Lovemaking, Lovebreaking

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I wrote this about a month after my ex left, thinking about the contrast between the first time a couple makes love, and the last. ~~GH

Lovemaking, Lovebreaking

Lightning split my twilight sky

The first time you pressed into me

Hungry, grateful, rapt

My joy flowed onto your thighs

And our souls celebrated

Finding each other at last

Nineteen years, we shared our skies

Painted hints of clouds like afterthoughts

On a backdrop the color of your eyes

Poured our souls into the same bowl

Thoroughly mixed joys and sorrows

As if the blend would last forever

[Tomorrow: I Wonder]

Guest Singer: Richard Thompson

Incredible lyrics. Such an intimate and poignant story. Notice the third verse, which shifts into a new arrangement as well. The narrator reflects on the intimacy the two shared, or is that merely a metaphor for smothering himself to please her? ~~GH

RICHARD THOMPSON
"Sunset Song"

(Richard Thompson)

With you or without you, love,
I must be moving
Never meant to linger here so long
With you or without you,
Though it breaks my heart
To hear the Sunset Song

Wasn't that a time we had,
And bless you for it
But I'm a stranger here, I don't belong
The band's down on the jetty,
If you cup your ear
You'll hear the Sunset Song

You said, if I hold my breath
Dive down deep enough
I might grow fins
Seems to me I've held my breath
Held my breath to please you
Ever since

Early morning, that's the time
For fare-thee-wells
Slip out of the warm sheets and gone
But I long to hear it as I walk away
To hear the Sunset Song

In your waking, in your dreams,
I'll not be martyred
On that cross where some say
I belong
Opinions are coffins, I'll just trust my feet
To find the Sunset Song

Every day I'll wear your memory
Like a favourite shirt upon my back
In the hallway, there's my suitcase
By the door, I never did unpack

With you or without you, love,
I must be moving
Never meant to linger here so long
With you or without you,
Though it breaks my heart
To hear the Sunset Song

Advice for Writers

rite with a mission in mind: Write what only you can write. Write with passion. Don't write to sell the piece. Don't write to make a living. Don't write to become famous. Write because no one else will – or can – write what you wrote.

Write because your characters long to live. Write because, if you don't write, they will haunt you the rest of your days. Write because otherwise the world will not ever read what you're about to record.

Write because of all the billions of people who have ever lived and ever will live, you were chosen to tell the tale. Tell the tale. ~~ Ginger Hamilton (Caudill)

Fields of Gold; Fields of Silver

I never make promises lightly . . .

I swear to you in the days still left . . .

You'll remember me when the west wind moves  

Fields of Gold. Eva Cassidy. A perfect bridge between old and new.

"Fields Of Gold"

You'll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You'll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we walk in the fields of gold

So she took her love
For to gaze awhile
Upon the fields of barley
In his arms she fell as her hair came down
Among the fields of gold

Will you stay with me, will you be my love
Among the fields of barley
We'll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we lie in the fields of gold

See the west wind move like a lover so
Upon the fields of barley
Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth
Among the fields of gold
I never made promises lightly
And there have been some that I've broken
But I swear in the days still left
We'll walk in the fields of gold
We'll walk in the fields of gold

Many years have passed since those summer days
Among the fields of barley
See the children run as the sun goes down
Among the fields of gold
You'll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You can tell the sun in his jealous sky
When we walked in the fields of gold
When we walked in the fields of gold
When we walked in the fields of gold

This song represents for me a time of reconciliation, California, a promise of an exquisitely sweet future, romance, a promise I made to my then-husband when he returned from five months away. I'm not going into specifics here, but we re-committed to our marriage – more importantly, to each other.

If you've followed my blog and writings, you know how deeply I connect to the wind and nature. So in 1996, Sting's “Fields of Gold” became an anthem, one of those songs that defines and represents a notch of time in our lives – a magic carpet of sorts that carries us away and sweeps us up in a swirl of emotions and memories, the impact far greater than lyrics and music alone.

Sting's version is wistful, warm, his honeyed, golden words reflect the sun and the fields. I felt safe and sheltered, yet simultaneously revealed and exposed to the sun when I listened to Sting sing “Fields of Gold.” His version represents the heat of youth, the rhythmic flames of sexual passion, the persistent driving beat, desire that is never quenched.

Moving ahead to 2012, I am getting to know someone new, and among the many pleasures we share is a love of music. He introduced me to Eva Cassidy's work. Her voice slips in and out and swims between the very cells of my DNA, caresses them, whispers to them, makes them bleed and then heals them. The wabi sabi effect is amazing. She breaks and then repairs my soul.

And today I discovered her version of “Fields of Gold.” 

I put off listening, recognizing this would forever change its meaning for me. Funny how the simplest acts are often the most difficult to initiate.

When I was ready, I took a deep breath and pushed the “play” icon.

Cassidy's rendition is powerful, rich, soulful, crystal clear as a frozen waterfall, pregnant with promise. Hers is platinum, silvered, a mirror held up to the future while still reflecting the past, bouncing between the two into infinity. 

The broken vows rebound like pinballs, clanging chrome bells, fracturing the mirrors. Jagged shards of shattered promises tinkle like wind chimes in a breeze; the past's frozen crust falls away. 

The flood rushes forward and carries in its wake the tender bud of a potential silver spring.~~GH

I never make promises lightly . . .

I swear to you in the days still left . . .

You'll remember me when the west wind moves  

Authenticity

Caution: Frank sexual topic ahead. Bail now if you have delicate sensibilities and/or do not want to read a blunt discussion about sex. I did not write this -- I wish I had. Maybe I will write something similar soon. I feel every word of the following essay.

I found this essay in several places, but never saw a title associated with it. So I dubbed it "Authenticity." ~~GH

Okay, as soon as you get to the bottom of the image below, the text begins immediately. 

Last chance to bail. 3, 2, 1 . . .

Sex is not a goddamn performance.

Sex should feel as natural as drinking water.

It should not require confidence.

Sex should happen, because the moment is ripe.

Ripening lips, ripening labia, ripening cock, ripening pupils, ripening state of being. Ripe and augmented and brimming. Your energy goes to your pumping heart, then to every external nerve, then to theirs, on fire.

You bask, roll, play in it. You sigh, moan, laugh.

It’s not about being “good in bed.”

It’s about being happy.

One should never worry if they’re doing it “correctly.” Sex is not factual. I don’t want your cookie-cutter sex, I don’t want your meticulously crafted, calculated, fool-proof fuck. I don’t want a show. I want you. Let your instincts, urges and whims define that. It’s enough.

What do most girls like? Forget about it. Statistics are meaningless when there’s only one. Hello, here’s me. Here’s you.

Don’t worry about taking it too slow. We got time. We got infinite rhythms, combinations, possibilities. Explore each fuck. Take our time. We can do a different one later.

Don’t worry about making me come. I’m here. Right where I want to be.

I am overwhelmed by wanting; you don’t have to convince me. I want you because I like you. So don’t put on a front. Don’t taint this.

I’m frustrated—it’s just authenticity I want.

It’s originality.

It’s passion.

It’s joy.

Don’t say that something I like is ugly. Don’t compare yourself to the rest. You will live and die with and within your experiences like everyone else. If someone thinks you are amazing, they are not wrong. Their universe is as real as any other; it is forged through perception.

I don’t care if you accidentally slammed my head into the wall, if you slipped out, if my arm cracked, if the delightful pressure of your wet lips on my anything made a silly sound. There is no right way and no wrong way.

“Good in bed,” what.

You’re good in my bed. I’m pleased you’re there. I feel it suits you.

Shove your technique. Let your memory swallow it. Fuck me like you’d fuck me, fuck me like you feel.

This isn’t a test. ~~ [author] skwyrtle

Sweet Ginger Green Eyes

There is an ebb and flow, an innate rhythm to this blog. I won't spoil it by dissecting it and attempting to define it. Life's mysteries often need to remain so. Just as once humor is devolved, it ceases to amuse, so are many other aspects of our world.

I will reveal that I always blog on Tuesdays and Saturdays, minimum. I keep those days scheduled up ahead a month or more. Then as I am inspired, I fill in the gaps one day at a time and plug in more blog posts. Ideally, a new one uploads every night at 12:01 a.m. But worst-case scenario, there will be something fresh every Tuesday and Saturday.

Why Tuesday and Saturday? Well, balance for one thing, but not entirely. Of course not! If you've been reading for long, you know there are always multiple reasons why I do anything – or I hope you've figured that out by now.

In Stephen Stills' Suite Judy Blue Eyes, a heartfelt song about his and Judy Collins' impending breakup, he perhaps unkindly refers to her therapy and mentions that “fear is the lock, and laughter the key to your heart.” 

Fear vs. joy/laughter of course is the bottom line of both my blog and my personal journey. It is true in my life, and I believe it holds true for many others. But what does that have to do with Tuesdays and Saturdays?

Suite Judy Blue Eyes is, well, a suite. That basically means a piece of music containing four sections. The second section is a forlorn accounting of their relationship in which he admits that they can't seem to get along living together on a daily basis. The weekend works out fine, but by Tuesday, they're tired of one another. He eventually decides to move out and asks her to come see him Thursdays and Saturdays.

As an artist/creative personality, I love deeply and passionately and fully but ethereally as well. I require space, time, and distance in order to function, refresh, and create. I chose Tuesday and Saturday as a tribute to the yin and yang, the up and down, the positive and negative forces, the balance – the “please be gone, I'm tired of you” Tuesday and the “I am yours, you are mine” Saturday.

I freely offer up these bits of my soul. I trust they are enough. So come see me Tuesdays and Saturdays. What have you got to lose? ~~Ginger

Guest Poet: Jack Gilbert R.I.P.

As is Synchronicity's way, this blog post was pre-scheduled to run today. Yesterday, Jack Gilbert's heart blazed white-hot as his earthly fields perished.

May your Love grow ever brighter. I shall think of you every time I see a rowboat or hear an oar touch water. R.I.P., Jack Gilbert. I for one shall risk delight.~~GH

Getting Ready

What if the heart does not pale as the body wanes 

 but is like the sun that blazes hotter each day 

on these immense, perishing fields? What then?

~~Jack Gilbert

What, indeed. ~~GH

And if you have a little more time, contemplate this one.

A Brief for the Defense, by Jack Gilbert

Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that’s what God Wants.

Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.

Guest Poet: Rumi

I went inside my heart to see how it was.
Something there makes me hear the whole world weeping.~ Rumi

“The minute I heard my first love story,
I started looking for you, not knowing
how blind that was.
Lovers don't finally meet somewhere.
They're in each other all along.” 
~~ Rumi, The Illuminated Rumi

“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” ~~ Rumi

I want to see you.

Know your voice.

Recognize you when you
first come 'round the corner.

Sense your scent when I come 
into a room you've just left.

Know the lift of your heel,
the glide of your foot.

Become familiar with the way 
you purse your lips
then let them part, 
just the slightest bit,
when I lean in to your space
and kiss you.

I want to know the joy 
of how you whisper 
"more” 
~~ Rumi

“That which God said to the rose, and caused it to laugh in full-blown beauty, He said to my heart, and made it a hundred times more beautiful.” ~~Rumi

Nature, Grace, Redemption

(In honor of the first day of Autumn. ~GHC)

West Virginia roads suggest dancing. There is an innate rhythm to the undulations formed by lanes carved to shadow waterways that gently curve down the mountains. A sensuous sway of Nature's hips; she is a Mountain Woman making her way down the path with an apron full of walnuts in Autumn.~~GHC

Nature, Grace, Redemption

Each morning, Sun's light darts through thick foliage, seeking his mountain woman. He issues a clarion call to awaken and join him in the forest. He watches over her throughout the day even when she feels alone. She is courted by both Sun and Wind. The jealous suitors vie for her affection in an eternal battle.

Sun soothes her spirit, warms her body, lights her way in the gloom. Sun breaks the dark grasp of Winter, heralds the promise of Spring. Sun beats her in Summer, smothers her with his passion, lashes her with his harsh rays. His heat coaxes her musky essence; it drifts on the breeze. Mountain Woman lies panting and sweating in a verdant valley, drained and spent when he leaves her. She cries out from her spirit to Wind to come and bring relief.

Rivulets of perspiration trace the curves of her countenance and she dreams of Wind's sweet touch. Sensing her scent in the zephyr, Wind joins Mountain Woman. He whispers against her cheek, smoothes her hair. He strokes her everywhere at once. The hairs on her arms stand up as he wraps around and over and under her, finding his way into tiny crevices that Sun never discovers. Mountain Woman shivers from the sensation. He brushes her nipples, causing them to reach for his touch. He obliges.

But Wind is as cruel a lover as Sun. In Winter, he causes her hair to lash her face. He chaps her skin, chills her to the bone. In Winter, she sometimes weeps for Sun, wondering if he will ever return. Wind leaves as suddenly as he arrives, without warning every time. He is capricious, unlike faithful Sun who soars across the sky each morning and stays until nightfall when he settles into the trees like a bird returning to its nest.

Mountain Woman has a third lover: Night. Night too is faithful but undemanding. She waits until Sun leaves, gracious and patient for her turn. Her gentle fingers soothe Mountain Woman's tired spirit and restore her soul. She pulls Mountain Woman to her bosom, murmurs into her ear to rest, sleep, renew, and refresh.

Sometimes Wind comes while Mountain Woman lies within Night's arms. He rails against the walls, his jealousy evident. He howls outside her window, impotent and incapable of forcing her to unlatch her door and allow him in. He warns of Night's deceit.

Glittering diamonds emphasize Night's dark beauty. She offers gifts to Mountain Woman: the Moon and Stars. Night's jewels are sempiternal but cold and distant. They sparkle with false brilliance. Their light is mere reflection; their lives forfeit long ago. Like Mountain Woman, they cannot be possessed.

Mountain Woman wakens and makes her way down the hillside to the River. River is her true Love. River fills her every crevice, gentle and insistent, patient, persistent. Thorough. River caresses and treasures everything Mountain Woman offers and nothing more. If she deigns to only dip a dainty foot in, River caresses it, worships it. When Mountain Woman chooses to disrobe away from the prying eyes of Sun, Wind, or Night, and offers herself entirely into River's embrace, River welcomes her. River always accepts, never judges. River extends an invitation but never presses. Steady yet never stagnant, faithful yet not fawning, loving without lusting, River is the keeper of Mountain Woman's heart.

Keeping On

Alma slid the timecard into the slot with a gentleness that belied the strength in her gnarled brown fingers. For years, her hands wrung the last stubborn drip from a thousand soggy bath towels, but Alma had the misery now. Oh, if she had to do it, she still could. Thank merciful heaven she didn't do washin' no more.


These days the only washin' she did was when the old folks didn't make it to the potty chair in time. She'd clean their bottoms, pat `em dry, and then powder `em so they didn't get a rash.

The patients loved her stories about the old days. Alma boasted how her deft hands sent yard birds to heaven before they could squawk in protest. She spoke of shucking corn and snapping beans, putting up dozens of jars of apple butter she'd cooked all day long in an old copper kettle. 

Alma figured she'd shucked a silo of corn and snapped a trainload of beans in her time. She'd changed enough diapers to cover every rear end in Potts County – man, woman, and child. She reckoned she'd burped four generations of babies -- black, white, and every shade between.

Her hands had lifted her man Leroy right over the edge of ecstasy and set him smack-dab in the middle, breathless and grateful. She'd plaited his hair, her nimble fingers a chocolate blur as she worked. When he'd had his heart attack, Alma kept things running smooth, selling her canned vegetables, fruits and jams to the tourists who came to town that spring. She'd even pocketed a little pin money nobody knew about but her and God. 

Leroy'd been dead three years now, she reckoned. He was a good man. He worked hard and turned his money over to her every Saturday morning when he got paid. He didn't have much to say but he loved her with a fierce passion and didn't trot around on her none. A woman couldn't ask for much more.

Her co-worker Nancy's soft voice transported Alma's thoughts back to the time clock nook. Alma blinked and looked at the timecard. "What you gonna do this weekend, Miz Alma?"

She flashed a broad smile at the younger woman. "Oh, lawd, child, I reckon I'm a-gonna keep on doin' what I always done." Alma patted Nancy's shoulder. "See you first thing Monday morning."