At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.”
― T.S. Eliot
It was the kind of love that rips you apart limb-from-limb, fills your soul with poetic ambrosia, so you could re-member the lost parts of yourself.
It was the kind of love that creates and destroys worlds.
Like a maenad wildly dancing under the moon, drunk on sex and wine, his love released my body from all past shame and sexual inhibitions. I was healed inside this intoxication. I picked my poison and drank it exuberantly.
We drummed and danced together on the shores of Northeast Brazil. Made our petitions to Mother Ocean and her daughter of honey and fresh waters. Fertility, family harmony, sexual pleasure, beauty, prosperity and art. We knew what we wanted and asked the Goddess. She answered: we were married later that year and conceived another year later. It has been nearly ten years now.
And, what if we didn’t marry or stay together? What if…
Would I have traveled the world by now? Or be further along in my writing career?
Love, and in particular the institution of marriage, sometimes makes me feel confined. No more deciding to just do what I want and then just doing it. There is another person and a child to consider. My days for free, gypsy-soul travel were numbered when I took my vows. I knew that.
If we were to see into the reality of love, in all of its messiness, pettiness, trials, comforts and dependencies, we would not FALL. Human love descends. Downward spirals, like Ariadne’s labyrinthine dance to the center of the Underworld. The realm of monsters and dark angels.
Make no mistake: to fall in love is to go into the depths of what you’ve been running away from your entire life.
The Minotaur rules the labyrinth and will devour you. Just like love. Eros, the most beautiful God and son of Aphrodite, falls hard for Psyche (her name in Greek means soul or breath). And, he is the invisible lover sharing her bed each night. Her sisters deceive Psyche into thinking that Eros is a giant serpent waiting until she’s near labor so he can swallow her and their unborn child whole. Love consumes us and rebirths us into new forms.
Ariadne is left on the shores of Naxos, abandoned by Theseus. He is not the one and she knows it. She desires Dionysus and the coming apart in order to come back to self. One of my theories is that she was pretending to be in a deathlike sleep. Theseus couldn’t wake her so he just said, “to hell with this,” and took off. With eyes closed and sly smile, she awaits the touch of the God. When Dionysus finds Ariadne he makes her his immortal queen. Fully honored and cherished. Worshipped.
When my Dionysus showed up, I knew it. There was no refusing our communion. It was time. Our orgasms blasted every limiting paradigm in my world. And still does. Nine years later.
I am so grateful. For our daughter. For our joyous life. For him.
I fell in love with Dionysus. And woke up in the morning next to Shiva.
I am Shakti. She of never-ending transformation. The chalice of flowing and receiving. Electricity. Awakener.
Our love is the kind of love that never stops dancing to that cosmic Drummer.
Our dance is the resting point of my soul.