adventure · love · Spiritual · Travel

She’ll Meet you Where the Wild Things Are

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“If she’s amazing, she won’t be easy. If she’s easy, she won’t be amazing. If she’s worth it, you won’t give up. If you give up, you’re not worthy.” ~ Bob Marley

She’s worth it, your wild one.
She will set your world on fire, if you are brave enough to let her.

She will enchant you, fulfill you and challenge you. She wants you to know her, so that you can love her, quirks and all.

She wants you to understand that your adorned magnolia walls can’t hold her inside, not for long. Your expensive beamed ceilings can never be high enough or remarkable enough to be worth missing a glimpse of her beloved azure sky. Your home is a beautiful prison certainly, but it destroys her all the same.

Her spirit paces the enclosed room like a caged tigress, tail swishing furiously, looking for escape. She longs to run free. Show her a meadow full of colour, where she can dance among sunflowers. Let her roam outside with no fancy ornaments or gadgets to distract her creativity, just breeze and rolling hills. Lay with her on cool grass, fingers entwined, and watch the stars blaze a path of glory across an inky midnight sky.

Don’t ask her to sit and play happy family with you. She doesn’t care if you buy the white toaster or the black one, or whether the neighbours have a bigger car than the two of you. She isn’t interested in chasing the extra dollar to have that standard resort vacation, or attending to mindless gossip. Let her dream of a far off glen, glistening ethereally in the soft light of the rising sun. Take her to listen to the song of the dawn birds, for they are all the small talk she needs.

She doesn’t iron the sheets, or, well, anything really. She is too busy curling up with a book, engrossed in a shiny new world waiting to be explored. She has never been able to relate to the domesticated heroines of old; tumbling from her own bed to her next adventure, wild haired and bright eyed. People tell her she is beautiful in her crumpled clothes and muddy boots. Passion always is. Recognise it. Worship it. Not everyone is blessed with it and it’s not something you can fake for too long.

She may not cook you a gourmet meal, but she loves food and she delights in feeding you. Let her. She won’t follow a recipe; she will trust her imagination, throwing in delicious colours and smells as they appeal to her. Let her wrap you in small strong arms, cover you in flour and sprinkle magic into your life. She will kiss you with a mouth that tingles with spices, leaving you hungry for more. She will never let your lips starve for her.

She won’t knit for you. She is young and restless and her time is too precious to spare. Her hands have more important things to explore right now. Your face, for instance; fingers lovingly remembering every last detail. She memorises the way you shudder when she lightly strokes your collarbone and how your stubble feels against her fingertips. This satisfies her far more than a ball of yarn ever could.

Let her breathe, your wild one. She will only stay if it feels right. Your mortal hands cannot bind her by holding her too tightly. Show her your fantasies and you might inspire her. She will tell you a story about what she longs to do with you, and to you. You should stop speaking then and listen. Her words are enchantments that weave mystery into your life, and her visions will never leave you, even when you ache to forget them. In years to come you will crave the power of her dreams, and others will pale in the shadow of her intensity.

She must run away now, the stars are calling her and life tugs at her soul ready for another adventure. She cannot be tamed. Love her if you will, or let her go. She cannot do this by halves.

She is chaos; she is freedom. She wants you to join her if you can. You know where to find her. You have seen her there in your head.

She will wait for you as always, where the wild things are.

Originally published here on EJ.

Photo: Michelle Hébert/Flickr

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adult · love · Spiritual

Her Long Legs are a Prayer that Envelop Him. {Adult}

Ashley Harrigan/Flickr

Eyes smolder across the crowded room, a secret message for her only.

Her long silk gown clings to her curves, her bare back glistening under twinkling lights.

She is alone.

Her mouth tugs up at the edges as she catches him observing her intently. He is speaking to someone at the bar, a woman. He laughs and flirts, but his eyes never leave her body, not for a moment.

She dances slowly, seductively, hips undulating deliberately to the languid beat. She is in no rush tonight. He drinks her in greedily. Her dark curls caress her shoulders and he longs to tangle her hair around his rough hands, to possess her until dawn.

The way her body moves suggests she could change his world forever.

Her crimson lips part slightly, sipping champagne, luring his attention to her small, perfect mouth. He envisages their naked forms entwined, soft probing kisses yielding to a panting embrace. Mouths open in ecstasy, moans muffled, lost in the other as their breathing becomes one.

His imagination slipped her out of that dress hours ago.

She is a goddess and he will worship her. He caresses her full breasts, holy in their beauty. He trails the smooth line of her spine, lingering in the hollow at the base, pulling her tightly against his waiting body. He is her willing pilgrim, ready to sacrifice to her, if she will allow him.

If she is shocked by his touch, she doesn’t show it. She whispers magic in his ear, driving him wild. Her words burn a fire inside him. He has known her before, in many other lifetimes. He would recognize her soul anywhere; its light blazes so brightly.

He imagines her on her back, hair splayed out on the crisp white pillow, keeping eye contact as he holds her hips and takes her. Her heat envelops him.

A single candle reflects her innocence back at him as she pierces his being with devoted eyes.

She wants all of him; including the parts he has never been willing to give. She demands him. Even as she writhes in pleasure she does not look away and he cannot tear his gaze from her.

She has enchanted him.

Their cries rise to a crescendo, their music more beautiful than any choir. Heaven becomes attainable here, in her arms. Her long legs are a prayer that envelop him, and he is pious in their thrall. They linger on the edge of paradise, oblivious to the world, and for that blissful moment, his demons are silenced.He finds peace.

The crowd falls away as his attention returns to the room. He glides towards her. She loves the way he moves, a sleek panther stalking its prey. He knows exactly what he wants. She waits for him to reach her, unafraid of his hunger.

When he appears, he is silent. Words are not needed in this world of theirs. He holds out a hand to her and she interlaces her small fingers around his. She tiptoes on dancers feet to reach his cheek. Her light kiss makes him tingle.

Shall we go home?‘” he asks his wife.

You are my home.” she smiles.

Photo: Ashley Harrigan/Flickr

Originally published here on Elephant Journal.

Musings · Spiritual

Opening up about Habitual Patterns: Letting go of Impatience.

János Balázs/Flickr

“A warrior of the light is never in a hurry. Time works in his favour; he learns to master his impatience and avoids acting without thinking.” ~ Paulo Coelho.

My life long secret habit is impatience.

My fiancé would probably argue that this is the world’s worst kept ‘secret’, but then our loved ones often see the darkness that we try to hide from the rest of the world.

They say that good things come to those who wait, but what do they know? I don’t have time to waste. I want it all, and I want it yesterday.

In a world of instant gratification, I need my best-selling novel to be written already. I don’t want to wait to travel the world; adventure waits for no woman after all. I want enough time to have passed to ease the sharp sting of my grief. I even demand the text message I just sent to be answered instantly. I know that you have read it. My inner child wants to know what could possibly be more important than replying to me. She’s stomping her feet.

This is the part of myself that I despise the most; the part that I would change if I could.

I long to be the girl who nods politely at the long-winded bore, the one that queues for hours with a sweet smile. The one who fails at something new, and tries again and again until she is good at it. In an ideal world I wouldn’t stress about traffic, or being late for a meeting. I would be the girl that goes with the flow, and rises above the stress.

Ironically, I want to be that girl right now.

For the moment, I bury the frustration deep, taking long calming breaths when I feel the irritation rising inside me. I try to remember to be present in the moment and to understand that if something is meant to be, it will happen when it is supposed to.

I learn to love the gifts that impatience brings. For all it’s faults, it is a motivator. I know for a fact that I can get sh*t done. I won’t wait. I am painfully aware that life is too short, and when I want something, I get out there and chase it.

Patience is a valuable quality and I’ll get there eventually. Luckily, I have many other virtues.  ; )

Photo: János Balázs

Originally posted on Elephant Journal here.