Loving Jose

Yes, Jose, this is another love letter from anthroprivileged me to LeftBrain dominant you for multicultural us. I'm still here sinking into my deep blue camp chair with feet resting on a weathered wooden platform for my monastic tent Now folded and masterfully squeezed into its storage bag like a fat green sausage with a thick black fly zipper, secure, awaiting it's next orgasmic coming out to camp and play. And you, warm and glistening listening you, are still driving west toward this transition Saturday's bittersweet sunset. Perhaps already lonely thinking of what and feeling whom lies ahead while all else feels left behind Another week of adventure lost; another week of memories gained Yet memories have grown cacophonous while adventures in knowing new frontiers grow old as shrinking Earth grown bodies Fading hope to feel taste see hear smell touch abundantly enough for this full life experiencing love quenched time Comparing future now to back there then, wishing we could have us all warm and pleasant in our head, heart, bed of intimacy without embarrassing premature limits, boundary issues, health precautions. You tried to apologize for not asking more about my wounded kids And I did not think to apologize, but wonder, now, that I didn't, for not asking how you are feeling and dealing post prostate cancer Remissions feel like uncertain transitions, undemanding admissions both healthy opportunities and diseased risks lie beyond this day's journey toward Albany. Perhaps you, like me, fear and already feel loss of intimacy imagined yet not touched, thought but not appreciably, healthy needed but not safely found, sacred bound for joy's immense integrity. When I walked into our group's enclosed porch this past Sunday for my first check-in circle, your first facilitation, I thought of my former boss. You look and sound like Bishop Tafoya, when he was your age and I was half your age. I had trouble shaking this sage off. It helps that you sing with warmth and passion in fulsome baritone, as the good Bishop decidedly did not. Nor could I imagine him dancing with a white scarved fan with integrity flirtatious machismo joyfulness deeply resounding playfulness. Do you have a type? I wonder Are you familiar with mine? Those romantic, erupting into erotic, miracles of preference we cannot control or calm our appetites to accept AND appreciate, anticipate those with us here and there in and out of Gayla 44, after and before now heading west away from east. So much to hide, to learn, to unveil, to set aside for graceful aging, and to warmly embrace for compassioned wisdom felt together, rather than silently, less sacredly, apart. The Center's lunch bell rang and now has gone Absorbed by quiet shushing and rustling high in evergreens baking in Mama's summertime weekend of commerce and less commercial passions, traffic rituals, Pre-empting ancient natural liturgies of sea, flowing water and strong mountains inspiring bonfires bond-fire between rising and falling phoenix conjoining co-investing multi-generational passions; daddies and sons, masters and slaves, tops and bottoms, poles and holes, straights and rounds, dipolar co-arising Riding forward home to what continues repurposing why, reworking hidden meaning as yet unredeemed in sensory Business As Usual Backward east returning promises of safe and healthy bright happy new dawns transcending broken hearts, troubled mind's loss of time's most cherished values Love's integral compassions resting first returning last Already I miss you ready to miss us.