My grandmother was named Rose, she lived in the wild and tamed three sons.
“There was something about him that she wanted to learn, grow into, and hide in, where she could turn away from being an adult. There was some little waltz in the way he spoke to her and the way he thought.”
The English Patient, Michael Ondaatje.
I promised to tell you how one falls in love.
The wild poem is a substitute
For the women one loves
Or ought to love,
One wild rhapsody
A fake for another
“I believe this. When we meet those we fall in love with, there is an aspect of our spirit that is historian, a bit of a pedant who reminisces or remembers a meeting when the other has passed by innocently… but all parts of the body must be ready for the other, all atoms must jump in one direction for desire to occur.”
― Michael Ondaatje, Author of The English Patient
Mementos tucked safe within the locket of my mind. Words whispered, voice hushed and raw with emotion. Hearts thunder when reciprocated love revealed. A shooting star that blazed in earnest while in silent embrace we watched enthralled. Scent from the base of your earlobe. A pressed flower from the field of our love. The sound of your approach. Tears shed in shared grief. The hum of satiated carnal delight. Sensations and images varied, sharing only the thread of our narrative, one I pray will never end.
When gifted a glimpse into another’s soul hold it as treasure, remember its contours and magnify the beauty you find there. The whispers shared between souls are beyond any language; resplendent sound imbued with the light that forms us. Our cells speak. The knowing, the understanding simple, if heart and mind opens. The whole becomes stronger, more substantial and the ripples of knowing become wave after wave of powerful memory, holding past, present and future. I close my eyes beneath the great ocean of distant suns and open my heart to song. A voice heard but not heard as it cherishes life. The ground shakes beneath me as I worship in an empty temple, for a people long gone, but I know the souls still live I glimpse them now and then and choose to magnify the beauty within.
My veins rumble with the songs of my ancestors. My clan, long known as the secret keepers, those with the long memory to recall the true stories and the lineages of all men were always close to those who ruled and those who communed with the gods. As time passed they became artists and writers, historians and keepers of the faith. I can see clearly in my mind the image of a great hall, one of my ancestors standing next to a great Chieftain introducing each who enter the hall for celebration with their lineage and the defining moments of both their clan and individual lives. The long memory that stretches across time within the blood, stirring and wakening me to the song I was born to sing.
Absorbed in images of my ancestral home I am drawn deeply into myself. I can smell the snow-laden earth and feel the freezing bite of the wind. Home awakens within me as I hear words in the tongue of my forefathers. I am transported, the wind shrieks as darkness falls and a lone piper plays a lament from the peak to the gathering winter storm my heart aches as I hear his tortured love cry out to the gods, regretting the past, damning the future and all that has been lost yet hope holds keenly in his notes. My tears are filled with a determination that there will be beauty in the sunrise, how can there not in this harshly beautiful existence? Where we fiercely carve out life and cleave to beauty, to love and would give our all for our family and our honour. I feel it as if it were a memory from only a year past; I know it as surely as I know my own hand. My voice opens to the wind, something deep and old wailing, tearing forth from deep within for my history, our known history, what is lost from long before and a future thrown to the winds, ancestry scattered across far distant shores yet echoes of home call, moan and drive my heart and soul wild with longing. I will return. I will walk the old roads to the mountains of my ancestors even though I know I will find yet another road, across the wild and unforgiving ocean, beyond, to the even older home. I can hear the cry of larks and eagles in reply to the piper and I, as the tide changes, I feel peace steal over me … then come the dreams …