Unlike with other
There is one instant, quintessential New York, in a cab, after a night, drinks-overtired, half asleep cozy in the back seat, over the bridge from Brooklyn. Cool summer air, gusting into the open window, music still beating.
The heart awake and asleep, eyes closed, waves of light skipping –like the bridge, drearily aware of this moment.
Something untouched, imperfect, perfect, unable to share but notice. As if the world you dreamt of exists, but only if you do not touch it. As soon as you have it — evaporated. But knowing, if you have it in mind to create it –that ultimate wisdom of love – felt and untouched –then you have found it.
And at the same instant, to decide, to do it differently, whole, with intention, to accept and gift it, to lift in lightness, to allow yourself to be known, and as soon as it’s known, noticed, and it’s gone.
That’s it. Alone, in a cab, fleeting, heading forward, held on to the thought, wispered in, through your tired, whole, happy heart –that you’ve felt it. Knowing it was yours, dreamt, untouched.
It’s the sort of thing that only exists in the heart-mind, a gut sense of knowing how it should feel to share, and at the same time that the world doesn’t work that way, that it can’t be shared. Only felt. That’s why the moment arrives. There’s no one there to share it. It’s whole just as it is, touched lightly over your tired heart and head. Even here, here, half shared.
But for a slight drive, over the bridge, when it felt for an instant that someone else could notice, untouched, there but not there. How it seemed ever light and good, her presence. Unworded. With love. Only because she wasn’t.