A Storm Brews or The Other Woman

I wake early and roll over in the dim light of a rainy sunrise.  L is still sleeping heavily, jaw quivering in little fits, head tilted toward me, resting on his fist, on his pillow.  I want to reach out to this beautiful man, with his long flowing locks, cascading down his smooth, bronze body.  I reach my hand out toward his shoulder, fingers lingering in the faint glow of morning, but hesitate. I can’t bring my body to graze his. I am still holding her.  Carrying her on my back.  She is pulling me from him.  “Stay safe,” he messaged her at 11 pm, completely out of the blue, the night before.  

“Protect yourself,” I hear a little voice within.  I know he loves her so much, is so devoted to her.  I come first, but she is a close second and it scares me.  

We do our own yoga practice.  He comes to me in my propped up savasana and kisses me tenderly. Slow, sensual - then greedily, moaning. I warm to him as the sun warms the earth.   Later, we sit on the floor just inside the front door, before a breakfast of nuts, dried cranberries, dates, & sesame seeds, & carrots & bok choy with miso sesame paste. We drink his favorite red tea, Serenity, from small white china cups, poured from a matte brown gong fu pot.  She wavers in my mind like the steam from the cup.

I am washing the dishes.  “Want to come out in the storm with me?” he holds my waist from behind and wraps his head around to see my face.

“Can I finish the dishes?”

“I’ll wait for you.”

It is cold in the whipping wind, the smattering raindrops.  The ground is slippery and mossy beneath my feet. We look into the now visible valley and know where the roaring sound comes from. Sheets of wind blow through the mountains. These radiant gusts make the trees dance like Mother brushing Daughter’s hair.

We take a bath outside, under an awning only somewhat protected from the rain.  The bath water is hot, but the wind and rain are cool.  I am secure between his legs, held in his arms, head resting on his chest--fully supported.  The storm is spectacular, powerful, awe-inspiring. The mountains and their plants receive with such grace, bending gently to the roars. L massages my shoulders.  I feel him massaging her. Am I not as graceful as the mountain? I tense under his polyamorous fingers. The further she is from me, the heavier on my shoulders she weighs.

Later, he stands in the storm, feet planted firm.  His knees bend slightly, and he raises his arms to the sky, rotating his wrists three times, arms coming down.  I watch him do his qi-gong in the reflection of the kitchen door, from where I write at the kitchen table.  Through the window at my side, light mists of rain water caress the computer screen, my face.  The sound of the wind through the mountain valley sounds like a fighter jet taking off. I take a sip of lemon, honey water, with two frozen strawberries bouncing inside for added sweetness.

The juice is sweet, tart and filling. This relationship I play at is the same.  In the juice, there are only two strawberries, but perhaps another would be a little sweeter.  There’s nothing to do here, I know.  No forcing to be had.  Simply surrender to the gushes of storm that rage through this body.  They are powerful, almighty & not to be fought.  I bend like the mountain trees.  I am the mountain - the storm can’t move me. Be safe I send out to her in waves over the gusty storm.  Be safe sister.  You and I are one.  I thank you for the blessings on this journey of light and love.  I embrace this shadow and welcome the dark side.