Since I’m not even sure why I want to see her again, after all these months, this should be
pretty simple. She left me once, and I left her once. Since we are even now, since we
obviously can live without our constant friendship, since my leaving was no big deal, this
will be pretty easy. Simple.

Nervous. Really nervous. Nervous enough to go through every item of clothing I own to find just the right thing to wear. What am I trying to say - without words - that has to be just so? Something that needs to be stated right away, before there are words and sentences to get in the way.

Everything I put on says something about my life. My suit for work, my tee shirts with a message. Bitch boots. Too hard, too cold, too . . . too. . . something. Nothing feels old enough. Nothing that is from that time before with Her.

Time to go. On the way to the meeting, I will stop by her house and drop off the toys I
have saved up for her young daughter. It’s easy. It’s on the way. No big deal. Allow an
extra 30 minutes to drop by and then leave. Easy. Quite simple. No big deal.

The jean jacket. I remember that She encouraged me to buy that jacket. She was pushing me toward a liberation of sorts, and She knew that the jacket was the Me that was emerging. Sorta militant, sorta unique, some sort of proclaiming. Me. Put it on - wear it. The denim is warm and faded. It takes me back to where I began to become Me. It bears my scent at all times, being the least often washed of my clothes.

This is really no big deal. We have gone and come like this before. Splitting hairs, not
understanding what is being offered by the other, life stuff. Friends do that sometimes.
Take some time off without seeing each other. So maybe it’s time to speak again after all
these months.

Urgency. The closer I get to seeing Her again, the more urgent is the need. Nervous to be good enough. What if She doesn’t want to see me? What if I am not what She remembered? What if She is angry? Urgent to be good enough before the time is gone. Urgent to see Her, remember Her. Urgent for her to see that I am wearing a jacket that looks so sad that I feel it saying to Her - I’m sorry.

Her little daughter lets me in while mommy vacuums in another room. She’s surprised to
see me, even though I had called to tell her I was coming. Broad smiles. I knew this would be easy. Easy as sitting here eating the warm blueberry muffins fresh from her oven. We chat, we laugh. Her daughter sits and watches this strange woman have an easy and simple conversation with her mommy. Friends.

My hands are shaking when She turns around. I don’t know what to say, how to stay calm without sounding ridiculous. How to stay the few feet apart, not swallow Her whole. Words must have come out of my mouth - everything somehow, in some distant way, seemed appropriate enough. My god, everything is warm and velvety, my knees as soft as the butter on my muffin. And wasn’t I the strong one, the tough one, the one who willfully left to be political? 

Her eyes, that smile. Her hair. We filled the space with words, I suppose. I do remember some of it, but Her space is what spoke to me. Breathing in the warmth in the kitchen, next to Her. Familiar smells, sounds, I could almost taste her.

Ok, now she is looking at me. Just sizing each other up again after all this time. Seems ok. No big changes. She hasn’t shrieked or anything, so I guess she’s ok with me. She hasn’t changed much. All the kitchen smells and everything are pretty much the same. It will be easy taking up where we left off.

I remember the last time I felt sparks like that from someone else’s eyes. Her eyes, of course. Powerful, glittery, mischievous sparks. Intense, voluminous signals. She is in me and around me. What am I seeing here? With Her eyes searching my every part? Urgency, nervousness? She is locked in on me.

I can’t remember all of a sudden if she is a hugger. Some people are and some aren’t. If
she moves toward me, I’ll respond, but I won’t make a fool of myself if she doesn’t . . . 

Embraced arms shoulders elbows and front to front, hands and back in that cramped kitchen. Not a single sense in my being can block Her out. She is quickly, deliberately filling every nook and cranny of who I am. I am accepting, hungrily, urgently.

She’s still the klutz. There goes the plate onto the floor, knocked by a leg or a knee
against the table.

Our energy together always more than any near space could contain. Buzzing and
spiraling and fluttering into space, charges of heat and vibrancy rattling the floors and the ceilings saying we are together again.

I’ll follow her around while she shows me all the things in her garden that she knows I
won’t remember or understand. I’ve never been sure why she even tries with me. The cold drizzle is starting to drench my jean jacket, but she seems so enthusiastic, as she has always been in her garden, that I’ll listen, look, watch her talk.

She brings me to Her magical garden, proud of Her products. Proud of Her connection to the Mother Earth. Her world is casual around the goddesses and healing herbs and magical plants, grown and nurtured as if all of this were as natural and fundamental as a breath. Such things startle outsiders. Her comfort in being free to talk with me of such things boils up into excitement. She has always hoped that I would figure it all out and She still tries. She doesn’t lecture, though, She just lets me experience it. And experience I do. I don’t think I have ever really told Her that I do find this place magical and mysterious, and that I really don’t know what to do with it when She offers it. And yet, I understand more than She knows. In Her absence, I have come to understand how I need to be healed, what my spirit needs and my body needs, what magic is held in Her garden.

I want to touch everything I am seeing in Her garden. Smelling damp earth, my toes sinking into the black and brown and straw, the most vivid colors in the petals and fruits and vegetables. Her back strong, Her hands permanently colored with the Earth She tends. I know those Hands to be strong and sensitive, calloused and warm, having received many a needed back rub, having had those Hands wear my blood when I lost my baby, having weaved countless braids into my once long hair.

It’s suddenly not enough for the mysteries of this place to be only Hers. It occurs to me that I must have been mad not to have understood sooner.

Typical of her - she is picking raspberry leaves for me to take home. I don’t know if it is to attempt to justify standing in the rain or if it is something more like my Grandma’s need to make sure no one leaves her house without something to take with them.

Before She picked the leaves, She picked a handful of ripe red rapsberries. The drizzle had gone to rain, and I was aware that time had gotten to some late hour and that I was overdue for a meeting. But I let Her eyes plead me into staying just a little longer. She picked the rapsberries. She thrust the raspberries into my hand, an offering made. She touched my hand in that earthy strong this-is-how-to-pick sort of way. But I could only look at the ripe-redness of the berries, beaded up with fresh rain. What was I to do with what She had put in my hand?

When She had gathered ther rapsberry leaves, She handed them to me with quick
instructions on how and when to use. She looked at the berries still in my hand. And said eat those berries. Why do you think I gave them to you?

It’s time to go, ya know. I have to get to that meeting. I promise I will dry the leaves and
fix the tea. Really. I get in my truck and she is talking. Still telling me about her garden.
Her daughter has joined us in the rain, hiked up on her mother’s hip. This child is giving
me a quizzical look, trying to figure out why Mommy would be talking to someone in the
freezing cold rain. How insane.

Why was I nervous? She doesn’t want me to go. I knew it would be this way. It’s always been this way. With the door of my truck open, She looks at me in that way She has. She chuckles while I seek a safe place in my truck to place the berries and the leaves. She gazes at me. She smiles. I catch Her energy and weave it tightly with my own. And She knows this, having sent her energy out so it could be caught and woven. She wants it tightly meshed with my own.

One last hug. I knew this would be easy. Of course, I will call later this week. Just like old times. Good to have a friend back. Good to be here.

When I embraced her through the truck window, I kissed the child’s cheek, but I caught the mother’s eyes. There is no singular person on either side of the window, nothing about simple choice of go or stay. We are we, we were always we and will always be we.

Down the road a ways, I remember the berries and pop them in my mouth. Nice of her to send a treat for me.

Berries from Her garden, ripe, sweet and tangy. Savored this time, every tiny drop of juice. I am learning now what to do. This treasure put in my hand as a gift of Her.
 

Rural Femail                                                                                           Rural Womyn Zone Home