The Thing About the Mist

The thing about the mist, the dream, is that you can’t hold it. When you reach out to a dream, it escapes your open hand. When you seek out a hope, it slips right through your waiting arms. It is not meant to be held, yet it is meant to be held dear. It is special like that.

The thing about the mist is that it represents a possibility. When I would sit in stillness, allowing the waves of possibility to sweep into my soul, I would see it. Formless as she was, I knew her. Shapeless as I saw her then, I could feel her in my empty spaces. She’d fit nicely everywhere I went, and filled the voids in every way.

See, I knew her. For years we would chat, and my heart would beat loudly in my chest. We would share our thoughts, and my senses would instantly awaken. I would see her image, feel her presence, and the moment would instantly be filled. I’d feel her eyes pierce deep within me, and it was like she was sitting on my lap, owning my entire being.

All of those things were true, except she was nowhere near me. In my heart she’d sing, but in my spaces she wasn’t there. In my thoughts she’d reign supreme, but in my life she was horribly absent. My body would react to the slightest interaction, but my mind would think the better of approaching her. Sometimes there is a safety in leaving the mist alone.

As the Universe works, I must not have been ready for her arrival. In some way I had things to do and lessons to learn before she’d come. I kept searching for her, knowing she was there, hoping I’d feel her warmth, wishing I would wake up with her there, answering my searching arms.

I’d dream of telling her how I felt, of leaping off a cliff with her, of knowing that we’d rise to lofty heights together. Yet, I stayed silent, for reasons of my own that only she knows, and wondered if my heart would ever sing to her in the light of a watchful Moon. My soul would be dampened by the mist, but my flesh would remain dry in the reality I had made. Though torture as it was, I’m certainly used to the wicked folly of such a cruel hoax.

As the Universe works, a landslide woke us to our purpose. I heard her voice. I felt her passion. I knew her every need, instantly, like she was part of me. Immediately, the love that had been brewing for some time had enough of our foolishness, and it brought us to the destiny we made to share. Each and every lesson I had learned came to life in that instant, and we both knew.

To the man whose heart has been opened, such events are easily seen even if they are not easily understood. The love that fashioned through toil and discipline takes over, and everything else falls nicely into place. Words I’ve always wanted to say came pouring from my lips, and each and every footfall in my life was found in the place were my feet were made firm, the place where I was to meet my Soul, my mate, my truest love.

Some say when you die your life flashes before your eyes. My life came into view in the moment our love was shared, the very moment I dove into a life with her. It all made sense, each and every disappointment, each and every stumble, each and every resurrection suddenly seemed perfectly necessary. I get to hold her hand because I’ve bled in spaces I was only meant to visit. I get to kiss her lips because I’ve fallen from some lofty peaks. With a strength born of a million challenges, and a heart created through a vehement discipline to the lessons I was taught, I get to love this woman as she deserves to be loved. I get to care for her as she deserves to be cared for.

I go back in time, and tell the beasts, “Yes, give me another. Make me bleed good, so that she gets all she deserves. Toughen me up, so that she never sees me waver. Hit me with your best shot, rid me of my fear, so that I may love her without distraction.”

I go back in time, and tell the angels, “Guide me to my heart, so that I may know love when I feel it. Take me to the plush grasslands, so that I may know the comfort I wish to give her. Take me to the lover’s fountain, so that I may pour her a drink when she arrives. Show me what I need to know, so that I know it when I need to.”

As mists sometimes will, they become dense rains one which we dance. I am dancing in such a rain, and marveling in the rainbows as the Sun graces me in the movement. I don’t fear the end of the sunburst, because I know her. Sometimes the mist may dry, but what is left behind is still a dream. A dream we get to share. A dream we get to live. A dream only meant for the two of us.

I can live with that. Yeah, I chuckle at the notion that I have a choice. I’ve already made it, as has she, because as the rains do end the dance will continue. The rains are what have brought us here. The mist has served its purpose.

~rd~