Still, I Fall

Black is the color

of my true love’s hair

His face is like

A rose so fair

He’s got the sweetest face

And the strongest hands

I love the ground

Whereon he stands…

~ Black is the Color

Irish Folk Song (modified for “him”)

Ah, Amore!  The agony.  The joy!  The blush of new love, the rush of romance; thinking of your beloved each moment of the day, imagining his hands touching every part of your body; anxiously awaiting the next conversation, the next kiss.  Falling in love is the easy part—any fool can do it—but staying in love, I think, calls us to fall in love again and again over the lifetime of our togetherness.   

I want to remember it all—each moment of awareness, each insight into his depth, each time my heart breaks open, just a bit wider, softened by the light of what’s real and true and vulnerable between us.  Like these five moments that pulled me in a little deeper, reminding me why I fell for my sweetheart; f-a-l-l-i-n-g in love all over again.

1. It’s both.  When he met my Grandmother I wasn’t quite sure what to expect.  But there he sat, knee-to-knee with the matriarch of our family, as she fired off question after question in her gentle, southern way.  “What do you do for a living?” “How long have you two been courting?” “Who are your people and will we like them?”  He answered each question with patience and care, and when she asked, “Is this a real thing or a play thing?”  He responded, “It’s both!”  Yes, he was serious about our relationship, he told her, but we also played and had a lot of fun together too.  Hearing this, my 80-something Grandmother took his hands in hers and just laughed and laughed. I. Fell. Madly. Deeply.

2.  Bald for a cause.  A participant with St. Baldrick’s Foundation, my sweetheart has been shaving his head to raise money for child cancer research for more than seven years.  This year he will be anointed a Knight of the Bald Table for his many years of service.  I love his philanthropic nature. I’ve known this about him since we first met while volunteering at Children’s Hospital.  But last spring as I watched him on stage getting his head shaved before a cheering crowd of friends and supporters, he glowed.  In that moment I understood what my friend Jenna meant when she described another as being made of “wind and light.”  He was.  It made me love him more.

3.  Minding the mundane.  We had big snow that day so I worked from home.  But under pressure of a big deadline at work, he ventured down the canyon in the dark of morning where he stayed all day.  Yet, after a tiring day at work, traveling in hazardous conditions, he stopped at the market for groceries and picked up dinner before heading back home.  As he helped me unpack the shopping bags, stocking our fridge with fresh organic produce, my heart melted in adoration for the Man who takes such good care of me. They say, in love, we each feel like we're the lucky one. I knew that I was. He minds the mundane with a patient and glad heart. I will never take that for granted. 

4.  Spooning the Furry.  I heard him in the bedroom one Saturday morning, speaking in low tones.  I thought he might be on the phone.  I had been in the kitchen cleaning up after breakfast and as I started towards the bedroom I saw them together, lying on the floor spooning.  “You’re such a good doggie,” he said, stroking the Furry’s head; “We love you so much.”  The dog was in bliss! I stood there watching them, bathed in sunlight from the open window, just hanging out together, until he saw me in the doorway and gave me a smile. I thought my heart would break.

5.  The brightest light.  For our first married Christmas together, I found a fabulous tree.  I had been busy that day decorating and making the house more festive when he took off for town.  He returned a while later with excitement.  “Look what I found,” he said, unpacking his shopping bags and lining the counter with two-dozen soft white LED candles.  Then he carefully placed one in each window of the house, even the super high windows close to the top of the cathedral ceiling in the living room that required a ladder to reach.  As I watched him move about with enthusiasm, to me, he was the brightest light of all.  I could not have loved him more.  Or could I?

Day by day, in a thousand ways, still, I fall…

FALLING IN LOVE ROCKS!

Even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. 

Even as he is for your growth 

so is he for your pruning.

Even as he ascends to your height and 

caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, 

So shall he descend to your roots

and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself. 

He threshes you to make you naked. 

He sifts you to free you from your husks. 

He grinds you to whiteness. 

He kneads you until you are pliant; 

And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, 

that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.

All of these things shall love do unto you 

that you may know the secrets of your heart, 

and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.

~Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

"Falling in Love Rocks!"
Roadside, Boulder Canyon.
(c) 2012 Melissa Johnson.

Last year while visiting my family in Virginia, my sweetheart and I had an opportunity to spend the afternoon in my grandfather’s basement. A mixture of Salvation Army this-and-thats, tools, books and World War II memorabilia, you didn’t have to know him to see his reflection in that downstairs room.  We spent hours rummaging through his things, speculating about what drew him to one item or another, as we shared tales of a life well lived. 

Then we found it, there in a drawer; his military issue handgun.  Not surprising given Grandpa’s affinity for antique military weaponry, but there just under the clear coat handle was a gorgeous, flirty photo of my Grandmother on one side, and a picture of the two of them lip-locked on the other.  I couldn’t take my eyes off the thing, transfixed by the paradox: Images of a life-enhancing love permanently affixed to a weapon of death and destruction.  Why?

“Don’t you see?” Kevin said, holding the gun in the palm of his hand.  “It’s a statement about his love.”  I still didn’t get it.  “Think about it…what did he live for?  What would he die for?  What would he defend?” 

I never really understood that kind of love until that moment.  I had dreamt of it, longed for it, read every relationship self-help book on the market and tried to convince myself that I'd found it, with no lasting effect.  But there in the basement, sharing that quiet moment, I got it. I knew that I would walk the line for him and I had no doubt he would do the same for me.  He already had. 

Our path has not been easy, especially in the beginning as we faced challenges that rocked us to the core, but our love has grown through the cracks of early disappointment.  Instead of running away we held fast to each other, strengthened by our shared experience of that which we couldn’t explain.  These became our building blocks; the foundation of our life together.  

We're planning a New Year's Eve wedding this year, a black tie affair with family and friends. I couldn't be more thrilled!  And as I reflect on how we got here from there, I am reminded that even when enduring our greatest struggles, being together has been mostly easy. Like falling rocks, we hit the ground and break apart sometimes but our pieces grow stronger and we become more of who we are. Not for the faint of heart.

CAUTION:  Falling in love rocks! 

BEAUTIFUL!

When I admire the wonders of a sunset

or the beauty of the moon,

my soul expands in the worship of the creator.

~ M. Gandhi

“Well, isn’t that beautiful!” She exclaims with delight in her breathy, southern drawl. “That’s about the prettiest thing I think I’ve evah seen!” “She” being my grandmother, Catherine Mitchell Mason, and the “beautiful”? Well, that could be just about anything—from a strand of pearls to a handwritten note to a honey glazed ham on the table for Christmas dinner. To her, they’re all beautiful and something to be cherished.

Yet this is not the world view of one who knows little of hardship and struggle. She grew up picking peas with her sisters in the pea patch, a hot, bothersome task for any child. And when her mother passed away, at 13 my Grandmother took on chores typically reserved for the lady of the house. She lived through World War II then married my grandfather when he returned from Germany. They had their children and built a strong life together. Then later, she watched with horror as her beloved burned in a car explosion right before her eyes, an accident requiring multiple skin grafts and a very long recovery, but she lived it with him and helped nurse him back to health.

When she discovered she was pregnant in her early 50s, having been warned by her doctor that having the baby would cost her life, she bravely stood with my Grandfather before a panel of male physicians to present her case for terminating the pregnancy, a courageous act indeed since abortion was illegal back then and her religious beliefs kept her at odds with the whole idea. She’s had multiple open heart surgeries, necessitated by valve damage from an early case of Rheumatic Fever, and she’s overcome the debilitating effects of the strokes she suffered during those procedures, learning to read, write and speak all over again—not once but twice! She dedicated many years of her life as a hospice volunteer, sitting bedside and caring for those terminally ill patients struggling to find comfort in their final days. Yes ma’am, my Grandmother knows a little something about the dark side of life, yet she’s never wavered in expressing its beauty.

She’s always been that way, no matter what anyone ever did or said to her, through good and bad, better and worse, she finds a way to give thanks and praise for the beauty that surrounds her. Even today as she winds down her life, Grandma still finds beauty in the simple things. When I call her to say hello and maybe ask her what she had for lunch that day, she never fails to say, “Oh, you should have seen the slice of cake [ham, roast beef, tater tots] they served at lunch. It was the prettiest thing I’ve evah seen!”

We could all learn a little something from Grandma.

Be the Mountain Goat...

Her great merit is finding out mine…

~Lord Byron

Mountain Mystic.  © 2010 by Melissa Johnson.

I met John while living in San Francisco.  Quickly, he became my friend-spiritual guide-and-massage therapist all rolled into one.  Such magic in those hands, such wisdom in his understanding—after one session I was hooked. 

Trained in the healing arts of Chinese medicine, John began each session with a simple question:  “What’s going on?”  This meant that he wanted a brief State of the Union on my physical, emotional, spiritual and mental health because, to him, it was all connected. 

During the time I lived in the city, I met with John every week.  Through our conversations and his amazing body work I began to experience shifts in consciousness on many levels, but none more compelling than my understanding of what it means to be discerning.  We spent hours talking about life paths—his, mine and those of our friends.  We dissected, analyzed, and waxed poetic about love.

Then one day, while discussing my relationship with a man whom I loved deeply but who lacked certain core qualities that I wanted in a partner, John suggested that the key to my dilemma could be found by taking on the persona of the female mountain goat.  

You see, female mountain goats—or nannies, as they’re called—will climb to the top of a mountain peak and sit there.  She’s holding out for the billy with certain qualities—like horn symmetry; and short sturdy legs with a heavy body; top-of-the-line hooves to help him move about the rocky ledges; and, of course, social rank because this will determine his access to resources.  

© 2010 by Melissa Johnson.

Below her, all the billies are doing their male mountain goat thing—snorting, bleating, locking horns, fighting, pushing each other around in an effort to win her.  Some of the billies are killed or give up and move along in search of greener pastures.  But the strong contenders continue their ascent to claim the prize at the top of the mountain. 

They battle all the way, trying to edge each other off the rocky cliffs as they charge ahead.  But no matter what, no matter which billy she may fancy from afar, no matter what’s happening to him below, she does not reach down and help him up in his journey to win her.  Instead, she waits on her mountain perch and allows her suitors to exercise their determination and strength, for only those who make it to the top win a chance of partnership with her.  Then she gets to choose.

It all made perfect sense.

Now I’m not suggesting that men are the same as male mountain goats, although I must admit that I have witnessed some behavioral similarities.  Nor am I advocating that women (or men) just accept whoever shows up in their lives as “the one” by virtue of the fact that he (or she) beat a path to their door—that could get pretty creepy. 

And certainly in this day and age the need to select partners based on purely physical or biological characteristics has diminished; though let’s face it, the dictates of “survival of the fittest” lie innate within us.  So in a sense, I guess we all prefer a little horn symmetry.

But John’s mountain goat metaphor brought great clarity and the shift in intention I needed.  For months I had been riding the fence of indecision, torturing myself with what could have been fairly simple… if I was honest about my needs and desires.  And like the flick of a switch, suddenly all that was once dark and seemingly unknowable became illuminated by the light of my heartfelt truth. 

So I started applying this wisdom to every part of my life—personal and professional—and soon found myself initiating some major life changes, beginning with the end of my relationship and ending with a brand new career path. 

It hasn’t been easy.  At times I have second-guessed my decisions and the overall direction of my life.  Some of that’s natural, I suppose.  Just so, before I made any real progress, I had to revisit my ideas about what I thought it meant to be “successful” and make peace with the notion that I was my own greatest block when it came to creating the life I desired. 

And I learned to recognize that while people and situations show up in our lives often when we need them most, that doesn’t mean that every relationship, job or experience is meant to last forever.  Some things fall away because we’ve outgrown them or we need to be available for something else.  But we’ll never find that “something else” if we’re clinging desperately to that “not-quite-right-what is” because we’re afraid of change. 

Ultimately, discernment is the lens through which we make choices.  It does not mean that we're judging people and opportunities from a position of superiority.  Rather, it is to tune into the soul’s wisdom as we discriminate between this option and that, truthfully evaluating what’s before us while engaging our intuition about what’s best for our lives.  No easy task, to be sure.

Perhaps Steve Jobs said it best:

“You’ve got to find what you love.  And that is as true for your work as it is for your lovers.  Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work.  And the only way to do great work is to love what you do.  If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking.  Don’t settle.  As with all matters of the heart, you’ll know when you find it.  And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on.  So keep looking until you find it.  Don’t settle.”

BE THE MOUNTAIN GOAT.

Passion Rising

Don’t ask yourself what the world needs~

ask yourself what makes you come alive,

and then go do it.

Because what the world needs

is people who have come alive.

~Harold Thurman Whitman

Passion Rising © 2007 by Melissa Johnson.

In the movie Serendipity, the best man is asked to give a toast at his friend’s wedding. As a columnist for the New York Times, he decides to write the toast in the form of an obituary.

“The Greeks didn’t have obituaries.

When a man died they only asked one question:

Did he have passion?”

He goes on from there to remember his friend’s great passion for life and how it inspired his own.

My friend Stephan is like that. A charming French-Moroccan man I met while living in San Francisco, to me, Stephan is synonymous with passion, and I’m not just talking about the sexual kind. I’m talking about the kind of passion a person brings to life—even to the routine everyday things, like shopping and cooking.

A trip to Whole Foods, for example, was a spiritual experience for him. “Look at the tomato, sweetie darling,” he would say, holding it high in the air to get a better look at it. “Look at the color, how red and beautiful. Feel how soft the skin is. Can you even imagine all of the delicious dishes that we can make with this amazing tomato?”

Then two aisles over, “Consider the olive,” he might say with a twinkle in his eye. “It has all of the properties to give us a good life. We cook with it, and its oil helps the flow of blood to our hearts. It’s used in the lotions that moisturize your beautiful skin. Did you know it can even be used for lamplight? Can you even believe it? And when you put the olive together with the tomato, ooh la, la! So many delicious dishes we can make!” Every trip to the market was this way.

And cooking was no different. Stephan loved to cook, singing in the kitchen as he moved about, insisting that I taste and smell the flavors along the way, reminding me of the importance of using all organic ingredients. He used neither recipes nor measuring devices; his senses were the gauge of culinary perfection. And always, as he placed the platters of food on the table, he would smile and say to his guests, “I made it with love.” I think Stephan’s meals were so amazingly delicious, in part, because he was filled with passion, an energy that flowed into his food.

We all have the flame of passion inside us. For some, connecting with it is as easy and natural as breathing. For others, it’s a struggle to find, much less express. And for others still, it seems an inconvenience; why bother? When you consider the role that fear and human conditioning play, it’s easy to understand why some people are disconnected.

As children we hear things like: Simmer down. Don’t be so loud. Girls don’t jump out of trees. Big boys don’t cry. You can’t be an astronaut—we’re not that smart in our family. Use your fork; don’t eat with your hands. And for heavens sake, don’t burp or fart out loud.

Then our religious institutions tell us that all kinds of things are sinful and ungodly—dancing; sex without marriage or procreation; divorce; drinking a glass of wine; showing our hair and skin.

As teenagers and young adults we’re told to grow up, quit goofing around, and get serious. We hear things like, “Who do you think you are?” and “What will the neighbors think?” We’re encouraged to seek security by getting a “good job” and sticking with it, with little, if any, emphasis on whether we even like the work.

In relationships, we’re told that compatibility is more important than chemistry, that it’s just as easy to love a rich man as it is a poor man; that you can’t have everything so you might as well “love the one you’re with.” We see people all around us settling for the “safe” thing or “the bird in the hand,” not what gives their heart the greatest joy.

It’s no wonder that by the time many of us become adults, our flame is just a flicker. How can we expect to open our hearts and connect with our passionate longings when we’re so estranged from ourselves? It’s as if we need permission to be who we are. So how do we break the deadlock?

Success isn't a result of spontaneous combustion.

You must set yourself on fire.

~Arnold H. Glasow

You know how people say that we should live each day as if it was our last? Inspiring advice on one level, but when it comes to passion I’ve got a better idea. What if we decide to live each day as if it were our first? What if we decide that this year, we’ll get back to our roots—lighthearted with a certain innocence of spirit—like children, approaching the world with excitement and curiosity that can only come when we’re unburdened by worry, fear, anxiety and doubt.

What if we shed these debilitating thoughts like old skin, wiping the slate clean and forgiving ourselves those uncomfortable demands that weigh us down with expectations of how things ought to be or would have been if only . . .

What if we rub our eyes free of the jaded perceptions that color our view of what’s possible in the future because of how things happened in the past? And rekindle the flame of passion as we connect with what gives our heart the greatest joy, remembering that our energy and dreams are the purest most natural resources that we have to offer the world.

What if we commit to something different? Can we do that?

Will you set yourself on fire with a spirit of possibility and the promise of each new day?

I think you can. In fact, I know you can. Now step away from your comfort zone . . . and get ready to burn!

As a ceremonial start, try Stephan’s recipe for passion:

Grandma’s Moroccan Meatballs

(Serves 3-4 of your favorite people)

Ingredients:

(Remember: All organic, sweetie-darling)

1 lb. ground beef (or turkey)

1 bunch parsley

2 cloves garlic, minced

2 small white onions (1 chopped and 1 cut into long, thin strips)

1 teaspoon fresh chopped ginger

1 teaspoon turmeric

Salt & pepper to taste

6 juicy Roma Tomatoes, sliced into wedges

1 tablespoon tomato paste

½ cup water

Extra Virgin Olive Oil (EVOO)

Lots of passion and love for your dinner guests

To prepare:

In a large mixing bowl, combine ground beef (or turkey), ¾ of the parsley, garlic, 1 chopped onion, ginger, turmeric, salt & pepper, then mix with your hands. Go ahead; don’t be afraid to get dirty! Form mixture into small meatballs and set aside on a plate. In a large sauté pan, add about 2 tablespoons of EVOO (or enough to swirl around and coat the bottom of the pan), Roma tomato wedges, 1 small onion (sliced in long, thin strips), the remaining parsley and a bit of salt & pepper. Sauté the vegetables on medium-low heat for approximately 10 minutes; stirring occasionally. Add tomato paste and water, stir and sauté for another 5 minutes. Then add meatballs to the pan, cooking slowly (still on medium-low) for 7-10 minutes on each side, turning once. And don’t forget to infuse your food with lots of love and passion. Try singing as you move about the kitchen.

To serve:

Arrange Moroccan Meatballs on a large platter with cooked tomatoes, onion and sprigs of parsley. Serve with mint tea and a platter of olives, assorted artisan cheeses and a large French baguette. Make sure you eat with your hands, tearing off chunks of bread and using them to scoop the meatball mixture, olives and cheese! And don’t forget to lick your fingers!

And for the vegetarians among us, the vegetable sauté is delicious even without the meat and makes for a wonderfully seasoned compliment to lentils, pasta, couscous, or as a simple bread-dipping sauce. Get creative!

____________________

Ooh la, la! Many thanks for my dear friend Stephan, for inspiring my passion and allowing me to share his Grandma’s delicious dish. Happy New Year everyone, and bon appetite!

By Melissa Johnson