Love Birds - 23 years ago

Valentine's Day & other letters of love

One month after being hit by a drunk driver - 28 years old

Date: 1/24/01
To: Mom, Dad
From: BellaDancer
Subject: Mushy…

…I have a beautiful man in my living room doing His Thang right now. Since he had rehearsal up here tonight, he’ll be staying until Sunday! Woohoo!

This is the coolest—to be able to do my thing in here, while he does his thing out there...to co-exist together. He just came in to "haunt" me between tunings and had this mushy look on his face about the fact that I didn't have a problem with him practicing.

As if!!!!!

I love that he feels comfortable enough to do that in my home. And that we love each other confidently enough to simply LIVE with each other. Makes me confident that if we ever lived WITH in the same space, it would be good. Because we know that we need to do our own things, and we not only accept that, but support it. I am truly blessed! Well, I'm gonna go finish re-doing some of my character names, and by then I will probably get a mini-concert, right here in my living room. *huge grin*

I love to listen to him play and to sing. You guys didn't get to truly hear him when you were here. He's amazing...so very, very talented!

Damn is it nice to talk about normal things once again! And to enjoy reading The Doings of Your Lives. I'm glad you're on an up right now. I hope it stays. And yes, I would love if you wanted to make me a fleece coat. *purr* I have the snowflake one that I made for SCA. I adore it, but unfortunately, the green side of it has started to ravel really badly...as I’m sure you noticed. I really like the long ones. With a hood and pockets would make my day!

OK, he's singing now! I gotta go!

I love you!!!!!!!!

Me

My email signature for many years:

Knowing love, I will allow all things to come and go...
To be as supple as the wind
And take everything that comes with great courage.
Life is right in any case.
My heart is as open as the sky!

—Mira Nair’s Kama Sutra: A Tale of Love¹

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In the winter of 1998, this movie sparked my adoration of Indian Dance and Bollywood. Forever thereafter, hints of it began infiltrating my belly dancing.

Images by Kirk Lanier

It reminded me how much I loved to wear flowy skirts and ornate jewelry, even when I wasn’t performing. It also reawakened a bunch of things that had originally set me ablaze as a newly liberated college freshman:

• My discovery of Tantra.

• The sensual arts and sexual mindsets so different from my rural, Midwestern, Catholic upbringing.

• The notion that femininity did not have to involve shame, guilt, subservience, silence, and conservative sexual “purity.”

In the wake of that all-too-typical freshman dorm trauma, the exhilarated fledgling of these explorations had gotten buried under an avalanche of violation and violence.

The Kama Sutra movie gently coaxed me back open like the soft petals of a hibiscus trailed across my skin. I had dreamed of being touched like that once. I had fantasized about passionate union where two became One. I had even tasted it for a brief time before it had all slammed shut.

Rasa Devi became my teacher and inspiration at a time when I had just moved across the country and had no older women of this mindset to help guide my curious mind, my impassioned heart, my explorer’s soul, and my enflamed body.

After a year-and-a-half of delving into these things on my own and working to reclaim the desecrated Temple, I yearned to explore these things, hand-in-hand, breath-to-breath, with the first man I would take into my bed since swearing a vow of celibacy for a year-and-a-day.

After meeting Galen Leyforth, I began to suspect he might be the one with whom I would reawaken my sexual nature and its pathways to a Union so much deeper than the flesh.

Yes. I was looking for “real love…. The work for which all other work is but preparation.”

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Date: 2/1/01
To: Mom, Dad
From: BellaDancer
Subject: ThankYouThankYouThankYou

…I wanted to take a special moment to thank you guys for all your support regarding this whole classmate thing. In among all the bitching I did the other day about the awful things that hurt me, I wanted to make it very clear that I'm not mad at you guys for the way you handled anything. I totally agree that pulling a Louis (“she's gettin' her mom!”) would have only made things worse.

I wanted to tell you, again and again and always, what a great job of raising me that I think you did. You made me feel safe and loved, and you taught me so many valuable lessons. As resentful as I’ve been lately of having to see others' sides and be compassionate to those who hurt me, I am ultimately soooo grateful of the lesson.

• Because of that, I can’t truly lash out and wish horrible things upon this woman who has injured me so badly.

• I don’t hit below the belt and say things like, "Fuck you!" or call someone awful names when we fight, much less express my anger through literal hitting and other acts of violence.

• I don’t purposely and maliciously hurt others the way that is too common in our society and in the world.

• I am incapable of comprehending the mindsets behind things like racial violence and genocide and war invasions and etc.

• In contrast, I am able to truly forgive—myself and others.

• I am able to talk things through when I feel hurt, instead of letting misunderstandings or miscommunications destroy relationships.

• I am able to feel compassion for other people and connect on a human level, instead of allowing myself to become apathetic and dehumanized...as TV and internet and phone and etc. have lead our society toward. Lack of connection. Lack of touch. Lack of human contact.

• I am capable of loving without agenda, without conditions, and with my whole being.

You guys taught me these things.

And I thank you.

Because of this lesson that has ticked me off so much lately (compassion for others and myself), I will be able to go to my 10 year reunion and truly look forward to hanging out with people that I grew up with and that I haven’t seen in ages—some of whom hurt me very, very deeply. But 10 years is a long time, and we’re all adults now, so I look forward to learning who they’ve all become.

I will be able to get over the Martins and the other violent hurts like that, and go on to have a meaningful, healthy relationship with a man I love and who loves me.

I will be able to take all the "wrongs" about this crash and make them into rights, simply because I say so. I will be able to:

...allow all things to come and go...
To be as supple as the wind
And take everything that comes with great courage.

I love you soooooo much! You can tell everyone who asks that, despite the pain and frustration, I am becoming stronger and healthier than I ever was before!

XXXXXXXXOOOOOOOOO (and a few extra for good measure!)

Me

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Date: 2/4/01
To: Mom, Dad
From: BellaDancer
Subject: Nocturne

Just spent a blissful evening with Galen. *swoon* I am so very blessed. We are so very blessed to have found each other.

I mean...he even puts tea tree oil (a yummy natural anticeptic) on my Jeep Butt—that’s the nasty, open sore that has been worn through my skin from having to sit so much on a twisted coccyx. Since I have so much trouble reaching back there to put it on, we have to get all medical about it as I squeak down the top of my sweatpants. Wow...I don’t know very many guys who would put oil on a Jeep Butt! Hahahaha…

Did some sewing this weekend. It's been great to have the time to finish all these projects that I've wanted to do, but never had the time to. Boy, will I be looking swanky when Dakini and I finally start touring!

Also...watched a TV show the other night where a lady was playing Nocturne in E-Flat. *purr* Every time I hear that song it makes me think of when we played it for my 7th grade solo. Couldn’t help picking up my flute again after that. Mom—do you still have the piano part for Taurus? Also, can I have my solo book? That way when I come home to visit, I will be practiced in songs for us to play together.

Heh. Dating a musician sure doesn't hurt for the inspiration thing. I keep thinking back to the conversation we all had, where Dad told him about listening to our duets, and I got the distinct image of him and Galen sitting on the couch while we played music and sang things like Lonely Goatherd.

Wow...I am still floored that I'm in such a wonderful, healthy, loving, devoted relationship!

Well, I'm off to bed. Wiped out! Glad the plans for the trip are going well. Shine up your bocce balls!!!!!

XXXXOOOO

Me

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Love Birds - T’was the season

Journal - 2/12/01

Monday. Wiped out. Had a high-emotion weekend. Galen and I had our first fight, which was, of course, a result of crossed communication lines. Ugh…shake of head.

I hate when that happens, but we learned a lot. Learned that we can get totally pissed off at each other, but that we can talk it through without a harsh word or raised voice, and come through it unscathed. Siiiigh…swoooon…

Heh. The Band Babes joked that we've finally "ascended to the ranks of a real relationship" now.

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The Altar of Eros

February 14, 2001
28 years old

I usually despise this holiday. In fact, I have boycotted it for years because I can’t stand all the Hallmark Holiday Hype. Most of all, I hate the way it encourages people to do one big display out of the ordinary just because of the day on the calendar, and then go back to ignoring or being mean to their “loved ones” the rest of the year. As though that one bouquet of flowers or a box of chocolate over a fancy dinner can make up 364 days of treating someone like crap.

Love is a verb. And it’s a choice that you make over and over. Every day.

As such, I have celebrated Anti-Valentine’s Day by trying to keep the spirit alive all day, every day, and reserving any bigger acts of affection for any day EXCEPT Valentine’s Day. ²

I guess I became such a sourpuss about it because of how many times that holiday came and suddenly it was like I was seeing a guy I hadn’t seen in months. Ohhhh, so mushy out of nowhere, and all those professions of “love” that didn’t mean jack squat, because then he went back to business as usual on the 15th.

Bullshit.

But this year…I dunno, I’m inspired to play. Galen seemed so bummed when I told him about how grouchy I am about it. Last night, he wrote to me and said, “I know you don’t celebrate this holiday, but…will you be my Valentine?”

It was so sweet—and he did it NOT on V-Day—so I couldn’t help but say yes.

Now it’s evening. I have the hugest suspicion that he’s gonna come up here and surprise me, so I’m lying in wait to surprise him, too. He’s been at work all day—a job that wipes him out, burns him out—so I’ve drawn him a bubble bath. I also left him a big heart-shaped note on the front door to come in when he gets here.

All around the apartment, I’ve set up candles to light his way, and I got all his favorite treats. I’ve left them in a trail of scavenger hunt notes that will take him to the table alongside the futon, into the refrigerator, and onto the corner of the desk in my office.

I’ve put on a special sort of filmy belly-dancer-esque outfit and actually put on makeup—one of the first times since New Year’s. (I don’t have the neck brace on tonight. It would just ruin the effect so screw it. We both need a night of forgetting as much of it as we can.)

I wait for him in my bedroom—a room I’ve never taken him into yet. I’ve got the door closed so I can lurk and smirk once he gets here. For now, I’m reading my huge Roman novel. And re-reading everything I just read. And sometimes re-reading it for the third time—gah!—but it’s so good and I really miss being able to read, so it’s worth the brain pain.

When I hear the front door open, butterflies race around between my ribs and come up as a stifled squeak. He came! He came! He really drove all the way here to surprise me! Well…surprise to you, too. MUAhahaha… I slap a bookmark in and creep to the door, peeking out through the crack. There’s some creaky leather-rustling—his coat as he takes it off. Then I catch a glimpse of him heading into the kitchen.

I silently squeal, because I haven’t been inspired to do something like this in years! I used to be all about this kind of stuff. But with grumpy, MIA pathological liars who would rather play video games than have sex with me, with players spouting bullshit to get that bedpost notch of “I fucked a belly dancer,” and with twitchy commitment-phobes who might bolt if you so much as look at them too long? I have been quite disinclined.

Not tonight!

As quietly as I can, I press the door fully closed so Galen won’t catch me spying on him. Eventually, I hear him in the office, and then finally the bathroom.

I’ve left a mushy tape of songs specially chosen for this night inside my little boombox with the note, “Play me,” which he does. Of course, all the others had to say, “Drink me,” and “Eat me,” in plotty rabbit-hole fashion.

There comes the sound of moving water—all gorgeous six-and-a-half feet of him submerging into the bubbly tub—so I creep into the hallway with my grin about to split my face. The groan at the edge of his sigh tells me how badly he needed all that heat, candlelight, and luxuriant water.

After all the baths I’ve taken in the past seven weeks, I can totally relate to the sentiment.

Then he starts humming!

My breath catches and I lean against the wall, trailing a fingertip along the door frame. It’s such a happy sound. So relaxed and contented, which both of us have needed so badly. I am so thrilled to give him this gift! He has been such an angel since the crash. Washing my hair when I can’t lift my arms, cooking food for me, putting that tea tree oil on my dang holey butt, taking me out into the boonies to help me try to drive again without freaking out, serenading me with his own music.

When he bursts into full-voiced song, I take in a long, slow breath and sigh. I could stand here mooning over his songs all night.

I’d really rather spend the time with him, but we’ve never seen each other naked. (Pulling one’s pants down just far enough to expose a pus-weeping, bleeding sore does not count!)

If he didn’t have to be so careful simply hugging and kissing me, would we have have gone further already? I have no idea. He’s always moved so slowly from our first weeks of dating, which has been like absolute bliss to me. All my best relationships have moved at a snail’s pace, allowing a true connection and friendship to form—Jonathan, Carl, Kyle—so I let this amazing man have the bath all to himself.

Besides, that was the point. To just give him a gift on this night when he wanted to play romance and lovers.

After a time, his voice falls silent. The water ripples again and then stills—the sound of him sliding down further in the bath. I can just imagine his long legs propped up out of the water if he wants to get his back into the warmth.

Leaving my bedroom door open, I return to it and take up my book again, settling in until he comes back out. I’m sure the image does my profession and this holiday justice, considering the filmy, glittery layers I’m wearing, the dramatic sweeps of my makeup, the flickering candles, and the canopy over my bed. When I moved in here, I placed the bed in the corner and draped a bunch of my veils over it like a little duplicate of the ornate restaurants where I dance, right here in my house.

When he finally emerges, red-cheeked and glowing, I glance up.

Our eyes meet.

His are full of gratitude and adoration. I hope he can see the mirrored sentiments in mine, because my heart is so full that I swear it’ll burst if he does one more sweet thing. I try to convey those feelings all the time in my messages. (We don’t really call, because it’s long distance.) But there is always so much horrible crap to catch everybody up on that it wouldn’t surprise me if my expressions of joy and affection and my overwhelming thanks get lost in the avalanche.

Not tonight. His smile is brilliant and welcoming. All those platinum blonde, waist-length curls are loose and damp. He doesn’t come into my bedroom and I don’t invite him in. I just set my book aside and beeline to meet him. In a second, I’m in his arms with my forehead carefully pressed against his chest. His embrace closes around me and his kiss brushes my crown. He smells like my Turkish bubblebath.

After how many hours of relief those bubbles have given me, it’s become one of my favorite scents. Now there’s another reason.

When he conveys how blown away he is by all this, his voice is soft. It’s almost always soft, except when he’s belting out raucous tunes into a microphone. But sometimes, even onstage, he croons with such tenderness that it turns my bones to liquid gold.

“That was just the best,” he murmurs. Peeling me away from him, he takes my face in his hands. Normally, he would probably tilt my head up so he can kiss me. Instead, he has grown accustomed to having to bend down. At least I can arch my back just the tiniest bit now, so he doesn’t have to do all the work.

The meeting of our lips pours hot honey down the core of me, and sets loose another flock of butterflies.

Still cradling my face, he shakes his head. “I can’t believe you. Nobody has ever taken the time to do anything like that for me before.”

I hum, two parts sadness to hear of such a sacrilege, and five parts joy. “Well, it was my greatest pleasure.”

Hand-in-hand, we make our way into the kitchen where we fix my family’s special omelettes for dinner. We’re both so wiped out that we decide to hit the hay early. Fully clothed in sweats and t-shirts, we curl up under my canopy and talk quietly in the dark, smooch just a little, and finally fall asleep.

Over our weekend together, we discuss how frustrated we are with the distance. This commute is getting really old, but he has an entire life and a job there; I have my life here. My situation is more mobile than his, but there are no restaurants where I can dance anywhere near where he lives.

Eventually, we come to the conclusion that we like and love each other enough, trust each other enough, and are confident enough in the relationship that we’re certain the stars will align when it’s meant to happen. “When we end up sharing the same roof,” he says, “I think one of the luxuries we need to get is a claw-footed bathtub.”

Sharing the same roof…?

WHEN we end up…?!

That just popped out of his mouth so confidently, so casually.

And how could he have known that I totally have a thing for those kind of bathtubs? My last place that I lived in before this one was an old renovated Victorian house, divvied up into a bunch of one-bedroom and studio apartments. It had one of those groovy glass cabinets just off the kitchen, as well as a claw-foot tub.

To hear such ease in a man's voice over the fact that he calmly, certainly, and happily wants to share his life with me?

Yeah, I’m flying right now in spite of my broken wings.

I’ve been thinking lately that I need to add something to my dance name, Nadhra. Something butterfly-ish. Or heck, maybe I just need a completely new dance name.

Before I know it, my body will be soaring as high as my spirits! When that day comes, Galen will play guitar while I dance, and it will be the most glorious union that was ever designed.

The Musician & the Dancer.

© 2024 Hartebeast

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