I didn’t know wether to fuck it or poke it with a stick
When I was a child
I practiced Wicca intently.
I remember having a teen crush and sending out my spell to mother earth.
It wasn’t a love spell.
I just asked her to bring me a boy, not too much taller than me, brown hair, brown eyes. (I added some basic description hoping she would send my crush to me.)
For him to love me truly and deeply and be a spirit liken to my own.
I waited and hoped she would answer my call.
And I grew
And I waited
My crush faded.
In time he became a face in the crowd.
And as I grew, my faith faded.
And I forgot who I was for a while.
Months into years
Years into a decade
One peaceful day I bathed and cleared my mind of the daily trials and tribulations I had become so used to dealing with. I thought deeply about the girl I used to be and the woman I’d become.
The calming rippling of the water took over.
Not only the sound but the sight, the smell, the feeling of everything in the room became distant and there she stood smiling at me.
I had waited
I had grown
And I had forgotten who I was for a while
But She didn’t
She brought him to me when I was ready to have him.
When I needed him
When I could appreciate him
He wasn’t the boy I swooned over as a teen.
He was the person I’d asked her for.
A kindred spirit.
Thankyou for bringing him to me, for reminding me of who I am.
My faith never left.
I just forgot to look after my spirit.
Never tell a girl you like that you like her housemate too. Instant fail!
It’s just good to be alone
Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being “in love” which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossoms had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two.
