Our Desire

Funny how our perspectives change. We start out wanting a perfect person, perfect physical form, pleasing features, thick hair -- it's all about appearances and physical desire. Then we move to financial security and status for awhile.

Eventually, when it's all said and done, what matters is consideration, compassion. What we really want is someone to hold us, a good back or foot rub, someone to share a meal and talk with, to hear the outpouring of our hearts, to acknowledge our humanity, to accept us. 

When it comes down to it, what we really want is a mommy, with a side of sex. ~~GH
[Tomorrow: Karma]

Reveal Yourself

“if we want the rewards of being loved, we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known.” 
    ~~Tim Kreider
[Tomorrow: A Place You Cannot See]

The Right Wrong Person

“We’re all seeking that special person who is right for us. But if you’ve been through enough relationships, you begin to suspect there’s no right person, just different flavors of wrong. Why is this? Because you yourself are wrong in some way, and you seek out partners who are wrong in some complementary way. But it takes a lot of living to grow fully into your own wrongness. And it isn’t until you finally run up against your deepest demons, your unsolvable problems—the ones that make you truly who you are—that we’re ready to find a lifelong mate. Only then do you finally know what you’re looking for. You’re looking for the wrong person. But not just any wrong person: the right wrong person—someone you lovingly gaze upon and think, “This is the problem I want to have.”

I will find that special person who is wrong for me in just the right way.

Let our scars fall in love.” 
    ~~ Galway Kinnell

[Tomorrow: Deadly Doubt]

The Glass is Already Broken/Tommy

A Truth I have to remind myself of, over and over, and over again. ~~GH

'Do you see this glass? I love this glass. It holds the water admirably. When I tap it, it has a lovely ring. When the sun shines on it, it reflects the light beautifully. But when the wind blows and the glass falls off the shelf and breaks or if my elbow hits it and it falls to the ground I say of course. But when I know that the glass is already broken every minute with it is precious.'

        ~~ Ajahn Chah

Tommy

I was in nursing school. Going through a rebellious period – one of many, many. I’d been in the hospital for colitis and my roommate Becky and I became buddies. I started hanging at her apartment after we were discharged. She lived in a sketchy housing project, so violent the local police were loath to even make drive-by cruises.

Becky’s boyfriend/man, Greg, was black, and he and her two sons from previous relationships all lived together. Greg was a nice guy, good-hearted. He had something not-quite-right about him that was just obvious enough to keep him from getting a decent job. Becky was more than likely a prostitute, although I was fairly naïve and it didn’t occur to me how she earned a living until I sat down to write this. I knew she sold drugs. I didn’t have any problems with that.

Becky and I were about the only whites in the general area. Greg put the word out that my car was to be left alone, and I felt no concern when I visited, which was about every day, until one or two in the morning.

Men queued up to meet me under the guise of checking to see what Becky had for sale. They’d posture in a very ghetto sort of way, which was totally new to me. It didn’t impress me nor did it amuse me. I had an appreciation for their appreciation for me, but I recognized that I represented an accomplishment, an object, an asset they wanted to possess. So I remained aloof, but pleasant.

One day, Greg’s older brother Tommy showed up. He was very different from the other men. Handsome, every hair carefully combed in place, sparkling white teeth, beaming smile, nice trimmed mustache, tall, athletic. He wore jeans with ironed creases, a white t-shirt, blue jean jacket, white Converse Chuck Taylor tennis shoes. He had long muscular legs and a nice ass, broad shoulders. Pretty much my physical ideal at the time, except he was black and I didn’t go out with black guys.

He commanded a lot of respect, almost reverence. The men deferred to him and the other females made over him, flirted, stroked his arm, batted their eyelashes, rubbed up on him. He had a sense of humility and confidence, sexuality without being blatant, that I liked. He projected very much like a panther. I liked the way he handled himself. He treated each person with respect but definitely controlled the interactions.

At some point, he puffed up and made his move on me. This was the way it worked back then; it was expected – or at least I expected it. We exchanged C.V.s: I told him I was in nursing school, which obviously impressed him. He told me he was a lineman for the phone company. It was a very good job for a young black man at that time and place, and I recognized that although I was used to men his age holding that caliber of employment.

Becky picked up that I was not duly impressed, and made a big deal out of it. “Tommy’s a photographer,” she said reverently as if in addition to being handsome and a hunk, he was also Pope.

“You have lovely bone structure,” he purred. “I’d like to photograph you. Have you done any modeling?”

“Yes,” I answered. “I’ve done a good little bit. I’m really not interested in modeling; it’s boring.”

He was a bit taken aback. I don’t think he’d ever been turned down before – at least, that’s the sense I got.

We smoked some weed, the entire apartment full of people passed joints around and we all got mellow. Becky and I drank wine over ice, T.J. Swann’s Easy Nights, out of huge plastic mugs. A bunch of us played Spades for several hours, more wine, more weed, lots of conversation and joking. People drifted off – upstairs to do other drugs, outside to talk to others. Some went home.

I enjoyed Tommy’s company and he made it clear that he was interested in me. He was curious what a white girl from up on the hill was doing down in Orchard Manor. We talked, and I liked his personality. He brought up the photography aspect again, and urged me to come up to his house so he could take some shots of me. I declined. “I have enough pictures of myself, but thanks anyway.”

He’d told me he had purchased his house and was remodeling it. He spoke with great passion about what all he’d done so far and what his plans were.  He told me I should come up sometime and see his place and tell me what I thought of it. I felt he was sincere. It didn’t feel like a line.

I told him I’d love to see his house sometime. He had mellowed a bit by that point, between the beer he had consumed and the pot he’d smoked. “What about tomorrow?” he asked. “Why not come over tomorrow afternoon?”

“What is there to do?” I wanted to know. “What will we do besides you showing me your kingdom? I’m not driving all the way up there just to see your house.”

“I’ll be working on my Javelin,” he said. “I have to change the brake shoes and work on the timing.” 

I perked up. Cars, I knew. Cars, I liked. We chatted about cars for a few minutes and I asked him if he’d ever had a girl help him work on his car before.

“No,” he said, and laughed. “Never.”

“Then I’ll come on condition I can help you work on your car,” I said.

And that’s how it all began. Thirty-four years ago today. Rest in peace, Tommy.

Love always,

Ginger

Leap of Faith

If we listened to our intellect we'd never have a love affair. We'd never have a friendship. We'd never go in business because we'd be cynical: "It's gonna go wrong." Or "She's going to hurt me." Or, "I've had a couple of bad love affairs, so therefore . . ." Well, that's nonsense. You're going to miss life. You've got to jump off the cliff all the time and build your wings on the way down. ~~Ray Bradbury

Daily, sometimes hourly, I readjust and make a leap of faith. Some days, the leap consists of something as seemingly minor as opening Facebook and seeing what my friends have posted. Ever hopeful a better choice has been made, some good has been accomplished, and joy of joys, perhaps evidence that something I posted impacted someone positively. 

Some days, I feel brazen, bold, as if I actually made a difference in the world. Most days, however, I trudge, plod, march like the rest of us. The important part is not to give up. The chain remains unbroken; I continue to pull my weight. I believe. I jump. I build my wings on the way down.  Note: I am no engineer, but I do what I can with what I have to work with. ~~GH

What They Don't Know

They don’t know our little routines.

They don’t know I feed you as soon as I wake up,

And at 9:30 every night.

They don’t know I pet you when I sit on the commode

They won’t know that was our special time.

They won’t know to sit on the couch

And spread their legs so you can nestle in just so.

They won’t know the little games we played,

And I won’t tell them – they were our games.

They will see you at the window, gazing for endless hours,

And think you’re waiting for me to come home.

You won’t be, but they won’t know.

They will think you're mourning and say it's sad,

How a cat grieves for her mistress, when we've

Already said goodbye.

All For You

I really appreciate the idea behind the lyrics in this song, the progression of the relationship and the new dedication he feels, how much he wants to prove himself. Good stuff. 

The video quality is so bad, it isn't worth watching, but the audio version is my favorite available on YouTube, so just listen or read the lyrics instead of watching, maybe. ~~GH

Finally I figured out

But it took a long, long time
But now there's a turnabout
Maybe 'cause I'm trying

There's been times, I'm so confused
All my roads, They lead to you
I just can't turn and walk away

It's hard to say what it is I see in you
Wonder if I'll always be with you
But words can't say, And I can't do
Enough to prove,
It's all for you

I thought I'd seen it all
'Cause it's been a long, long time
But then we'll trip and fall
Wondering if I'm blind

There's been times, I'm so confused
All my roads, They lead to you
I just can't turn and walk away

It's hard to say what it is I see in you
Wonder if I'll always be with you
But words can't say, And I can't do
Enough to prove,
It's all for you

Rain comes pouring down
Falling from blue skies
Words without a sound
Coming from your eyes

Finally I figured out
But it took a long, long time
But now there's a turnabout
Maybe cause I'm trying

There's been times, I'm so confused
All my roads, They lead to you
I just can't turn and walk away

It's hard to say what it is I see in you
Wonder if I'll always be with you
But words can't say, And I can't do
Enough to prove,
It's all for you

It's hard to say
It's hard to say
It's all for you

Dancing in the Dark

When we don’t openly address our fears in relationship, we isolate ourselves from each other, clinging to a no-one’s-land somewhere between our inner and outer fears, infecting our relationship with our various strategies to get away from our fears. Fear does not go away as we mature; we simply learn to work with it more and more effectively, minding its presence less and less.

                      ~~ Robert Augustus Masters

This spoke to me as I read it. I re-read it several times and let it sink in.

It is true for me, that whole devising strategies to escape my fears. And it's ridiculous, pointless, really. Like running away from my shadow. 

I think that's how I shall conceptualize my fears from now on, as part and parcel of myself, as shadows that tag along and will remain attached. Certain ways the light shines (situations that trigger my fears), the shadows/fears become more visible or noticeable. But as I accept their presence and stop trying to run away from them or escape my own shadows, I will grow to mind their presence less and less.

I like that. Thank you, Robert August Masters. ~~GH

They Don't Call, They Don't Write

** The title of this column is a tongue-in-cheek reference to something people of a certain age will likely understand, and others maybe not so much. Also, I imagine it depends on your cultural background and experiences, so I will attempt to explain it since I do have a worldwide readership likely made up of different age groups as well.

Typically, the words "They don't call; they don't write" were spoken by a Yiddish elder and referred to his/her adult children who were too busy with their own lives to stay in contact with their parent. It was generally used as a punchline, a serious-but-not-serious reproach, a loving wistful reminder that "Hey, I miss you; touch base."

The expression was/is also ironically used when referring to people not in a position to call or write. For instance, in the film "Dances With Wolves," the muleskinner uses dark humor when he points to arrow-laden skeletal remains lying on the prairie, and remarks, "I'll bet someone back East is going: Now, why don't he write?" ~~GH

Someone asked me why I got divorced, and I flippantly answered that my ex had met and fallen in love with another woman. But those of you who know me by now, know if there’s a twinge of untruth in something, it nags at me until I listen. I hate being nagged so I tend to listen. Life is too short to carry around backpacks full of hassles.

Why did I get divorced, I asked myself. I got divorced because I didn't love my ex. I didn’t divorce him nearly soon enough, and put us both through a great deal of grief because of my neglect. Instead of acting on my heart, I relinquished my agency to the “authority” of the institution of marriage. I was “supposed” to be married: I had committed to being married, and by gum, I was gonna fulfill that commitment.

But I’m not past that ridiculous submission to false authority even today. And it bothers me. I realized that despite the fact the marriage had effectively been over for years as far as I was concerned  (and functionally over for many months as far as both of us were concerned), I still waited until the “official” ending signified by the final divorce hearing. THEN not only THAT, but I had to have the physical divorce decree in my hands to feel truly free. It was only after realizing that, that I knew how silly that was. I haven’t felt married in seven months. 

I started examining what other areas of my life I wait for external authorization in order to take action. (Not going to bore you with those details. It's a work-in-progress).

Whose authority am I waiting for? It depends on the situation. For instance, I now know I can write any damned way I choose to – don’t have to submit to the rules – and people will read and enjoy my work. And yet I wait on the man I love to “tell me” what he wants to do -- or do I? 

I am living my life, going where I want, doing what I want to do, and enjoying my activities. But I feel a deep void where I’d like him to be. (And no, I don’t just mean sex because, as much as I’d enjoy him filling that void, there is one deeper still that would benefit even more from his presence). 

I don’t want him to tell me what he wants to do so much as I want to know I am in his thoughts, and his heart. I don’t require a lot of attention; I’m pretty self-sufficient. But I do require a certain amount, and I’m not receiving it. 

Actually, I think the real issue is the lack of a clear declaration. I could float for a staggering chunk of time on the wings of clarity, but this dense fog of uncertainty is uncomfortably grounding.

I’m intuitive but still hesitant to fully accept my intuits. My heart tells me all is well. My LRM (logical rational mind) tortures me endlessly with “facts.” It feels like if I could wave an email or a text in front of my LRM and say “See? Now shut the hell up!” that I could have peace and enjoy my happy feelings. It is ridiculous that I expect Emotion to satisfy Logic with facts. This is an underlying flaw of my Western mind.

My metaphysical work continues. So I keep peeling off layers, dismantling bricks, pulling back curtains that mysteriously close themselves out of habit. I consciously practice openness, receptivity.  I am still tender, but much less afraid than I used to be. And I'm closer to softness and further from tenderness all the time. 

I dialogue with my inner child. She talks a lot these days. She’s pretty cool, and I like her. I work to integrate body with soul, to become whole. But I still check my inbox. Tumbleweed City.

Thanks for reading. ~~GH

Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi

Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Balkhī, also known as Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī, and more popularly in the English-speaking world simply as Rumi, was a 13th-century Persian poet, jurist, theologian, and Sufi mystic. [Wikipedia]

Out beyond ideas of wrong and right, there is a field.
I will meet you there.

The heart is the secret inside the secret.

The moment you accept what troubles you've been given,
the door will open.

Love is the water of life,
jump into this water.

I worship the moon.
Tell me of the soft glow of a candle light
and the sweetness of my moon.

Don’t talk about sorrow,
tell me of that treasure,
hidden if it is to you,
then just remain silent.

Last night
I lost my grip on reality
and welcomed insanity.
Love saw me and said,
I showed up.
Wipe your tears
and be silent.

I said, O Love I am frightened, but it’s not you.
Love said to me, there is nothing that is not me.
be silent.

I will whisper secrets in your ear
just nod yes
and be silent.

A soul moon
appeared in the path of my heart.
How precious is this journey.

I said, O Love
what kind of moon is this?
Love said to me,
this is not for you to question.
be silent.

I said, O Love
what kind of face is this,
angelic, or human?
Love said to me,
this is beyond anything that you know.
Be silent.

I said, please reveal this to me
I am dying in anticipation.
Love said to me,
that is where I want you:
Always on the edge,
be silent.
You dwell in this hall of
images and illusions,
leave this house now
and be silent.

I said, O Love, tell me this:
Does the Lord know you are
treating me this way?
Love said to me,
yes He does,
just be totally…
totally… silent

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

Becoming the Moon Goddess

My short story “Moon Goddess” is a highly autobiographical tale of a young woman and man coming of age. As she makes the transition into womanhood, she recognizes her goddess self and embraces it. Her male friend witnesses her transition, senses the separation occurring, feels pangs at losing her, and walks away sulking, upset that he cannot have what or who she is.

I knew it was a powerful story when I wrote it, and I sort of understood it but there was a lot about it that I was unable to articulate. The prologue came to me, and the story grew from that. The prologue reads:

It always comes down to a choice: she can be herself, or she can be loved by amortal man. Tonight, she stands at the devil's crossroads once again.

It never occurred to me that I could have both, that there was a way to both remain true to myself and maintain a rewarding relationship with a man. My entire life has been a struggle with that dichotomy; either/or, you can’t have both. So I’ve vacillated between the two poles. I’d work on being myself for a bit until I felt rich and full and solid. Then I’d work on developing a relationship. 

As the relationship progressed, I’d slowly lose pieces of what made me, me. Bit by bit. I’d notice their absence, and rationalize that I could live without THAT piece, I’d be fine without THIS piece, until eventually so much of me was gone that I no longer resembled myself.

I remained in a miserable relationship for many years, for many reasons. One was fallacious thinking: You’ve invested “this much” time and effort and energy into it, you have to keep trying in order to redeem it. Don’t throw in the towel, honor your investment, there must be something worthwhile there because you’ve stayed “this” long.

Ego. I didn’t want to be wrong. I couldn’t admit I’d made a mistake – or maybe not even made a mistake, but that things had changed and it was time to move on. The relationship was no longer a good fit, and that was okay that it no longer fit. Not a value judgment – it just was what it was. Not right or wrong.

I saw ending the relationship as giving up, quitting, being weak, sinful in some way. Failing. So I worked at reanimating a corpse. Spoiler alert: It doesn't work.

That said, today I had the epiphany that I can indeed both be myself and be loved by a mortal man. I don’t have to choose. My mind is blown. I feel an intense joy and freedom. The path before me just widened exponentially. Thank you, Universe.

If you're curious, below is an older version of my story, "Moon Goddess." Enjoy. *Note: Disturbing content. Coming of age tales sometimes contain unspeakable cruelty.* ~~GH

Moon Goddess

It always comes down to a choice: she can be herself, or she can be loved by amortal man. Tonight, she stands at the devil's crossroads once again.

They stalked the darkened field behind Dean's house armed with badminton
racquets and watched for a signal from the fireflies. Hunkered low in the tall
summer grass, Dean smelled traces of lemon-fresh Joy dishwashing soap lingering
on Ginny's hands, and felt a pang.

"Tonight I'll prove myself to her. I'll get the first bat and she'll love meback." His arms quivered with fatigue and he hunched his shoulders for relief.
Focused on the blue-black air, Dean waited for the first flicker.

* * *
It was their secret ritual, killing bats that dipped low to eat the fireflies.

Their game was forbidden and, therefore, exhilarating. Ginny's mother would
ground her for the rest of the summer if she found out. Dean's father would whip
him with a belt if he knew. Yet every summer evening as the sun set, Ginny and
Dean went to the field and waited for fireflies to signal the competition's
start.

Ginny played tennis – took lessons every morning for two hours -- and she
excelled at it. Dean walked with her to the tennis courts each day and watched
as she attacked the ball. Ginny looked like a beautiful wildcat springing for an
unsuspecting bird. She rarely missed.

The day had been muggy, but the temperature dropped to a tolerable level as soon
as the sun disappeared behind Ginny's house. Fireflies sparkled, ushering in the
magic session when shadows turn to monsters and evil lurks behind every
outbuilding. Bats drifted in dreamlike circles seeking breakfast, for this was
shift change between day and night creatures.

It was Ginny's favorite time of day.

A firefly flickered. Immediately a shadow dove from the eastern sky. Ginny
sprang to her feet and slammed the first bat to the ground with a single,
panther-like strike.

"The night's mine!"

"I wasn't ready."

"Ready or not, the night's mine, fair and square."

They stood over the animal and watched as its broken wings twitched. In seconds,
the movement ceased.

"I'm sick of this, Ginny. It's not fair."

"The night's mine. The score's 7-2 now."

"I'm not playing any more." Dean slammed down his racquet. It landed on the ground
beside the dead bat.

"Then don't play any more." Ginny squatted beside the bat and poked its carcass
with her racquet. Satisfied it was dead, she flipped the animal up into the air
and sent it flying with a solid underhand swing. It soared for several feet,
then halted and plummeted to the ground.

Locusts droned. In the distance, a dog barked. Without a word, a truce was made.
Ginny and Dean lay back in the grass and studied the night sky. 

"There's Corona Borealis, right over Griffith's roof."

Ginny looked where Dean pointed. "Let's pretend I'm Princess Ariadne and you're
Theseus. You just slew the Minotaur and we're sailing away." Ginny spooned her
body against his.

Dean's cheeks felt hot. "You slew the Minotaur. I guess that makes me Princess
Ariadne."

"Well, you can kill the next one, Dean."

"I don't want the next one. The night's already yours, Ginny – or should I say,
Theseus."

Ginny rolled away from Dean. Overhead, bats circled the field. The night was
rightfully hers. She'd made first kill. Slapping at a hungry mosquito, she
remembered that only female mosquitoes bit people.

She took a deep breath. "Then the night's mine, Dean. Because you lost, you have
to tell me the story about Princess Ariadne and Theseus again."

Ginny rolled side to side, smoothing the grass until she was comfortable. Dean
snuck a glance at the gentle mounds beneath her shirt. He loved to watch as they
rose and fell with her breathing. Ginny was changing, somehow growing up faster
than he was. He felt a stirring in his pants and squirmed to reposition so she
wouldn't notice.

Ginny decided to begin the story without Dean. She closed her eyes and imagined
a ship with black sails setting off for Crete.

"…Princess Ariadne liked Theseus, so she gave him a sword and a ball of string.
She told him to tie the string to the door of the Labyrinth and he could follow
it back out and kill the Minotaur…"

Realization settled on Ginny and she stopped speaking. For the first time, Ginny
became aware that Princess Ariadne saved Theseus. Ariadne provided everything
Theseus needed to kill the Minotaur – all he did was use what she'd given him.
She developed the plan, provided the tools, and even opened the door to let him
escape.

Dean's voice carried Ginny back to the dark hillside. "…Princess Ariadne fell
asleep on the Island of Delos, and Theseus put out to sea on his ship with the
black sails, leaving her behind."

Ginny rolled up on one elbow and squinted so she could see Dean's face when he
answered. "Why do you think Theseus left her on the island?"

"I don't know. Maybe he was afraid what his father would say if he brought her
home."

"Why would he care? I mean, she saved his life and all those other people's
lives. Didn't he love her?"

"Sure he loved her." Dean squirmed and gazed up at Corona Borealis. He felt that
somehow, Ginny was sailing away from him. The silhouette of a soaring bat sailed
between him and the constellation. Dean looked around for his racquet. Maybe the
night isn't a total loss.

Ginny sat up. Ideas fell into place and she breathlessly explained them almost
as they formed. "Ariadne saves Theseus and all those other people, and he
abandons her, Dean. He gets in his ship with the black sails and leaves her
there to fend for herself. Then Dionysos comes along and falls in love with her.
He wins her heart and marries her. He gives her a golden crown encircled with
gems for a wedding present. They live together happily for many years. When she
dies, Dionysos throws her crown up into the night sky. The jewels grow brighter
and brighter and then turn into the seven stars that form Corona Borealis."

Dean wasn't sure when it happened, but he realized that the Ginny he loved was
gone.

Ginny took a deep breath and continued. "So the Corona Borealis has nothing to
do with Theseus and everything to do with Princess Ariadne, Dean."

Dean turned back to watch for the bat to sail past Corona Borealis again. When
did everything change between us, he thought. I know it's different, but I don't
know why. He glanced over at Ginny. Her saw her face in profile, and the sight
of it made his chest ache.

A cloud from the east crept closer; Dean hoped it would block the constellation.
He didn't care if he ever saw Corona Borealis again.

Ginny reflected on Princess Ariadne. What did their English teacher say happened
next? Ginny remembered. There was something more, yes. Ariadne became the
goddess of the shining moon, the spiral dance, and swirling stars.

Standing up, Ginny spun in circles with her head thrown back. She kept her eyes
on the moon, and the stars swirled in a magical spiral dance. After several
spins she fell back onto the grass, satisfied. She had seen the swirling stars.

She had done the spiral dance. 

She was the moon goddess.

Corona Borealis twinkled in the distant heavens.

Dean stood and picked up his racquet. "It's late. See ya tomorrow." He slunk up
the hill towards home, holding his racquet over his head.

In the darkness, it reminded Ginny of a black sail.
----------------------------
Here is a link to reviewer's reactions to "Moon Goddess."~~GH

The Art of Loving

This is very true. And not only that, but being solitary is essential to discovering who you are and what you believe, want, and are willing to tolerate. 

You must listen to the chaos in your head, and sit with it, and hold it close to your chest and become comfortable with it before connecting with someone else. Otherwise, you are avoiding yourself and only using the other person as a distraction, an object. 

Real relationships occur between people who understand their own flaws and are courageous enough to look them in the eye. 

I'm working on this.~~GH