rush to get the mail everyday to see who has sent me a card. I think it’s my turn to keep the tradition, Mom.

This has been heartwarming in a cold and dark night. Our world has been turned upside down and this small gesture of sending and recieving cards has brought much needed joy and comfort. Thank you, cousins.

I love you all.

The Cost of Consciousness

One of the advantages of having a house that is three stories tall is that I can look down on all of the plants in the garden. From my vantage point I can look down on the tops of the dogwood trees that are still blooming. The hummingbirds are feeding this morning from the blossoms. From high up here the entire yard looks green. Yum yum, my sweet dog, is lying in a pool of morning sunshine on the lounge. The water is hot and I’m ready to make my 1st cup of coffee. From high up here, I can almost forget what is happening in the wider world.

The advantage of being older is that I can do what I want when I want without being scheduled. This I love. From this vantage point I can look at my life and see the incredible life it has been. And I can also see what a wonderful life I am living, despite the chaos in the world.

From this vantage point I can also see the disadvantage of living in such a priviledged country. We are living on blood soaked land. We are living this priviledged existence because we are able to militarily overcome all other countries. We are only privileged because other countries have knelt before us at the point of a gun. We are only privileged because we have caused others to fear. People say this is the most wonderful country on Earth. What they don’t understand is that we’ve only been priviledged because we have insisted that others submit to us. We’re only priviledged because we have made it so that others have been brought to their knees.

What I hope for now is that we are being brought to our knees. Our powerful greed and hatred have been our demise. Our “democratic/capitalist experiment” is failing.

I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know how much longer we can go on like this. It is hard to be the privileged person that I am knowing that my privilege has been bought with blood money. It is hard to be the privileged person that I am knowing that my privilege has cost another’s suffering. It is hard to be the privileged person that I am knowing that the leadership of this country consists of wealthy, hateful warmongers and have always been. It is hard to be so joyful and peaceful and comfortable knowing that the majority serves the minority. But so has it ever been. This dichotomy of feelings is the cost of consciousness.

My privileged life breaks my heart.

Te quiero muchisimo. I love you so much.

❤❤❤❤❤❤❤

A Story of Possession

I stood trembling in front of the double doors in the living room, shaking not from cold but for reasons I could not understand.

I was dripping with water that had been generously sweetened with honey and had been poured over my head. I really did not want to hear anything more but I knew that I had to keep my ears and eyes open even though right then, I had them firmly shut.

Oshun was standing on the other side of the room and I knew she was not through with with me yet. At any rate, I was assuming it was she.

The singing continued and so did the beat of the drums. The room was dark except for the evening light that shone through the trees and in through the open doors. The light of the candles added little to dispel the dimness.

Ramiro was speaking but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. His head fell back as he laughed and when he opened his eyes to look at me it was as though I had never seen him before.

He stood up from where he had been sitting, petitioning the deities, barefoot and shirtless in a pair of khaki shorts. He stood very close to me as he pulled his pants up high around his waist, lifted his head and looked down his nose at me.

“Do you know who I am?” He appeared very feminine as he began to move around the room, sashaying and swaying his hips sensuously and moving his shoulders very coquettishly. He held his head high, pushing his chest out, then he asked again, “Do you know who I am? I said yes, thinking I was standing in the presence of Oshun.

“Who told you to light candles to Chango? I did not tell you to. He does not like putas and you are very puta. I am his and he is mine.” He collapsed on the floor with his legs wide apart and demanded loudly “Please, bring me water and honey.”

I brought him water in a glass and the plastic bear containing honey that I used for tea. He dismissed them with disgust, waving his arms arrogantly and laughed loudly saying, “No, I want water, water, lots of water…

Make it sweet and set it here in front of me.” At this I found the biggest container I could find and filled it to the brim, emptying all of the honey into the water.

As I set it on the floor, he first bathed himself starting with his head, splashing it on his body and taking large mouthfuls of it and spraying it into the four corners of the house and then out both of the doors.

Then finally, he came over to me and washed me roughly with the sweet water from head to foot, splashing it all over. He sprayed it from his mouth in my face and all over my body, washing my arms and my breasts and stomach. He turned me around as he washed my buttocks and my legs and feet. “I will cleanse you”, she said. “You have not been living clean. You say that you love your man, but you are very puta. Why? answer me”, she demanded.

I began to cry and said, “Only to take away my loneliness.” With his hands on his hips, he sashayed over to the farthest corner of the room.

As he walked, his movements, though feminine were somewhat stiff. He lurched, nearly knocking over the table and lamp. As I reached out to grab the table he whirled around and snapped, magically as though he had eyes in the back of his head, “Do not touch me. You are an angel but you are dark. I can hardly see you. Stand over there.”

I moved to the farthest corner, next to the double doors. “You need to buy new clothes. Do not wear black anymore. Come here.” I walked over to him and he clamped his hand over my ears, pounding them with his open palms. She said, “I’m going to cleanse you.”

As he spoke words that I couldn’t understand, he rubbed my body, my arms, my legs in forceful downwards movements. He then told me to sit on the floor.

“There’s a woman that you hate. Yes? No? She has the man that you love. So you know who I am? Yes or no? Papijim, he is mine. I have taken him from you. You do not have what he needs. He does not want to dance with you. I have taken him from you. He does not want sex with you, papijim. I have what he needs”, she says, pulling his pants up and he begins to sway his hips sensually. He looked at me out of the corner of his eyes and turned his head from side to side mockingly. “You have committed many errors and now, papijim, he is mine. You do not know how to live. You do not know how to enjoy life.”

He was snorting and scoffing. She was so sure of herself as she so cruelly mocked me. She laughed out loud and I knew she was right. I was alone. I was broken. Chastised.

Several minutes later, another orisha arrived. He looked as though he saw another person in the room. He dropped his pants and grabbed his genitals. “You have preferred this. You must change.

“Buy girasoles (sunflowers). Buy white flowers that have no pink or yellow. Put the petals in a bucket of clear water. Wash your hands and arms in the water as you crush the petals in your fingers. When you are done, throw the water out the door of your house.” He left me reeling.

Before he left, he sprayed rum into the four corners of the house and around the doors to keep evil away. He moved my image of Eleggua to face the front door to guard against whatever might wish to pass to do me harm.

Post script:

This is just a small example of what I witnessed while I lived with the Cubans. I learned so much about the way they think and about the way they view sickness and ways that they heal. Because they were refugees and lived in a city where items that they needed to perform certain rituals were not readily available, I saw a great deal of adaptation, accommodation and ingenuity. This lack did not affect how they lived any more than the slaves were disabled because they arrived in the new world without the necessary paraphernalia to carry on.

I will not go into descriptions of the orishas (gods), in this instance, Oshun and Chango, or what this experience was all about. I will let it stand but I will tell you more as these stories emerge on this blog.

I lived with Ramiro, a santero (priest in Santeria), for three years and was immersed in his religion. Later, I studied Cuban folklore and spirituality with other priests in both Santeria and Palo and at UCLA.

This story took place when we were no longer together but still very close.

This is one story of many that I will share with you.

I’ve No Apologies to Make

I’ve done many things in this life, it’s been long. I may have hurt a person or two and maybe it was you,

But I’ve no apologies to make.

I’ve looked death in the face, and while others died, I’ve escaped,

But I’ve no apologies to make.

Lovers I have lost in a maelstrom of words,

But I’ve no apologies to make.

Friends and family left for a time, it was just to find some peace of mind,

But I’ve no apologies to make.

Memories fill my mind and searching my heart, no regret I find,

So, I’ve no apologies to make.

Every Last Thing

Every Last Thing

Every last thing

158,000 will die today.

What memories and secrets do we hold heart-side and in our bodies.

Do we let them bind us? Do we let them flow through, cleansing wounds long neglected.

Let’s find joy in adventures we thought were painful, when in fact they were our wild ride.

How fortunate we are to have these memories that sweep through our souls.

Remembrances of days long past. Let’s look at them, share them, revel in them.

We were and are fully alive. That means all of it.

Every last thing.

Chapter 1: The Adventures of Baby Fox

Once upon a time, a tiny baby fox was born into the big world of a forested wilderness. Only a few days after she was born, she found herself so very alone. She knew not where her mother and father had gone. She was not yet old enough to find her own food nor did she know where to sleep or even how to find her lost family.

It was getting dark and she was very, very hungry and very, very cold because the snow had not yet melted on this side of the mountain. She did not know, though it was August, that the snow never did melt here in the deep shadows of the trees and the crevices of the great mountain. She did not know either that new snow would soon be on its way.

At first, she laid down to cry, and cry she did until she was so tired that she almost fell asleep, exhausted. But she was so little that even if her mommy was around, she would not have heard her. Her mommy by this time had gone very far away but the baby fox could not have known this.

When the baby fox stopped crying she became quite still. She began to listen to the sounds all around her. She could hear the babbling stream, the wind in the tops of the trees and many more sounds that both scared and intrigued her. Just beyond a fallen log and a tangle of branches and piles of leaves, in a not too distant tumble of rocks, she heard some soft mewling sounds that she thought was familiar.  Maybe it was her mommy and daddy.

But, by nature, she was a cautious little fox, so she crept slowly over the log and sniffed the air and perked up her ears, the hair on her back stood on end and her tail stood out from her in a rigid line. But she was so cold and hungry and so alone that she moved closer not knowing the dangers in the forest. She did not know that she could easily become someone’s dinner. She moved as silently as she could from behind a giant tree, listening to the soft noises and feeling, even from her hiding place, some warmth. She could not resist her curious nature or how hungry and cold she was. She also could not know that she might not survive the cold night.

When she was close enough to see the other creatures, she didn’t know that they did not look like her. She didn’t even know what she looked like. Her mommy was gone before she could even see very well. She had just opened her eyes. But she did remember how her mommy felt so warm and how she smelled so sweet. These creatures smelled different but she could only think of how cold and lonely and hungry she was.

When the little family of four kits and a momma saw her, so tiny as she was, they let her climb among them, even letting her wiggle in beside the other babies, who were not much bigger than her. They shared their food of mice and voles as the daylight faded. Soon the baby fox was sound asleep, warm with a full belly, snuggled down in the cave of rocks lined with dead leaves and the soft sounds of the family sleeping.

The baby fox grew there and played there for some weeks. But soon, she was old enough to leave the safe haven of the den. The other babies had grown much bigger than her and she could no longer fight them for the food that their momma brought them. And besides, the momma was leaving them alone for longer and longer times.

Because she was a smart little fox, she learned to hunt and forage for food by watching her adopted brothers and sisters as they ran after their momma. She was also leaving the den, tumbling up and down the hills and running to the stream to hunt for fish and other small animals and had even slept under the stars for one night. She had learned to watch the skies for owls and hawks and to watch the trees and ground for other animals who were hunting for food. She sensed that she would serve well for breakfast, lunch, dinner or a snack for the many creatures of the forest. She even had been warned to stay away from the two-legged animals that wandered among them smelling of bitter iron and steel. She had seen many small animals stuck in horrible jaws where they writhed and cried until they slowly died in agony.

But she was as clever as any fox could be and her strongest desire was to find others who looked and smelled like her. She knew that without her adopted family, she would not have survived but she sensed that it was time to leave. She loved her foundling family but was found lately following the tracks of others with a scent like her own.

Chapter 2 coming soon…