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MySweetSubmssive -> An odd anniversary (8/21/2006 10:49:03 PM)
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Life is weird. And, really, thank god for that. It makes it much more fun. If someone had come up to me when I was 22 and told me that my match was a chain-smoking, cheap beer drinking, football watching computer programmer 27 years my senior, I would have given them the hairy eyeball. But it turned out to be the case, and I met him in my living room.
.........
It's the middle of the night here. It's quiet and still and hot, and I'm overly tired and serene at the same time.
It's been ten years almost to the hour that my late husband died. I'm not sure what to think or feel. He was an amazing, loving person in my life, a silly, goofy bodhisathva who was never willing to take me seriously (and I mean that in a good way). In a very big way my life has curled into itself since he died. I know I need to step out more, but it's almost as if I've forgotten how.
In this moment, I'm poised on the cusp of being sad that Rod isn't in my life in a physical way, and knowing that my mourning gets in the way of meeting a love again. Mourning is a way to avoid risk.
I'm not sure what I'm hoping for people to say. Perhaps I don't need anything said. I just need to put this out into the universe. I feel like I have closed down my curiosity for a long time. I feel dormant, like a seed in it's coat. I think I'm waiting for a sign, something cataclysmic. This vaguely reminds me of a Jung quote, though, about people who believe in fate not having self-determination enough to forge their own. I also miss being enmeshed with someone else, mundane things like spooning in bed at the end of the day and sharing stories or running errands on a Saturday. I can still smell him.
When mentioning Rod, I almost always say, "I wish you could have met him." He was the kind of person who got along with everyone. He was humble and unassuming, but was highly respected by the people in his community. He could see into people. He'd keep quiet unless you asked him for his opinion, but was usually dead-on when he made observations about others. He was good at loving. I remember once asking him what he wanted to accomplish before he died, and he said that he wanted to be loving presence to all the people around him. I teared up and thought, "You could die now ... ." He was tall and too, too thin, skeletal and knobby-kneed, but had the most amazing eyes. Someone came up to me at his funeral and mentioned that a third to a half of the women there had made love to him at some point in his life. I thought it was sweet and amazing, all those people who had gotten to experience him. People express sadness when I say that he died, but, really, I feel lucky to have known him.
I remember saying to my mother that Rod was a "real man." I stopped to think about what this meant. He was (emotionally) perceptive and sensitive, but still able to hold his own when I tried to push him too far. I loved that he would only bend so much, and then give me the look letting me know that I was a leeeeeeetle bit unreasonable in my demands. (smiling) It felt very secure. I knew he would always be his own person.
He brought me wildflowers picked from the side of the road at the first pagan festival we spent together. After that, every time he came to visit, he brought a sproinging bouquet of queen anne's lace and day lillies and sweet peas. I was girlishly delighted and amazed each time.
I've been asked if my husband was submissive to me, and while he was not, he did things that were ideally sub. Rod loved making me the center of attention, and was happy catering to me and doing extravagantly kind things. For the birthday after I met him, he said that he was going to fan me from the moment I woke up to the moment I went to sleep ... and he did. (smiling) He had a six foot palm frond that he waved in front of me all day. I'm not sure who enjoyed it more. We both felt wholly ourselves in those moments. I'm not suggesting that play is the quintessence of life, but it was masculine and feminine in a beautiful balance. He was also strong and practical when I flipped out.
When he got sick, I didn't know what to do. He was always the level-headed one I relied on in challenging times. But who do you go to when the person you go to is sick? I watched him being whittled down into his bare essence as a person. I watching him, thinking, "Is this the last time he will do ________?" I remember waking up in the mornings, wondering at how painful it was (and I had the easy part). It was like a birth in reverse, almost.
As I said, I'm not even sure why I'm putting this out here. I just feel I need to.
Many thanks for reading, and enjoy your day.
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