When you have drawn comfort from composers that create the most beautiful song. Always nostalgic, the rhythm beckons for feeling, deep feeling, always... always.
I am in paradise, don't you see? On the water again, the boat sways me to sleep gently night after night. I push back tears and carry on in the blistering sun. In transitory motion, setting it all up, one by one.
Everything to become independent. To become one.
My brother has left, for a month. Leaving me to look after his vessel that houses me on water. Enamored by me, he offers me to stay permanently, but I know how that goes... I must remain alone. I must be cursed with this beauty that is not defined solely by my physicality. There is something in me that drives men mad. They writhe in their desire, and if not satiated, turn on me instead.
I felt his discomfort as I embraced him when he left. His hands wrapped around me, confused and suppressed. He is my older brother, but feels other things instead.
I am fortunate to have a month to get everything in order. If I have learned anything over the past few months, is that it serves others as well as myself to remain alone. An old friend once told me this energy I have is a blessing as it evokes passion in the hearts of others... but it torments me inside. It isolates me to no end.
The wind whips my hair around as I sit on the upper deck and write now. I wear that same faithful dress, in white and barely there, the dress I've sewn into the fabric so many memories of passion's past.
I was fine, until last night. Perfectly repressed and superficially strong. Emotions buried deep inside that were brought violently to overflow in the light of the Fellowship. He is Master among Masters, but not mine. His eyes smiled when he saw me then wept toward the end of our short conversation.
I stood in front of the Swami in Santa Barbara, immersed again in the company of old friends.
Two of my most painful wounds he addressed. My smile faded as I groped for an answer.
"Dorrina... it's good to see you."
I stood there with my heart pounding. This master sees my everything.
"Have you healed yet?"
I was floored by this question. Healed from what? My heart had become wounded punching bag.
"I don't know, Swami..." I trailed off. "No."
"How is your friend? The one who you wrote to me about. That was ill. Is he healed yet?"
My heart both fluttered with hope and wept.
"I don't know Swami. I don't speak to him anymore." My eyes welled with tears. He moved on to the second and final question.
"How is your Master? Do you still go for sama?"
I stared at him in agony, asking inside my head... don't you see? Don't you see the pain that has become Me?
Instead, I responded, "No... Swami, I was a selfish seeker. I asked for initiation in hopes to gain something. Anything... instead I was left with nothing at all. I left the order. I cannot..." I trailed off again, unraveling.
He nodded and said gently, "well it was nice to see you. You are welcome here anytime."
I brought my hands to my chest as a prayer, and walked away, light headed and absolutely nauseous.
I wasn't until today, on Father's Day that I wept.
I wept for the absence of my father, of his father... of a son lost, the grievances of a father, of an unborn child because of a lack of father.
Father...
the moon rises, full and absolute. The winds are becoming colder now as I write. And tears well again, begging me to let them fall.
But to what end?