Someone to Tell

Tonight the wind whipped across my face in the dark. The full moon was hidden behind the moving storm clouds. The rustle of the grasses and the shaking of the aspens created a symphony of sensations. Light mist kissed my cheeks turned up to the sky as I leaned against the car. The scent of the pines wafted downhill and surrounded me. I stood alone in the driveway buffeted by the evening and I wished, I had someone to tell.

I loped around the arena being carried by a thousand pounds of muscle and heart. She moved like a rocking horse evenly and steady. Ta Dum, Ta Dum, Ta Dum. My hips moved in rhythm to her legs; we were as one - she and I. I could feel my chest ever expanding, overflowing with love and affection for my partner. Her ears flicked forward then back, listening to my every word. She was light on the reins, waiting for my slightest command. The mare and I had traveled a painful journey and now we had arrived. All of the trials and fear, waiting and perseverance had been worth it. We were moving in unison, connected through bodies and breath. My hands steady, my weight dropping into the saddle, my legs slightly forward-and she slowed to a halt. Perfection. This feeling was intoxicating. I floated from her back and wrapped my arms around her neck; heart to heart, my forehead pressed against her shoulder. The ride meant everything to me and I wished, I had someone to tell.

The sun baked upon the tour group as we traversed across the ruins. I felt I had stepped into a National Geographic magazine. The Coliseum, the stone aqueducts, the columns a thousand years old. The marble angels, the David, the Celestine Chapel. I was in awe of the beauty of Rome. Fountains everywhere, each a grouping of Gods and Goddesses pouring water over their nakedness. The aroma of tomatoes boiling and bread baking filled the air. These were only enhanced by the scents of espresso and wine. I took pictures of families and they returned the favor. Me at a cathedral, me at the Duomo. The history, the architecture, having seen these places only in calendars and books, I was living a dream. I only wished, I had someone to tell.

I pulled the towel from my head and combed out the knots. The morning ritual had begun as each tress was dried and curled into place. My hands moved rhythmically across my hair in a silent dance of preparation.

My thoughts are on the day. I set my intention. I contemplate the struggle between Spirit and Ego. I wrestle with the option to build or to buy, a house in town or a house with a view? I drift into dreams of luxury vacations aboard a sailing schooner. Can you see the Greek Isles while the sail billows above? The salt spray is inhaled with each wave we crest. The gulls circle our ship as the chef carries the tray of champagne and cheese. The white linen pants I wear, gently sway against my tanned legs. My lover lays a kiss on my brow as I toast another day of love and abundance.

Ouch! The iron descends into the sink after scorching my finger. Drink the coffee. Pack the lunch. Clients to see. Decisions to make. As I lay on the lipstick, I drift once more. How do you know when to push and when to let go? How do we know what comes after this existence? Does everyone question life as much as me? Sometimes I wish, I had someone to tell.

I was so afraid alone in the desert. Hadnt he accosted me? Hadnt I used the only threat that could save my life? What was I doing on the other side of the planet from all that I knew? My vow was to return to this place one more time. It was a now or never, do or die precipice in my life. I was going to stand on that dune in the Kalahari, on Easter as the sun came up on my 50th birthday. I made it! My tears poured forth in joy and relief, as the rays crept over the sand. He had not touched me, the torrents from the storm had not washed me away and the lightening had not struck me. I was still here.

I have known violence from an early age at the hands of men. A knowing sprung forth that no man would ever force me again, the day I earned my black belt. Abuse stopped here. No more stalking, rape, beatings or hostility. Someone referred to me as “rage under control.” That was me and that was then. I had spent decades in fear. Now I am free. I have faced terror and pain. I carry those scars inside. I only wish, I had someone to tell.

I lay down on my pillow. The flannel is soft wand warm. Cats purring along my legs. The dog stretches and yawns. I can hear the pellets drop into the stove as the fan begins to hum. All is quiet, time for sleep. I long for the strength of a man to lie beside me and hold me close. Trusting that he will be the protector, the defender against the things that go bump in the night. The woman in me is yearning to cook and provide for him, to make a home that is peaceful, sacred and serene. The child in me searches for a playmate, a friend to share secrets and play hide and go seek. Buckets of ice cream long after dark, pillow fights and racing on bikes. We run; we laugh; we play. I am a woman and a child. I only wish, I had someone to tell.

A best friend is someone whom we share our most intimate thoughts – our dreams, our fears, our passion. Our stories feel empty when we are separated from this person through distance or death. My wish for you is that you always, have someone to tell.