Hot Desert Night.
Adam and Eve with not an apple in sight.
We floated in the salt water pool under a canopy of stars on a hot balmy breezy night in the desert.
Our fingers traced the constellations and the summer din of buzzing cicadas filled the air.
This is heaven, our paradise where everything stands still but the steady beat of our hearts in the hot desert night.
The dusty mesquite tree stretches its limbs down toward us vibrating love, everything is alive in this purple velvet cloak of night.
This oasis is trembling in love. I feel the fullness of presence.
We get out of the pool and salute the silvery moon and plop down on the outdoor bed. I reach over to the small altar and light the candles in the lanterns. The flame licks up into the darkness then settles into a steady glow. Hot Desert Night.
At last I can try out the Mayan incense from Peru. It comes in chunks. I torch a piece till it ignites like fire then rest it on charcoal, it ebbs till just a thread of smoke remains.
The scent of Frankincense and Myrrh and perhaps rose, penetrates the ancient timeless night. My thoughts drift to Ireland and our tiny church in Kilmacud. I’m a child sitting in an old oak pew with my family. We’d missed the 11.00 mass much to the dismay of my parents and older siblings. That meant the midday High mass in Latin, that was a good fifteen minutes longer.
My father was probably thinking of his Sunday paper and pint at the Mill house pub on the corner and my mother worrying about the roast beef in the oven. I on the other hand was mesmerized with high mass and was in a trance, a meditation where everything around me disappeared and a deep sense of calm roamed through my body. Latin words of prayer seemed familiar somehow. I looked up at Jesus nailed to the old wooden cross and touched the palm of my hand. The priest in his finest vestments swung the ornate brass thurbile across the altar on a long chain releasing the heavenly fragrance of incense in a cloud of grey smoke. The drama of it all forever etched in my memory.
The crying babies and chesty winter coughs and sneezes couldn’t disturb the space I was in. In fact it felt like I was the space. All my life I felt that there was more to life than what I lived. I’d find myself in a stare with no thoughts at all till I was brought back by someone, a teacher in class or my mother needing help with dinner. That longing, that ache that something’s missing stayed with me. I felt that I’d lived someone else’s life. Does that make any sense?
It wasn’t till my late thirties that I started to meditate. I devoured all the teachings of great spiritual masters, men and women. Some friends introduced me to my teacher and I have never looked back. my teachers teacher Rudi had passed on and I read all his books. ” Spiritual Cannibalism”resonated with me. Eat life and all the shit that comes with it. Chew it up and use it to build the psychic muscle. Spiritual work is hard work till its not and the fire within needs constant attention.
Bill’s arms reached for me and brought me into the present once again in the hot desert night. We sat facing each other, gazing into each others eyes. It is a gift to do this soul gaze and exchange of energy. I dive right in and greet all he is. The energy is circling and building and gathering us up, we laugh at the sheer delight of being. Everything open ready waiting. The games of lovers since time began, honoring source, the Earth, the Air, Water and Fire. God and Goddess embraced in love and connected in sacred sex.
Recipe for lovers
In a goblet or chalice or your favorite vessel add copious amounts of the following.
Combine well and sip together.
Music that stirs the soul .
A drum to call up the sleeping serpent.
Silk scarf and veil for dance.
Furry mitt. a feather
Whatever tickles your fancy!
Chocolate with chili pepper
Melted chocolate and a paint brush
Juicy mango to share
I recommend a great book that has been in print a long time .
The Art Of Sexual Ecstasy by Margot Anand. An excellent read to share with your partner.
The Art of Sexual Ecstasy.