Flashes of Love; The Guide to Reawakening a Woman’s Heart

In the smallest of moments, in the hands of the keepers of Time, I am lost in my vivid dreams, my memories of another me, another you, are like digging through a shoebox of polaroids stuffed in the back of my mind. You look through me, not inside me; my own struggle is real, a curse with a cause. I pull my strength from a place so coven, a spiraling space that wedges between me before and me now. I want you to know this fierce attempt to feel alive, better than I truly am and carry me like a small girl afraid of rough waters. Words fling about, nothing to you, yet everything to me. I long for you to revisit me, my depth of consciousness, my blood pumping through my heart. Listen to my love, my emerging crone, LISTEN to the time passing through us, see my bravery, my determination to be part of an unleashed continuance. Mortality is a shell, a clause embedded in our soul, in the fine print. Perhaps some may be aware in flashes dismissed, yet I am in that flash of light we cannot dance in again. I see, breathe each breath too exposed to life’s inevitable pain. I walk with such consciousness, entirely engulfed in each glance, each movement of your eyes, your being; I am amuck in a cast of my own spell. Slipping backwards into the wanderer I have always been I ask again, I plead once more, look through our Love, savour the youthful reminders, hold on to me, to US, come with me as I cross this new threshold of time. I enter with faith a chapter unknown; in my hands I hold a piece of vitality, a bit of curiosity, a smudge of fear. Do not take my time, my devotion in vain. Each touch, every hurried second my eyes are open so wide, a destiny born into my gut, unshakable and relentless it is never off duty. Scroll again through all you know of you, of the course of life, togetherness and ask yourself again and again, ” where are we?”. In that instant let me guide you back, BACK to me and without measure, allow me to take your hand to my heart and walk forward as far as the clock, the silence of being allows. See the beauty, grasp our unknown and open this next door with me. Hold it open, help me step into hope, discard the pain and see me, you, us into the new realm of Love.

Love is not Timed

Love is not limited by time, that is certain to LittleMe. Love is expansive, complicated, messy and impossible to keep contained. Control is not Love. A homeless teenager who carries her baby to full term and knows she wants to find a right fix for her socially perceived wrong places her soul, her breath, her entire heart out on a cliff and closes her eyes, praying, convincing herself she is doing the best thing for her creation. The how’s and why’s of her pregnancy are irrelevant because it’s her Love that kept the life, gave the hope and healed from another’s broken promise. Or maybe she sees two special people, man and man capable of Love and no longer silences Love to man and woman. She in her bravery embellishes the essence of Love as Birth Mother. She never walks away. Never stops remembering. Baby placed in another’s arms please be safe from the real worlds harm. Each birthday she remembers you. Each birthday I remember, too. I love My child from another’s time, another’s eyes and not just mine. I don’t want to share but I do. LittleMe reminds me blood is not family often, but without the conscience of one amazing human that I don’t know, I would not be the selfish Mother that I am. I do not want to share, or recall or feel linked in this triage of Love. Then there is more, a brother, too. You are not for me to contain, hold back nor own. And Love, well, my way is always possessive and greedy when I am afraid of being forgotten; be it by my child, my lover, or my Love never given openly to another, I will covet and feel weary. I know no one is really mine. It’s a broken part of me that ROCK believes is ready to open the door and spread some goodness. I hope this is true. I think of the woman who healed when my brother was placed in her arms and want him back. I want to scream for BaDDaD to “go to hell”. I lost someone, too. My heart sees the face like mine in a strange far away and terrifying reunion and I cry. I keep you brother in my pocket and I wish you were more than an image of genes and mistakes. People like me go on loving their abusers, their users and the Truth is simply that we didn’t know we had a choice.