Lust is not a Sin

Dear Leandra;
The high-speed train that will take me back home is less than 10 minutes from departure, which is more than twenty minutes since we said goodbye. I am leaning forward in my green seat to stay awake and write you. To tell you what I wanted to say and was not a strong enough man as we parted at the station in separate directions.

You are amazing!

If not for lust that word I abhor and haunts me, the last twenty-four hours with you would not have happened. The magic, love and joy we shared and exchanged would still be bottled up in this vault I keep my heart in struggling for release. Lust for the Girl in The White Bikini is how the Divine Presence brought us together. Love and willingness are what squeezed it open.

While walking away trembling, I started to cry but fiercely held back the tears, not of sadness for believing I will not see you again, I will. Tears of letting a moment pass without grasping for it like it is my last breath.

You see; you are perfect in my eyes. If I were willing to allow myself to fall in love at this time, I would leap at you while desperately clinging to my last shreds of self-control and protection. I am not gong to fall in love with you even thought you are ‘her’ for me; my blueprint of a woman- strong, courageous, sensitive, vulnerable although hidden well, loving, incredibly smart and fun and disturbingly gorgeous and sexy. I want to be your friend and companion, to share more moments of French Toast and nights ending at 6:00a.m. that shake my illusion of control and imprisonment free to be wild. I want to be the one you hunt down at 3:00.am. when you can’t sleep and need to wake someone to know that you are worth being woken for. That you matter and matter to me. That you are loved, lovable and love me more than I deserve and expect or knew I needed.

Last night you told me, “Lust is not a sin”. Lust got me in a room with you and let me look in your eyes to see and feel who you are, in spite of that face, smile, cheeks and body that make me squirm in my pants. Lust forced me to reach out to you but you showed me why lust is not only exempt from the sin list but you transformed it into something beautiful and treasured in one quick flash of your smile.

Thanks for being you and choosing to let me inside both your door and your so-called walls.

Love,
Michael the Trophy Holder
PS- I will keep my word and not cross that Sacred line, your worth it.

There is a Door

There is a Door

There is a door. I can see it. I have felt it many times. It is strong and heavy but really only feels heavy. It feels tall like a redwood or solid like an oak. Dark heavy wood, at least it feels heavy.

I have seen it open. It is beautiful inside. Home. No, better than home. It is home for the Homed. I belong there. I know this.

Inside there is strength. I can feel it even from the outside. Inside there is courage. I can feel it. It has fortified me the times that I have had a foot in standing at the threshold. Inside there is me- tall, solid, unwavering and alive, really alive. I have seen what I look like in there. It embarrasses me to see what I look like out here.

I have stood at this door for many moons and suns and birthdays and Holydays and deaths and births and loves and lusts and mountains and valleys and oceans and deserts. More deserts than oceans though.

I count. And I have been counted.

There are many zeroes after my history- not days but years and centuries and millenniums. Many zeroes. I am not a newbie. I have been at this game longer than even I can imagine. I have cried and begged to get in. My wrist gets slapped like a child chewing gum in Sunday school by Mother Mary Margaret or Rabbi Chaim Weiss. The scars still remain on these tattered limbs. I see them when my eyes are closed. Only when there is nowhere to hide like when the eyes are open. Darkness shines on the Atlantic at midnight. All looks so inviting but I cannot get in the door that way. Not me. Other’s maybe, but my agreement is different.

I’ve tried the book door too. It is lighter; almost see through. Transparent without really letting us see in beyond a glimpse of the porch. The red, yellow, purple and blue flowers sure do look pretty on that back porch. Sometimes at night I dream of their fragrance; its sweetness overwhelms me. I can’t sleep those nights.

I matter. And I have mattered. I still do.

There is no side door. Just the illusion of the back and the willful front. To touch the front door is to remember where we came from but have forgotten how to get back there. I wonder how many times we are given the grace to place our hands on the door and not enter? Is there a statute of limitations on grace or forgiveness? Can the Sacred Trust be permanently broken or can we get by with all these little fractured threads?

Is running in place any different than running backwards?

I have been here before. I know the ripe smells of the Honeysuckle, the clear Voice that echoes through time and space, the grip of the solid door, the sweet taste of fresh mango, the vision of purpose and the waiting hand from The Beginning.

I have been here before. What will it take to enter with both feet in the door and to not run and hide back in the familiar comfort of distraction and stimulation?

There is a door. When will I be ready and truly willing to enter?

Deserted

Deserted

Alone,
But not left alone.
Dry,
But not without water.

Learning,
Slowly to accept
My
Lack of acceptance.

Truth,
Here at this moment.
Gone,
Before I see its face.

Suppression,
Stifles and chokes.
Release,
Frees and Fires.

Tears,
Proof of life.
Loneliness,
The mirror of unliving.

Time,
Distorts the past.
Today,
Clouds the future.

Willingness,
The Key.
Commitment,
The door.

Sand,
Between my toes.
Sun,
Beating and cleansing.

Forgiveness,
The Healer and The Healing.
Fear,
The motivation and the prison.