Sensual awakenings and magical stories…

The gentle, yet razor sharp sunbeams that used to light up the first spring days back home in Sweden were always some of the most welcome for me. I could feel spring within me. The light changed, the air felt different. Something magical was happening. It was as if I could feel life within me. For some reason Easter became my favorite holiday because of this. Not because of the actual celebrations, but because I could feel this enchanted life force play inside of me. It was like a bud in the pit of my stomach, tickling me, waiting to explode into a flower in full bloom.

Today it’s the autumn equinox here in South Africa, but in Europe it’s the spring equinox. Day equals night. For me the spring equinox always brings me to France and a few years back I wrote a story around that time; it’s a story I still treasure today. It has my heart written all over it. I’ve been working on the second chapter ever since and ever so often I do finish one, but then later scrap it. Maybe I will publish the next attempt here some day. For now, enjoy my favorite spring equinox piece. It all begins at dawn, just as the celebration of the equinox is the celebration of dawn, re-birth, a new awakening…

The Jester

For those readers that know me well, you also know the story I’m about to tell. Not because it ever happened, but because it was always part of me. You know how I longed to find it, at the same time as it was in me. I guess what I was seeking was an understanding from someone…someone like me that wasn’t me. I have cursed this story many times, because I did not feel like I controlled it, but rather that it controlled me. Yet, it is the most beautiful story I ever came across, because the story is about me. This is all that I am.

It was a town that you could get lost in. Alley after alley swirled in a mesmerizing pattern on the hill. The river passing through was a landmark, but even that twirled. Twirled around the little town and twirled in and of itself as the water was playing… It was a town that could play, that was for sure. Carnivales would light the streets, bring out the townsfolk and bring in strangers. Carnivales are designed for that – for openness. For something extraordinary to happen. You can almost taste it in the air – change has arrived.

People liked this town. It was quaint. Old fashioned, yet open. At least during the Carnivale. It was one of those weird Carnivales that no one knew of through advertisement. It was only the people that came across other people that had been there that knew. And those people often felt propelled to go. Because something, something captured them when listening to the stories of those that had been. It was almost like magic. You could taste the smell of gunpowder, spice and soft vanilla in the air. It was a strangely alluring smell. It smelled of adventure, of danger, yet of comfort and warmth. It was a two sided coin and you were drawn in to see both sides.

The town was, of course, made up of cobble stone streets and medieval sand colored houses. Flower pots decorated entrances and balconies. The sound of life echoed through the streets during the day and lovers’ whispers sneaked around the corners at night – if you listened carefully enough you could hear them. The wind carried them around.

The wind liked caressing this town. Rarely was there ever a storm, yet everyone knew that when the Carnivale arrived there was a different wind. Not the one that caressed the houses, but rather a wind created by something inexplicable. A wind one could feel within, not without. Although you could almost taste it in the air. So strong was the sensation.

In Carnivale time there was also a sweet taste to the air, because every other woman was preparing treats. Chocolates made with secret ingredients, teas made from exotic spices, cakes that looked more inviting than a hot tub in spring, desserts so overpoweringly indulgent that people had been known to become mesmerized by them and candy so supremely sweet, yet so mild that it melted your tongue and your senses.

If you can imagine this town – so sweet, so quaint, yet for one week a year covered in forces so strange, so delicious and so powerful and tantalizing it was almost as if they ruled you rather than you ruled them. Still, you knew, on some level or other, that if you were there it was only because those forces were part of you. Just like the joker is part of the deck. For some, of course, these forces were stronger and they were used to living with them. For others it was only once a year, or once in a lifetime, that they truly let them rule them and that was during the Carnivale.

At dawn, of course, most people and forces were asleep. Instead freshness was in the air. The smell of flowers, water and country air overtook everything else. It was only ever so often that the wind would bring you a taste of the undertones, those that would get stronger as the day moved along.

During one such Carnivale, at one such dawn, sat a man atop a bridge, overlooking the town. The sun was painting the sky a dusky peach, mixed with blues, greens and yellows. It was the colors that made this man arise so early. The colors and the need to see things for what they were. Come night he would become part of the dance of the living and if he did not watch out, he would forget. Forget who he truly was. Forget to see life.

He liked living though, he just didn’t want to entirely fall into the dance because he knew that then it would never stop. He would never step aside to watch. He would just play his part like all the others. Be swept off his feet rather than walking his way. He would always know what people thought, but he would not think it. He would be too mesmerized by their colors, their faces, the sensation of their hands against his…he would dance, but he would no longer be the one choosing which dance, which tune to follow, he would instead be led by the music, the people, the steps…

No, the jester preferred this life, this life where he walked on his own road. The road of course belonged to everyone, but few others walked it. When he did meet someone on the same road they would instantly become friends even though they did not come from the same place. They became friends because they were going in the same direction. They were few though and he had gotten used to being on his own. He had a life. He knew where he was going, even though that was a matter of a constantly changing heart. He knew he just had to follow it and that made him secure. He was comfortable within his own skin.

He was an entertainer, that was his profession. He would tell people what they thought – read them like an open book. Of course he only saw that which was obvious, but they thought it was hidden and that he had cracked them open. Like any good entertainer he would also talk of the news of the day, only he would tell them for what they truly were, not what they were portrayed to be. There was a lot of humor in the truth. He would tell the audience that everything was a lie, but then that was the truth. He could juggle and do tricks with cards, he could play the flute and stand on the one hand. He was, to everyone else, a mystery, but to him he was quite open. He spoke the truth so everyone thought he was lying. He showed everyone a trick, but they could not see it, so they got tricked.

The woman was standing in her shop grinding spices in her mortar. She could have bought them ground, but they were more potent when fresh. The woman knew spices very well – she had studied the use of each one, but when she made potions she did not think. She let her subconscious decide – it had gotten all the information it needed through her studies and it was more trustworthy than her logical brain.

She was up early as her mind tended to be clearer and her instincts purer. That way her potions became even stronger. Besides, she liked seeing people in the morning – the few that managed to crawl out of bed. It was as if their minds, too, were clearer and it made it easier for her to determine what they had come there for. To treat themselves, of course, but what for? You’d think they’d come for celebration, but most came because they needed comfort. No sorrow felt as bad when indulging in something pleasurable and light, or sensual and musty, or simply tantalizing and warm. As the customers entered the shop she would serve them accordingly with wit and charms, but also with the right spices, cakes and drinks. As she saw it that was her job. That and the joy she got from playing with the ingredients, always creating something new. She also created potions for her own sake. Joyous little things that matched her mood. Sunshine food for the soul or tantra for the night time. Kiss me quick cupcakes. Turn me on chocolates. Take me out fudge. Make me laugh cookies. Soothe my soul tea. Bring it on truffles. Sleep well mints. Dream of love candy.

The wind suddenly swept by, swirling in underneath the crack in the door. A second later, whilst the wind was still playing outside, the woman heard a bell gently playing somewhere far away. She smiled. So he was coming. Whoever he was. The wind and the bells always let her know. It had started on a square in Avignon during their Festival. Since then it always happened.

The woman was used to reading signs, just as she was used to reading thoughts. To her it was simple, so long as her mind was clear. As soon as she wanted something the messages got mumbled up – the signs were still there, but she misread them.

The spices she had chosen today were warm – cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, chili… It suited the spirit of the Carnivale. It was made of such animal instincts. Of pleasure. Of the need for transformation. Liberty. Love. Laughter. Beauty. Truth. It was a bohemian revolution according to some, but mainly human if you knew nature. It was what every man dreamt of, but few dared to pursue. The total freedom of being without the need to be. It brought out your hidden desires. Those that were meant to be played with, not suppressed. People had left the Carnivale changed. People had left not knowing what had just happened. People had left pretending to be what they used to pretend to be. It depended on how strong the forces within them were to be free. Some felt more comfortable returning to their old shell.

The scent of the spices twirled up into her face as the door was opened. She didn’t have to look up to know that it was a man, but she was surprised at the lightness of his step. It was not an intrusive one she thought. He was humble, yet with force. He was strong but he cared to be light. Light on those whose path he crossed. She was sure he made an impression, but he didn’t change them by crushing their defenses. He changed them by softly showing them what was there.

“Bonjour monsieur, que c’est que vous voulez?” she asked and looked up as yet another waft of the spices entered her nostrils. So these were his spices she thought. Deep, yet with a playfulness and warmth. Warm, yet with a zest.

“I don’t know,” he replied, his eyes following her body. “I would like breakfast, but why don’t you tell me what’s the best in this café to eat?” She nodded. “Please, have a seat.”

He sat down and opened his bag – a worn out, yet sturdy backpack made of leather. It looked handmade. He picked out a wooden flute. “Would you mind if I play?” he asked. “I will keep it quiet so that the neighbors won’t complain.” “Not at all,” she said. “In fact I’d be curious to hear that which only you can play.” He looked up at her in some surprise. So she knew that each song was different to each man. He had already studied her. He knew that she could read people, yet she seemed somewhat confused by his presence. He too felt that there was something about her that he couldn’t explain, yet knew that he somewhere knew. It was something…

He played and she became mesmerized. In the song she could hear his journeys. She could see the grass fields and the towns. She could taste the food and drink the water. He played with feeling so everything was there in sight.

She placed a plate in front of him and a large cup of hot chocolate, gently spiced with cardamom. “You think I need to be soothed, do you?” he asked, somewhat surprised. “You think you are strong, and you are, but you have walked far. You have given your energy to the hearts of strangers, helping them. You have recovered in the fields and in the valleys, but not many send their energy to you. There was a woman in a town once, but she is but a memory to you now. It brings a smile to your face, but it no longer brings you warmth. It is rare that you find someone you like. Sometimes you encounter fellow travelers, and you share a laugh. You get giddy and happy through talking to someone who knows, but it is not love, it is only sharing. You understand each other. You do not love one another. Yes, the chocolate will soothe you and the food heal you.”

She walked back into the kitchen, knowing that she had said much more to him than she had to any customer in her whole life. To others she had to talk in fairytales. She had to tell stories to make them understand. If she spoke her mind they would be frightened, but he was like her. He read them too.

The jester bit into the muffin, which indeed made him feel an instant warmth, a comfort, throughout his body. Now he knew what he had seen in her before that he had not been able to understand. They did the same job. She through patisseries, he through cards. They played tricks on people. They entertained people, through their taste buds or their minds. Both, of course, leading to the heart. They saw people for who they were and then showed it to them in ways they understood. They opened them, healed them and let them move towards where they needed to go. The people never knew. At least very few. Often they just felt entertained and lighthearted, excited and thrilled, turned on or high, comforted or blessed with joy. They didn’t realize that someone had just gone in and rearranged the pieces of their puzzle. It was a lonely job, yet a very sociable job. It was a heartwarming job, but it did drink some of your energy, like the woman said, because all your energy went to them. You then had to sit and recover in nature – gain energy from somewhere else. He did not question his path, he just sometimes wished that someone would understand it. Not just understand it, but travel along the same path as him, stretching out her warmth to him. Because of course, the warmth of a woman was different from the warmth of a man – both needed but in different ways.

As she came back out to continue grinding her spices for the cake she was baking he asked her: “So you are the magical witch of this town?” She laughed. “Some like to think that. There is nothing as exciting as spells, but there is nothing magical about my food. I make people believe in a message. And I add the spice to enforce it and the intention to go with it. People would understand if you explained, but they prefer life’s little mysteries to remain intact. They’d rather think they were saved by a spell than by nature itself. Such is life.” “They’d rather be fed health than told to get healthy, you mean?” “Something like that.”

The woman’s body swayed as she was grinding the spices. It was as if she was dancing when she moved. She played with nature. He played with minds.

“Can I hold my show here tonight?” he asked. She nodded.

That night the Carnivale atmosphere once again swept across the little town. The air got musky and hot. Desires were lived out, laughters shared. Performances brought joy, fire eaters brought light. Sweets brought freshness and dancers brought lust. The spices became intense, the people open up and played.

As dusk fell the jester performed his tricks. People were baffled. He would tell them little things. Things they didn’t quite understand. He would also gently whisper the desires of their heart. The woman fed them desserts and cakes that suited their mood – gave them what they needed to get; took them from where they were to where they needed to be. There were many laughters, a lot of confusion and finally dancing until dawn. People forgot to think beyond that night. They were swept away by the moment. By the passion. By pure joy.

As dawn came the jester and the woman sat on the bridge. “These are the colors of the jester,” she said, as she pointed to the sky. “I know.” “You play with the colors like you play with the people. You jest, but in your jest lies the truth.” He laughed. “And you bake, but in your baking lies the truth.” She smiled. “It’s an easy disguise.” He countered: “And so is the jest, the magic, the entertainment.”

From that moment, or even before that, they knew that their lives were intertwined, as was the spice with the batter and the cards with the deck.

Sometimes an Ocean meets a Wind. The Wind stirs the Ocean to move and the Ocean sprinkles its mist on the Wind. They fly together, but they will always be apart. Sometimes a Fire encounters a Wind. The Fire burns brighter and the Wind gets warm. They gather strength from each other, but they know they will forever be apart. Sometimes the Earth has a rendezvous with the Wind. The Wind brushes the Earth and makes it come alive and the Earth throws itself into the wind in a game. They twirl together, but they know they will part. Then, once in a while as destiny says, a Wind comes upon another Wind. They match each others’ strengths. They intertwine with one another to see if they can play. They swirl and twirl in patterns to see if there is a rhythm they both like. Maybe sometimes they fly rather quickly, maybe sometimes rather slow. If two such Winds meet and they find a rhythm and enjoy to play, if they are both flying in the same direction, even though only their hearts can tell where to next, then they have found their true partner in life. Because as we know, they know each other inside out. They were born the same, only life moved them apart. They know different notes, but they belong to the same symphony. And together they play.

Written by Maria Montgomery

A love story…

I’m sure you’ve all been waiting for this. Chapter two of my love story. I wrote the first chapter two years ago and I have, erm, been thinking about writing the next one for two years. I just never found the time and the inspiration at the same time (I made an attempt once that didn’t turn out too well, bloody awful if I remember it right). I find it truly marvellous how a story can live in your mind for two years. I can’t really believe it was two years ago though, but it was. It was around Easter and there were flowers in the Canyon, I was doing yoga there in the mornings…my darling LA…well, this story is from my heart, not from the city…but then, that city too, is in my heart…

The Journey, Chapter II

He played her like a violin. Soft, penetrating notes echoing in the first light of morning. Like dew they were crystal clear, the notes, as they flew through the skies, the echo softly fading into eternity. She could feel him. As he moved something moved within her.

He wasn’t there. He was away in travels. He hadn’t been there since they met. That first whirlwind couple of weeks when they got to know each other. He had already known her, as she had known him, as souls know each other, recognize each other, but they had to get to know each other on a day-to-day basis. He found out what hours during the morning she ground her spices. She found out what hours of day he spent rehearsing tricks for his shows. He watched her as she came up with recipes, baked…tasted new tastes as she created them. She watched him as he learnt to make something disappear only to reappear unexpectedly, or six juggling balls fly in endless patterns across the skies.

It was funny she thought, how she felt she knew him, without knowing a single thing about him. He kept surprising her with the small things he did. Whether he suddenly showed up with the perfect present at the most unexpected hour, or told a funny story to a stranger, there was always this element of surprise – of making things appear out of thin air (which he was very good at quite literally). Still, even if he told someone a story she had never heard before, or suddenly showed up with all the neighbors for a spur of the moment picnic, which no one in the town had thought to do for the last 100 years or so, she was certain that she knew him. Her soul knew his soul, as his soul knew hers. Whether they recognized each other because of centuries past, or because they were made of the same stuff…she didn’t know. It was as if their essence was the same, or completely complimentary. Yet, there was nothing complimentary about him loving coriander and she loving mint, him traveling and she having a bakery, him staying out late to perform and she waking early to bake, but it felt right. As if they shouldn’t be copies of each other. As if they were different, yet the same. Complimentary, she thought. They fit without having to fit.

It was a splendid dawn today, just as the day three months ago when he had entered her little cafe well before the rest of the town had stirred. When the air was still fresh and clean – desires, agonies, pains, hopes and passions, still sleeping. It was the purest hour of the day. It felt much the same as the tones of the violin – clear cutting and raw, beautiful and light, yet forceful and demanding.

He had entered at dawn. It was his colours, his aura, the feel of him…a man who was wide awake, making things happen. A man who preferred to rise whilst the rest of the world was still sleeping. Yet, he was a man of the night; an entertainer. As everyone know – people like to be entertained at night, when they have time for such indulgent pleasures and their minds let lose and their hearts play. He could sneak in the shadows and appear in the light, he was filled with contradictions like that.

As any good entertainer, he could make anyone feel at ease instantly. People were drawn to him and she imagined the women in his life must have been plenty, yet he was a loner. He was always there, present in the moment with people, open, warm…still she could see he didn’t feel connected to everyone. He was present to them, they touched him inside, as he touched them, but he wasn’t connected to them on every level. As if they were different from him. Few people could get to the core that she had imagined she had touched.

His exterior was so light, always jesting, but underneath was something else. He could spend hours thinking up a story, coming up with the deeper meaning, the sublime messages….then hiding them in word plays, tricks and jokes. He appeared light, but he had a depth she’d rarely seen before. He was a man who knew the truth and conveyed it in jest. He saw far beyond what eyes can see. He saw into people’s hearts and minds and slightly altered them during his performances. A true jester, an alchemist at heart. She knew that was the path of jesters in ancient history. Apparently some lived on.

It was hard to pin him down. Just as he could see through the facades of most men, straight into their hearts, it was hard to see straight into his. From all the people he had met he seemed to have picked something up…it was as if he was everyone, yet, he was so distinctively himself. And when he let go, when he wasn’t entertaining, or analyzing, when he was just him, without doing anything, he was beautiful.

She remembered one day….the sun just starting to move from the very top of the skies towards the horizon, his voice – that soft, deep melodic tone – floating effortlessly into the air around him, a smile covering his face. A small group of people had gathered around him, like colorful dots, as he stood on his red mat.

Given his audience that day was filled with children, he told them a fairy tale. The woman smiled, as she remembered the story – it had been about an Easter egg hunt.

He had told the children that in one town, a small town much like their own, only instead of always basking in sunlight, it was placed on the mist swept hillsides in what appeared to be a magical place, the tradition was that every year on Easter Sunday the adults would go out early in the morning to hide beautiful eggs for the children who turned ten that year. The eggs were large, made out of wood and beautifully painted in bright colors, gold and silver. Intricate patterns, sometimes even images making up stories, covered the eggs. They said the tradition was as old as the town itself and in fact you could buy these eggs all year round to bring with you back to your own town. The eggs were very expensive, the accomplishment of a long tradition of craftmanship. For the children though, the eggs were free and filled with wonderful toys and fantastical sweets and every child longed to turn ten, just so they could be the ones participating in the Easter egg hunt that year.

According to tales from the town it was said that if someone really needed something the spirit of Oestre, of dawn and new beginnings, would bring it as a gift and hide it within the egg. Most people didn’t believe in this tale though, as it was old and filled with superstition, but as tales go it was still told over and over again. It was as much part of the town as the cobblestones themselves.

One year during the traditional Easter egg hunt, a girl found an egg that was much smaller and uglier than all the other eggs and when she opened it inside was a small bag of seeds, a needle and one piece of chocolate. Nothing like the endless amount of sweets, toy trains, games and other beautiful toys the other children found.

The girl who had found the ugly egg felt very disappointed at first. This was something she had been looking forward to for years and something her friends had talked about for weeks now. Even the adults looked at her funnily as everyone swore that the egg hadn’t been placed by them and there was another egg, one like the ones the other kids had, that had gone missing. They believed someone was playing a trick on them, but they thought it must be a stranger as everyone in town at the time got along really well. As there was no other egg – every egg in town had been sold before Easter – the little girl had to make do with the one she found.

As all the other boys and girls were gathering around to show each other their eggs and eat their sweets the little girl felt angry, thinking it unfair she couldn’t do the same. The other children offered her sweets but it didn’t feel as nice eating them when she couldn’t offer any in return, or swap around for favorites, like the others did. Nor could she play with her new toys, as she didn’t have any. After sulking for a while, she gave up, simply because it was too boring to sit and be miserable and decided to go home. After all she thought, maybe there was something special with her egg? Maybe it was a magical somehow? She would have a closer look at it when she got home.

Once at home she opened the egg again and sat steering at the contents for a while, waiting for something to happen – magic is supposed to make things fly, or play music out of nothing, isn’t it? Nothing did happen though, so she decided to put the contents of the egg to use – there wasn’t much else she could do. She took the seeds and planted them in their garden and once she was done she sat down and had the piece of chocolate she had been given. The chocolate was truly delicious and as it was the only piece she got, she took her time and ate it very slowly, enjoying every bite. She thought the other children probably didn’t enjoy their sweets as much, because they ate so many in one go. When she got sweets in the future, she would take her time to enjoy each one. Once she had finished her chocolate she hurried inside to try the last thing in the egg – the needle. As she sat down with a piece of fabric, needle and thread in hand she immediately managed to prick herself with the needle. Not a great start to an enjoyable gift she thought, but she realized she didn’t actually know how to saw very well, so she took the needle and walked over to her neighbor, who happened to be a seamstress.

As it turned out the little girl really enjoyed sewing once she got the hang of it. It took hard work and a lot of patience, but as she started enjoying what she was doing she learnt fast and soon she was making dresses for her dolls and shortly thereafter clothes for both herself and her family.

That summer her father got very ill for a couple of months and as the family didn’t have much money the girl made some extra money from her sewing and was delighted to find that she now had a garden filled with vegetables they could eat. Later in life she became a very accomplished seamstress and made dresses that created happiness for all that wore them. So the little girl who got the smallest egg, after all got the largest treasure. And she learnt that things that are valuable continue to generate joy for years and magic truly is a gift you have to make happen yourself.

After ending the tale the jester magically pulled out an egg from various places to each one of the children, each egg containing her homemade sweets and a gift that could be used for many years to come, something that needed to be used to create something else. That way, he explained later, they would carry the magic with them. She had asked him how he knew what gift to give to each child, whether a set of paints, or a mini-carpenting kit. He had smiled when she asked him this. “I know a little bit,” he said, “but I do not know everything. I was hoping chance would play it to my favor. I prayed each gift I chose would be the right one, using my intuition if you so like, but life after all will happen as it chooses and we all have to deal with what comes. Sometimes a gift today can seem worthless, that in years to come becomes precious. Just as in the story I told.”

He smiled again as his mind seemed to wander. “My granddad had a flute, which he had never played for more than an hour in total his entire life. It had been a gift to him from his father in law, who, as an established musician, hoped that his new son would learn to play and carry the traditions of the family forward. As it were grandpa never really got used to producing his own music – he preferred listening to others, like his beautiful wife, whom used to sing to him. So the flute gathered dust in a corner of their house, until some 35 years later I found it and learned to play. Much thanks to grandma. To this day, that’s the flute I play. It’s made of some incredibly hard wood and seems to never wear out. Magical, really. It’s my favorite toy, my most precious belonging. Apart from you, of course.” He laughed and winked at her. “I don’t belong to you,” she objected. She could never get used to people talking about each other as belongings. She was a free spirit, not jailed to anyone, or anything. “No, but you are part of me. Sort of the same, don’t you think?”

She didn’t, but she knew what he meant. It was what she had been trying to explain to herself for the last couple of days as she felt him much stronger than before. As if the notes of his flute were playing within her, opening her to the sudden feeling that he was present in the room. She wondered if she was insane as at the same time as she knew she wasn’t. It was the same as she feeling exactly what someone needed to eat to alter their state of mind. It was knowing something that travelled through you, without you knowing exactly how, or why. It was a feeling, an impression – something as tangible as it was inexplicable.

She thought about the flute. Notes, playing her, caressing her…maybe life is like that she thought? Like a million melodies playing at the same time, some harmonizing with each other. Those where the people you felt you belonged to, were part of. Maybe the whole universe was made up of sounds, of notes echoing out into eternity, never really disappearing, just reappearing in another melody. And when you met melodies you harmonized with, you felt stronger, as two voices sing louder than one. You felt at home, understood – as if the spices finally matched up, creating the perfect harmony, the perfect cake. And maybe, just maybe, you heard the melody before it entered? You were drawn, as if by magic, to the people and the places that would harmonize with you?

She felt a wind swirling in from underneath the doors and the spices twirled up into her face. His spices. She looked up in wonder.

The doors opened. “Hi,” he said.

Some melodies enter our life for a little while. They belong to one verse. Others stay forever as they are part of our refrain, if not every verse. They suit a part of us, as we suit a part of them. We play together, sing together to find strength. Together we move mountains. Others are part of our entire melody, whether they play near you, or far away. As their notes echo out into eternity, they touch you, caress you, alert you, warn you, love you…they are always there for you. Their music grows stronger when they are closer in their minds and hearts, but the music never stops. As one, you will always play together, whether you know it or not. You are in this life together. Without each other you wouldn’t be. Yet, you may never meet each other. Your hands may never touch, your smiles never be recognized, but should you, you will know. On some level or another you will always hear the music.

THE END (…of Chapter II…)

To the notes I play with, the winds I fly with. You are me, my life and every verse of it.

Magic…

Another love story to tantalize your taste buds…

As you may know I wrote a love story last year. In my mind the story continued and there were chapters I wanted to add, stories I wanted to write. Yet, the time never seemed right. I never managed to just…write. Until today. Today the “pen” once again got hold of the “paper” and the words flowed. You see, I never feel like I write until I edit. Sometimes it can be challenging, but if I feel like I have to force the words out, the words are not the right ones. I’m not in the right mindset to write. Today the words came. So here’s the story…a part of the story…enjoy! (P.S. If you didn’t read the first part, this won’t make much sense…go here to read it…)

The Journey

Chapter Two

The night sky melted away to leave room for dawn – the first streaks of husky peach appeared, then golden lines glowing in the still dusky gray morning. It was as if a little kid was licking a pot of chocolate, she thought, showing more and more of the shining red pot underneath the chocolate, but then she was bound to think about food… One streak at a time the colors underneath revealed themselves in a beautiful symphony. She thought about the jester. It was his colors, the dawn…this inexplicable symphony of life. So easy, yet so hard to comprehend. She sighed.

She was standing in her kitchen in the shop, getting it ready for the day ahead. The kitchen, in fact, was partly open so that customers could see what she was doing. Only the wood fired oven and the sink with a wall behind it were blocking the view in the far corner. It was a place she felt so comfortable in. It was who she was. She had designed every inch of it, from the stone oven to the cupboards. It looked as homemade as, well, as it was. Even the wood had been cut directly from tree trunks, leaving the shelves that were surrounding her with uneven edges – smoothly they followed the shape that the tree once had. The shelves still had the warm scent of wood, which blended nicely with the smell of the fire and the spices.

It was a magical kitchen filled with light and warmth, not to mention hundreds of herbs and spices that added color and a certain sense of mysticism…although of course there was nothing mystical about them. They were nature’s extended hand. It always surprised her that not more people cared to learn about them. Almost every plant, if used correctly, could bring something amazing to the human body and mind. To her getting to know each plant and its properties was always a unique experience. She felt thankful that this planet was providing her with everything she would ever need and for each herb she picked she said her thanks. After all she picked a life out of the ground to eat it. A life, which had taken time to grow, a life so beautifully provided for her.

Behind her was also a drapery, covering the door frame leading to the stairs that would take you up to her apartment above. The drapery was made of different fabrics and shone in some of the most amazing colors. Her mother always used to say she dressed and decorated like a gypsy.

If she climbed those stairs now they would lead her to the jester. He was probably getting dressed, getting ready for the day ahead. He too enjoyed the first moments of the day. He had told her that when everyone else was asleep he had peace to think about himself and his own life. He could also  focus better and therefore practice a really advanced magical trick, or juggling. It was the very same reason she got up before dawn. She smiled. It did indeed seem like they spoke the same language. As if they operated according to the same manual, yet with widely different lives.

He was sleeping in her house and because of it there was a different smell in the house, a different energy radiating everywhere, yet she felt the last couple of days as if she had arrived home. She laughed. She had been at home for a lifetime. She had always known in her heart what she wanted to do; what her gifts were. When others had asked what she would do if she could do anything her answer had, for as long as she could remember, been the same: I’m already doing it. In her heart she knew she was aligned with who she was. And this little town was her home. Of course she had traveled to see, to learn and to find answers, but always to return…home. The feeling of home she felt inside now though was different.

Her mind floated away as she took out her cakes from the cold cupboard where they had rested over night, put them in the oven and started grinding spices to sprinkle on top. Different blends for different people. Soft vanilla and cinnamon for those in need of warmth. Sweet chili and mandarin for those in need of spice. Soothing cardamom and lavender for those in need of calm. The combinations were endless.

There were other men she had shared good times with, hard times with and glorious moments with. Yet, even though she had met hundreds and hundreds of people passing through her little bakery and felt unique connections with so many of them, sympathy for others and a heartfelt love for some, she had never before felt at home with them. They were exciting. They all had gifts to share, stories she would could learn from. Things that made her laugh for hours, or cry, or just feel happy, or excited…yet none of them had understood her. Bits of her, but not all of her. And for the first time in her life she felt that her whole heart was open to someone. As if…as if she could truly be together with someone, not just next to someone. As if they could share a moment to which they were both present and both understood. As if she wasn’t alone.

It was liberating being able to play with someone who understands the game you are playing. Not just the rules, but the intentions behind it and the emotions going through you whilst playing it. It was a special feeling.

She put down a jar of herbs on the work bench and picked out a bunch of dried leaves. This specific herb reminded her of a specific man…

Once upon a blue moon there had been a man she had fallen madly in love with. In fact, whereas the jester had entered her life at dawn, this man had entered her life during a full moon, around midnight. Like the jester he was a traveler, a sailor. So different from her… She was small and slender, he was tall and rough. His weather worn face told tales one could not easily forget. His blue eyes, always squinting in the sunlight, glittered like waves in the ocean.,,,dark and mesmerizing. His hands were calloused, his skin tanned and scarred in places. His whole being exuded strength and power, but also warmth. He had been a man of nature; of seeing things for what they were in the natural world. He could navigate by the stars and survive storms out at sea. This, to her, was very attractive. Yet, he had only seen the obvious. He could only see that which was material, real. For her the world consisted both of the physical matter you could see and feel and the matter which you could only sense. She had always known what others were thinking. He could not phantom this. Although she knew that her mind could travel too much and be too unstable, his robustness, if refreshing and lovely as a counteractive force, crushed her at times. They were, in a sense, mysteries to one another. They understood each other on one level, but they did not see things in the same light.

It had been a nice experience. He had grounded her. Moved her with his somewhat brutal force. It had been plus meeting minus and the whole affair had been explosive. As most explosions it had also been memorable. Something which moves you that greatly is often hard to forget.

The jester was not like the sailor, even though they had traits in common. The jester, although he was different from her in so many ways, in the core center of his heart, seemed the same. As if they had been made of the same piece of clay. Of course everyone is…if you think about it. Yet, with the sailor it has been as if he was made of the clay from the north pole and she of the clay from the south pole. An instant attraction. Like fire meeting dynamite – something happens. Something significant at that. However, explosions are…explosive. With the jester on the other hand it was as if they both had a plus and a minus within them, but they were made from clay from the same region of the world. They fit. They blended together. There were still sparks, but no fire.

She loved him, in a way, because she could feel him within her heart. She didn’t know him yet. She didn’t know the things that would move her, drive her insane with lust or make her want to close the door and be left to her own devices…if so only for a moment. It was a bizarre feeling, but she knew she could share life with him. That’s why she felt at home. And his scent…that of musky spices with some exotic twang has a deliriously calming effect on her spirits. She didn’t know how it could make her delirious and calm at the same time, but it did.

The sky was now a fiery orange. The day was breaking and the birds had started chirping away. Soon there would be footsteps on the pavement and old Mme. Legrand would pop by for her morning tea. Sweet, but not too sweet. Mme. Legrand didn’t know it, but she would need something light to take away the heaviness that often hung within her. Young Monsieur Marseille would then casually walk in and demand his espresso and croissant. What he didn’t know was that behind his slick exterior he needed comfort and joy to feel more confident in his ways. Her flower scented water would do just the thing. She smiled to herself – she had a whole town to look after.

The jester would probably soon be practicing his tricks in the alleyways and attract random children and curios passersby as his audience. His green blue eyes would be glittering with joy as he would bring his audience smiles, laughter and some poignant truths. His light brown hair would be tousled as he’d run his hand through it too many times. Yes, she did love that man in some way…maybe because of what he brought to others and his understanding of them. He was an entertainer, an entertainer of the heart.

…To Be Cont…

The wind is blowing…

They come like whirlwinds, or breezes at night. They sneak in, or they arrive with a storm. Some twirl around for a while, creating patterns, or disruptions. Others gently stroke one’s skin with tenderness. It happens they stay for an hour, a day, a year, or a lifetime. Whatever their role, you find out as you go along…twirl along.

With the years I’ve come to expect the disruptions, the tenderness, the patterns and the storms…when the wind blows and the bell chimes I know that there will be change, I just don’t know which kind.

When I was younger I always thought that the change would be the best ever. That this time it was “It.” The wind would stay, it wouldn’t suddenly move away, or cause havoc. Now I only expect change. One kind, or another.

I’ve learnt that some winds just don’t move in the same direction. You have to follow your heart, they have to follow theirs. When the hearts speak the same language, that’s when you can actually talk…fly together in a dance.

I’ve never been able to predict the winds, yet they have been very predictable because of the ways I’m blowing myself…always moving, always changing, always craving more, better, higher… Only when I’m constantly striving do I feel satisfied. Constantly moving along.

The most surprising thing is that it’s not the winds one think one will, that one ends up remembering. It’s the most unlikely of winds that actually made you change direction…change course and left an imprint on your heart…

It takes a lot of courage to fully engage with a wind, because you never know where it will take you…in which direction it will blow you…but when you let yourself go entirely you are swept off your feet in the most marvelous adventure. You experience yourself through them, with them, and you see life in a different way. You get a new pair of eyes to lend you their sights.

I love it when they sort of whistle your name, because they are so you…the pure sight of them makes you dance and twirl and…fly. Fly so high and so fast and so wonderfully deliriously exhilaratingly crazy. They are the rough, unexpected winds that leave you smiling for a long time after…or forever dancing…

Image by FotoRita [Allstar maniac

A love story…

Someone once asked me to write a love story and I was a bit at loss, because I didn’t really have a good one – I could only write what came out of my heart, but it wasn’t a real story from life – it was a dream, a fantasy. Today, I realized that I do have a true story. The same story that has happened time and time again in my life. It’s not about one man, it’s about many men – every single one of them I think. Come to think about it, it’s about all the people I have ever met, including my own sweet self, because it relates in one way or another. It’s the story of a lost lover. It’s the story of my past. It’s the story that no longer is, but I will write it as it once was.

The Lost Lover

I’ve known this man for quite some time now and I like him. I love him, in fact. Lately though, I have questioned my love for him. I have questioned if I am really a good friend for him. I have questioned whether he is really a good friend for me. I have no doubt that I will always love him, so why do I doubt our friendship? I doubt it because I don’t know how to relate to him. I doubt it because I don’t know if I’m in love with him, or if I just want to be friends with him. I doubt it because I know that if we have a love story, it may only last a little while. I doubt it because when people are in love they demand things from each other so easily and they get hurt if they don’t get what they want. It’s not true, but it’s so easy to mistake someone for loving you when they fulfill those wants and needs and mistaking them for not loving you when they don’t.

I doubt that I am a good friend for him, because when I think about being in a relationship with him I doubt that he is the one for me. I don’t know. How could I know? I can’t unless I try it, but how can I try it without knowing? How can I try it when the judge in me says that we may be bored with one another? That we may not like certain sides of one another? So I retract. I still love him, but I don’ think I could love a relationship with him, because I’m judging him in that relationship, so I feel bad, I feel unworthy of his love.

I doubt that he is a good friend for me, because I know he has the same doubts that I do. So I know he is judging me and how can that be good for me? I only start judging myself when I feel his judgment and then I get sad. Then I feel like I need his love to make me happy and then I get angry with him and then I want to be left alone. When I am alone I love myself, but when I see him looking at me like that I don’t love myself, because I don’t feel good enough for his love as clearly he is not giving it to me. Not in that context.

How can we know what we are to one another without having sex with one another? But how can we have sex with one another without making love to one another? If we have sex we will for sure know that we won’t fit, because none of us want sex, both of us want to make love, but how can we make love when we don’t know if we are meant for one another? How can we make love not just physically, but mentally, every time we see one another? How can we do that when we don’t know where it will lead us?

Of course at times we did have sex, but of course it was the same as the rest of our relationship – it was a clash; it was nothing, it was everything, it was two parallel Universes that never really met. It was two forces pulling together at the same time as they were pulling apart.

How can I show my love for him when he has doubts, because as long as he has doubts, my love will suffocate him? How can I allow him to love me when I have doubts, as I may not be able to be what he wants me to be?

I still love him though. I still love him as a person, even though I may never come to love him in relation to me, neither as a friend, nor as a lover. I know we may never fulfill each others’ needs, I know we may end up angry if we get selfish about it, I know we may end up disagreeing on something in life so much so we will walk separate paths and never see each other again. I also know that in my heart he is my brother, because we have something I cannot put into words in common, but that’s why I sympathize with him and why I will forever love him.

Every time I am around him I feel like I am dead. Like I don’t know what to say or do. I go empty. I don’t know how to relate to him, so I don’t relate at all. Then I feel miserable, because I am not showing him any of what I am; I am not giving him any of the wonders I have inside; I am not sharing my happiness, my passion and my love for life, or for that matter: for him. That’s not me that I am sharing with him. What I show him, what I share with him is an empty shell; a robot.

I don’t want to see him, because if I do he will be in his Universe and I will be in mine. We will be bored by each other’s company, because even though we know we are connected because we are so similar we live parallel Universes, we cannot bring our Universes together, even though they are just a millimeter apart. So we cannot connect on a physical level, even though we are so similar in our hearts and minds. We cannot connect our Universes, because we do not know how to relate to one another. Sometimes one of us connects one way and the other the other way and then it misfires. Sometimes we simply can’t decide how to connect, so we don’t connect at all. So we both walk off thinking: I love that person, I don’t want to be without that person, but I don’t know how to be with that person. I’m unhappy when I’m with them and I’m unhappy when I’m without them.

It’s like one of us is always on a pajama party, whilst the other is on a fancy ball. We know that without the pajama and the fancy clothes, we’d probably be the same, but we don’t know how to be without the pajama or the fancy clothes. We don’t know how to be when we are not something. When we just are. So we try to be lovers, we try to be friends, but we keep switching back and forth and usually one is trying one thing, whilst the other is trying the other thing and we clash. Or we get so nervous none of us tries anything, scared of which path it will lead us down, scared of making a decision. So we just sit there next to one another, petrified. We talk, but we do not connect.

We are both dancers, we both love to dance, we both love watching each other dance – we think when we watch one another that “You are one of the most amazing dancers I have ever met. I love watching you, I love the way you move through life, I love the way you twirl, the way you dance with others, the choreographies you create for yourself, I even love the songs that you love dancing to. I love you.” Then we dance together and one of us is dancing to Mozart, and the other to Beethoven and we can’t understand why we can’t dance together when we love each other’s moves.

If we just for one minute, maybe a bit more, removed our pajama, or our fancy dress, and we stopped trying to dance with one another to the tunes we have in our heads, if we just looked each other in the eye and loved one another, maybe we would start dancing to our very own tune. Maybe we would hear the music we have never noticed before, because we haven’t been listening – we have been way too busy dancing to the tunes that we thought would be suitable.

If you are dancing with someone, how can you not trust them? They are moving with you – they are dancing with you because they love to dance with you. How can you be bored by them? If they are twirling you around on the dance floor, or if you twirl them around, or if you create chorepgraphies together, how can you be bored? It may take time to nail a certain routine, to get a certain dance to just flow 100% because you need to practice, but whilst practicing you are still dancing, you are still moving to the rhythm of your hearts. Every dancer knows that it’s not about dancing the perfect choreography, it’s about loving each step.

Your partner may get tired at times, you may get tired at times, but you love them, so you let them rest and they love you, so they let you rest. At other times, one of you gets a step quicker than the other and one of you will have to wait and support. You may not agree on a specific step, or a certain tune, you may want to perform in different places at the same time…well that’s dancing for you – you have to learn to dance together, but every time you disagree, why not sit down and go back to that first magic day when you looked each other in the eye and you heard the same tune? Why not go back to love? You don’t have to be something, remember? You can just be. You don’t have to do the tango, or the samba. You can just be. In that being there are no rules, there are no tomorrows. There is just two people who love.

Every dancer has fallen once, or tripped over, or injured something. It happens. Sometimes we take others with us in the fall. We didn’t hurt someone because we didn’t love them, we hurt them because we collided – we started dancing to different tunes again. We forgot to just be. We started to play a game where we needed to become something, where the people around us needed to become something to us and we didn’t listen, so we fell over – we fell into others and we hurt ourselves and others.

I have met many dancers who danced to the same tune as me and it was easier to connect with them, to dance with them. We were at the same page at the same time, but I didn’t necessarily like their style of dancing, or how they danced with me. With him I don’t know if I can dance with him, or if we will ever find our tune, all I know is that I love him when he dances, because in his moves I see myself. I see someone I love. I see someone I respect. I see someone for whom I wish all the best.

I may never be able to dance with him, or with other people, but I always have the choice to sit next to someone in silence and just love them, just as I have the opportunity to, no matter how crazy the tune I have been forced to, or chosen to, dance to is, step aside, sit down and love myself. I am gorgeous and I am a person whose moves I love, whom I respect and whom I wish all the best for, no matter what friggin tune is playing in my life. I love me. And that is a very beautiful love story, if I may say so myself.

I think when we try to categorize our love, when we force each other to dance to certain tunes, that’s when we lose the love we felt, because how can someone dance to a tune just because we want them to? How can we dance to a tune just because they want us to? We can’t. Love isn’t a certain tune, or a certain way of being together. Love just is. From that love you can create a tune. Your own tune. Whatever that tune may be, because if you want to be together in some way, shape or form, you have to have a tune, but even if you don’t find a common tune to dance to – even if you bump into each other because there is no rhythm, so long as you are coming from that place of love, you can walk away from each other still loving one another.

Hey, you, yeah, you – I love you. I may never be able to dance with you, but I love you. And I wish for you, that you learn, what I learnt today. Because to love without ifs, buts and maybes, to just love, that is, for me, what I want to be doing with my life – it’s what makes me feel like I’m flying.

The girl and the ocean…

The morning sun was stretching its first rays up into the air and it created a streak of orange by the line of the horizon. It was a calm morning. The ship was moving slowly and the young man felt a twinge of impatience, at the same time as he knew it was ridiculous – you can’t change the pace of a ship.

The young man was acutely aware of the power of the sea, the winds and everything else which his world evolved around. It was not he that was in control, all he could do was to learn to cope within what was there. If he was in charge of the winds, they’d always blow in the direction in which he was going. If he was in charge of the clouds, they would only be there when the sun was too hot to muster. He wasn’t in charge though, and he knew it. He knew it because he had spent enough time at sea to know. He had been shown the powers of nature time and time again. The more he saw, the more in awe he became of nature, yet, the more he learnt to play within her games. When a storm broke loose, he would look up into the skies and ask what he needed to learn from this one, or if it was just a joke she was playing on them all. A tease. Something to make them work for their ride. They had, after all, been given her planet to play upon. If it could be called playing.

As they would reach harbor today the hull would be washed; everything polished to look nice, including themselves. They had been gone for twelve full moons. It was a long time.

The sun was slowly climbing its way up the sky and the warm rays caressed his face, making him feel relaxed. He needed to sleep. He had been on duty the last five hours. It had been a calm night, nothing much had happened, but he was still getting tired now. He wish he could sleep outside in the sun, but he knew he would have to go downstairs. He yawned.

The ship was his home. Maybe more so than the old cottage in which his parents lived. The smell of salt, seaweed, tar and wood felt more familiar than earth and grass. He had been at sea for six years. It had taught him a lot and it had kept him calm. On land he always felt restless and agitated. At least he had done. Now, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to keep moving around always, but the thought of staying in just one place…what was there left to discover after some time? What colors and smells would wake him up, resurrect him? He didn’t know. He had never managed to find them before. As a kid, all that ever interested him was when the ships arrived in the harbor and he got to come down and see what they had brought with them from afar – the colors, smells and sensations of different worlds from his own. Discovery awakened him. Routines made him fall asleep. They were nice for a while. They were like resting – one could switch off, sleepwalk. After a while the body had rested enough and longed to once again discover something new. Something different.

There was one thing he didn’t want to be apart from though and that was her. She had moved to their little town when he was gone in travels. Her family came from afar. She was different; she had seen some of the world out there and she wasn’t sleepwalking like the rest. Her eyes were always open in wonder, she studied, she asked questions…

They would talk for hours. They would walk through the fields together. She would ask him questions about the nature around there, questions he, himself, who had lived there all his life, could not answer. She made him wonder about the meaning of things. About how a seed can become a plant. How some men love what others hate. Everything he had taken for granted she questioned. She was like him, but what he questioned was different.

He had always questioned why people chose to live as they did; day in and day out the same routines. Once he travelled and saw how people lived differently in different places he would question even more – why couldn’t they take the best from different places and merge it together? Would he ever find a place where he would feel like their way of living suited his dreams?

He had been used to feeling different; like no one else understood him. Until she came along. They saw the world, so differently, but they understood each other’s differences. Of course there was also the Captain of this ship. He understood him quite well too. They didn’t share the whole world though, they just sailed together. He would miss him if he stayed ashore – she had asked him when they would settle down together and he had promised that when he returned this time they would get married and he would stay. Use his savings to buy a boat and become a fisherman. The idea of seeing her every day excited him, yet the idea of staying ashore did not. He knew in his heart that he had chosen her, but part of his heart died as he thought of living in a cottage always. There’d be nothing new to see apart from when the ships arrived. She found something new in every flower; every spring she’d be amazed by the wonders of nature. As the ice melted and flowed down the mountains, the flowers burst into bloom and the animals gave birth to their little ones. She praised it all. To him, it was the same as the year before.

She was sitting in the seers room, feeling a bit nervous and ridiculous. Most people did not believe in such things as the planets ruling the minds of men in this little town. In the big city where she was from some people did. Here it was frowned upon; your fate rested entirely in the hands of God. The seer entered the room with a smile; her large red and golden robe making swishing sounds as she moved. Her brown hair was hanging loosely; the curls seemingly playing with one other. Her eyes were green like jade and emeralds. She was a stunning exotic beauty and she had a warmth about her that had a calming effect on people who were close. Even the decoration in the little room was warm – red colors and wooden furniture. She sat down, still with a smile and took her hand. ”Don’t worry, God created the planets too. This is not a crime, you are just checking out what God created for you.” “How can you know that already?” she asked, confused. The seer smiled. “You see, he left traces. Like the planets. The lines on your hands. The energy that radiates from your heart and soul. It’s like learning to read, but it’s not the alphabet you are deciphering, it’s people. You cannot predict the entire future – God gave you free will, but unless you break free, your path is written.” She felt a tad calmed down by this. It didn’t sound too bad.

The seer looked her in the eye. “You have a beautiful soul and you will travel far. Much further than you could ever imagine. You are worried right now that the man you are marrying will leave you. He will never leave you. He loves you. No matter where he is he will love you. You see, love is funny like that – you do not have to be in the same room to love someone.” She felt anxious – the idea of being away from him still hurt her. How much time did you need to spend away from loved ones? Since they met, two years ago, he had been gone for 18 months out of 24. She did not want to live like that, but she loved him. Other men made her smile, bought her roses, sang to her…he just had to look at her, but it was difficult when he wasn’t there.

The seer smiled at her anxiety. “He hasn’t forgotten you, nor never will he. You are special to him. So if the world separated you and he was forced to be apart from you forever, no matter who else he loved, he’d still love you. Such is true love. You don’t have to worry though. Your stars tell of different tales. Before I tell you what they are, I need you to understand him though.” She nodded. “You see, like you love spring…the excitement to you of the rebirth of nature, so he loves to travel. If you imagine an eternal winter, life would not be much fun. Everything around you would seem dead and it wasn’t just there to make you appreciate spring, it was there forever. Sure you would enjoy the snow, the occasional sunny day when you go skiing, tea by the fireplace, Christmas candles and spicy treats…you would love that, but you would still mourn the spring. To him traveling is like spring – it awakens him, makes him acutely aware of his surroundings, makes him alive, smiling. You see, to him you are the world, but without spring in it, he won’t be happy.” She looked at the seer in amazement. “I think I can understand that, but are you telling me he will always be traveling? That he will always be gone for more time than he will be with me? I would have to accept that, because I couldn’t leave him and I couldn’t let him live without spring.”

The seer offered her some mint tea and she accepted, still, in her mind, trying to accept the idea of being away from him so much. The seer slowly stirred her cup. “It’s nice, you accepted it. So it’s true that you love him. However, it’s not what you think. For him, the world without you is potentially even worse than a world without spring. It would be like a world without summer.” She smiled and so did the seer. “You will wander far together. Soon a party of travelers will pass through town and you will go with them. They will not mind women on their journey, in fact they will like having you there. Your gifts are valuable to them. You heal people. What you know of herbs and spices will help them. You will help them trade with teas as well. You are truly gifted you know.”

She had always loved the sea, just like him. Somehow she felt that it could tell her the truth – for hours she would stand and stare at it as a child. It had brought her him. It had taught her that she could not tame it – she could play with it – jump in its waves and splash it around, but it would forever be what it was. It was not hers, but she could enjoy it. It would take her places, but she had to be willing to go.

The young man awoke with a smile on his face – he had had a nice sleep and now he was ready to enter the harbor. He just needed to wash first.

He could not only see land now – he could smell it in the air. It had earthy undertones and some vague nuances of burning wood – fireplaces. It always excited him to reach harbor. It was for the sake of harbors that he traveled – new places and sights. This one was, however, familiar. It always looked a tad different every time he returned though, because he saw it with new eyes. Eyes that had seen more of the world. He had changed and therefore his perspective. What he longed to see today though was not the harbor, but her. He knew she was well – he could always sense if something was wrong, but today everything felt right.

She stood there. Skirts gently rustling in the wind, a smile on her face. She was beautiful. To him she looked different than any other woman around. It was as if she stood out – everyone else looked a bit blurred, out of focus, but she was crystal clear.

He was even more tanned than before. His brown locks were slightly blonder and if possible even more tousled than she could remember. His teeth, when he smiled, looked as white as stars in his tanned face and his blue-green eyes shone like emeralds with glints of turquoise. His rough hands, would soon hold hers in them – trace her lines, make her remember that she was alive. This was what she loved about him – how he made her feel more alive when he was around – he looked as if he was part of nature, rather than separate from it. He didn’t live within a house, he lived within the world. She had never liked walls, confinements; she too belonged to nature. Together they felt freer than when apart.

The sailor returned home that night, but home was merely a harbor in her heart.

In each individual there is an individual, yet we are all made from the same materials, so inside each person is a part of who we are. Our bodies are made up of the same earth. We feed off what lived here a thousand years ago. In our genes rest the beginning of man. Our lives, as Leonardo said, are made of the deaths of others. To gain you must also lose. To grow you must, therefore, give. It is only by giving that something is returned.

It seems like some people compliment us; bring out the best in us and help us see what we did not see before. We are a team. It is true that you should be able to live on your own and feel whole in you. It is equally true that to build a house you may need one person who can visualize what it will look like and another to build it. It is true that some like to lead, whilst other like to be led.

In other people we find someone who sees the world like us. From that day on, we are never alone, no matter where we are, because our minds are connected, our hearts beat like one.

In each person is a world. How they live, how they see, how they feel might be light years from our own. When they share their world, we discover a new world and ours, as a result shifts.

There is a reaction when we meet someone, but we cannot control their reaction, as little as we can control the ocean.

We love ourselves in others and others in ourselves. We love the new worlds others bring us because they compliment our own. We love and it is through love anything worthwhile is created. We sail, but it is in harbors that we belong.

Maybe I will always write stories of entertainers, sailors, healers and seers – travelers that seek truth and joy in life, whilst creating something of their own. I cannot escape myself when I write, just as little as I can escape myself when I do anything. To me those figures are beautiful, because they are my harbors in this life. They are me and I am them.