Wild and Free

An excerpt from Rapture by Linda Hogan

How worthy the being

in the human body. If,

when you are there, you see women

wading on the water

and clouds in the valley,

the smell of rain,

or a lotus blossom rises out of round green leaves,

remember there is always something

besides our own misery.

I am very good about wallowing in my own misery. I want to be wild and free. 

I want freedom of movement, freedom for my body. I know if I ignore it, it will rebel. It will demand that I not insult its intelligence: "own me, adorn me, celebrate me. Now. While you still are capable of movement. Move to the music that has you stomping your feet, extending your limbs, twisting your torso. Twist and Shout. The Tennessee Waltz. Waltz me to the End of Love."

I think of Rudolf Nureyev and his perfect body, executing amazing leaps and pirouettes - until he couldn't. Towards the end of his life, he performed a young Apollo at the Queen Elizabeth Theatre in Vancouver. He faltered often, nearly fell. A woman in the seat in front of me, sobbed. He was forcing his audience to confront his mortality. At first, I thought it undignified of him to display himself so. Later, I thought him courageous. 

I hide myself and don't dance because I am embarrassed by my flesh, my less than perfect moves. I am self-consciousness. Who do I think I am? And who cares? 

I remember seeing Clarissa Pinkola Estés speaking in Vancouver. She was adorned in a full skirt, tight belt clinched at the waist, and gypsy blouse. She didn't hide her abundant flesh. Her lips were painted bright red. I could see that she felt good in her flesh. How I wanted to be like her. And I thought of all the women that I assisted in the boutique. It was the larger fleshier women who liked themselves the most. And I liked them too. There is a comfort being with such women who are unashamed, unapologetic about their bodies, women who are wild and free. How delicious and inspiring. 

I want to be that kind of woman. I will never be younger, more beautiful than I am right now. (How difficult this is to write.) I give myself a stern talking to: I think you will be happier, Yvonne, not tearing yourself apart and celebrating your body while you still can. Now dance!

I wrote this during at my last writing circle meeting and I remained silent, unwilling - no unable, to speak. I am too often like this. 

Non, Je ne regrette rien

The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither power nor time.   

This quote from Mary Oliver pushes me to attempt to write a lyric essay about love. I fear that I am not up to the task, that it is too grand a topic, but I need to give it power and time. In Marlene's last two writing circles, I began. This is an amalgamation of my two writes. I begin, knowing that this may be rearranged, or deleted but I am excited - the ideas are starting to come:

Rob 

In your ratty old dressing gown, you walked into the kitchen and held out your arms. I walked into them. You drew me close and held me tight to your belly. I felt so loved. 

The love I shared with you was not saccharine sweet, not a fairytale romance. 

You died a tragic death. There is a beginning and end to our over-fifty-year love affair. 

This morning I stood looking out the kitchen window, coffee in hand, admiring the wisteria with its violet blossoms. When we were young, still students, we would read Leonard Cohen's poetry and make love. I remember one morning, I was to meet a friend but Leonard had us lusting so,  we couldn't pull apart - even when my friend was hammering at the door and I had to smother my laughter in your chest..  

My lady can sleep Upon a handkerchief Or if it be Fall Upon a fallen leaf.

I smile at this memory and, from somewhere out of the blue, I start humming "Bird on a Wire". 

I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch

He said to me, "You must not ask for so much"

And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door

She cried to me, "Hey, why not ask for more?"

You are the beggar though you never begged. You had more than you dreamed possible. I was the whore asking for more - not gold or silver. I wanted more dialogue and more intimate moments. And somewhere along the line, I stopped asking for more. Did I stop too soon? 

I learned to live as you lived, doing my own thing. You were so sure of yourself, so self-contained. Your love of music was, to my mind, your true love. (I shall add mention here of his sound work and awards.) Mine was writing. (Anais Nin story?) But I was never as sure of myself as you were. 

My heart breaks as I recall a scene from Charles de Gaulle. We had checked in for a flight to Toronto and you became violently ill. We went to the airport medical centre. You thought that I would leave you there and fly away without you. How could you think this? Did you not know that you were loved?

Okay, I have begun!