By Aaron Milavec
When I turned eight, my mother became very ill. She could no longer hold me and pray to our guardian angels before I went to sleep each night. So I decided to recite the Guardian Angel Prayer twice; once for my mother's angel and once for my angel. When my mother died just after Christmas, I stopped praying entirely. I was secretly angry with the God who "loved my mother so much that he took her to be with him in heaven" (the words of my favorite aunt to me at the funeral). In my childish way of seeing things, God already had Mary, the Mother of God, with him in heaven. "By what right could he rob me of the only mother that I had?"
By Aaron Milavec
My Angel of God was getting ready to drive me off campus for lunch. True, I did not yet know that she was an Angel sent to me by God. But I would discover this soon enough.
| Author Notes | As she spoke, her hands touched me briefly from across the table. This happened three or four times during our conversation. These were natural gestures for her. It was almost as though her hands (like her words) were reaching out to me. I was reading her signs loud and clear. |
By Aaron Milavec
Our first luncheon took place in a Chinese restaurant. An unusual touching took place:
She recounted for me the secret of "unwinding the fascia," and I related this to what I knew from my practice of massage therapy. As she spoke, her hands touched me briefly from across the table. This happened three or four times during our conversation. These were natural gestures for her. It was almost as though her hands (like her words) were reaching out to me. I was reading her signs loud and clear.
I admired her therapeutic hands and imagined them artfully and gracefully holding, handling, healing. She wore no fingernail polish. I also detected telltale signs of fingernail biting. Was her history plagued by worry or nervousness? I couldn't know for sure, but I made a mental note to find out.
Our second luncheon took place in her home in Walnut Hills. She prepared a "light lunch" for us, but it turned out to be a veritable feast—a tasty chicken casserole—served on the elevated wooden deck overlooking the shallow woods behind her home. She spoke of there being a rough, hidden path snaking through this band of woods that followed a small creek. The thought of a "hidden path" captured my imagination, and I unconsciously put it away in the back roads of my mind for some future use.
Slowly the story of her father emerged. He had been dead for exactly one year and a few days. She recounted his days of glory as a policeman making the rounds of the warehouses lining the Ohio River waterfront where the bewildering assortment of meats and fruits were daily being unloaded from refrigerated trucks for redistribution to the hundreds of grocery stores in the Cincinnati area. On Saturdays, she felt proud when he would take her along with him to meet the managers and truckers whom he had come to regard as his friends on the beat. You remembered how highly they spoke of her dad and how generous they were with this or that "gift for the family" that could be given now that her dad was off-duty.
He never complained. The cancer eating away at him and the suffering he quietly endured had the effect of purifying him. He had always believed in God, but like most of the men of his generation, he never spoke about spiritual things. Now, however, he began to speak of his death in the well honored Irish terms of "meeting my maker."
Half-way through his sickness, he also gave up his binge drinking. Liquor had been used extensively as solace following his sick leave from the police force. But now he was actually apologizing to me for the bad effects his drinking had on his family.
A few days later, my Angel penned the first lines that she ever wrote to me. The opening lines confirmed everything I had done and assured me that it was indeed her father who had met her in the dark passageways of her imagination. Here are her words:
Hot breath, urgent breath, sweet breath,
Penetrating even the blackish emptiness
Of the open grave that lies before her.
Jaw locked tight, the lion's knees tremble
As she edges toward that fearsome hole
That sucks out her life, leaving her numb.
Hot hands, urgent hands, sweet hands
Awaken her cold body, bearing her forward
Into the blackness stretching out before her.
Then he appears, Daddy, truly her father,
Softly crying in the darkness of the grave
And reaching out toward his beloved Daughter.
With this sign, she recklessly leaps forward;
His long-familiar arms fold around her
And press out a final convulsion of tears.
Death, moved by this piteous sight of a
Father and Daughter locked in a final embrace,
Slackens the chains that bind her to Death.
During the following days, the power of what happened deepened as daydreams spontaneously erupted during her idle daylight moments and night dreams hastened to her bedside as she slept at night. Her next letter testified to this:
For the last two days, I have wanted to tell you how much our [second] meeting meant to me. I also have been struggling to understand its depth of meaning for it was the most powerful and the most satisfying moment of my life thus far.
It is difficult to put on paper the diversity of feelings I've felt this day. As I sat to write to you, my heart was overflowing with all the wonders of life.
| Author Notes |
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Note the resonance between these two citations: I have wanted to tell you how much our [second] meeting meant to me. I also have been struggling to understand its depth of meaning for it was the most powerful and the most satisfying moment of my life thus far. ~My Angel Over time I have gained an entirely new understanding of the masculine and how much healing there is when it comes together with the feminine with the intention of healing and wholeness. As our [therapeutic] session came to a close we both laughed and cried together. I continue to be in awe of the power of presence, intention and healing touch that we can gift to one another. ~Dr. Kim Keller ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ |
By Aaron Milavec
For the last two days, I have wanted to tell you how much our [second] meeting meant to me. I also have been struggling to understand its depth of meaning for it was the most powerful and the most satisfying moment of my life thus far.
Once upon a time, there lived a simple tailor [my father] who was a midget. He had the good fortune to marry a noble and gifted lady named Emma. In due time, Emma bore the tailor his first-born son. But this was no ordinary mother, and this was destined to be no ordinary son.
As an infant, feeding upon the milk from his mother's breasts, this male child grew exceedingly strong and large. At two months, he weighed what most infants weigh at four. At six months, he could already pull himself to his feet hanging on to his mother's dress and could babble a few indistinct words—feats normally associated with children at twelve months. And so this marvelous progress continued for years. Everyone marveled at the strength and vitality of Emma's son.
Left by himself, this child would have been quite ordinary. Emma made the difference. She had the gift of taking what was small and insecure and kneading into it her own goodness and power. As a wife, she had considerably enlarged the size and stature of her husband, the tailor. In fact, while she lived, anyone who had not known him earlier would never have imagined that he had once been a midget. Thus, the marvelous effect Emma was having upon her first-born son could be seen as a continuation of the marvelous transformation that had earlier graced the boy's father.
But the gremlins grew jealous. They plotted in secret how to bring this extraordinary family to naught. After much planning, they brewed a strong poison called "cancer" into which they dipped a fine-looking apple. This poisoned apple was slyly placed in the fruit bowl of Emma's cheerful kitchen.
The next day Emma ate this apple, but she was too much in possession of life to die. Others would have died after just one bite, but not her. She became ill, all right, but just as quickly recovered. The infuriated gremlins set their efforts to concentrating the poisonous "cancer" and contaminating more of her food. Thus, she took ill with increasing regularity, but she always appeared to recover. Yet, over a period of three years, the poisons had gradually weakened her system so massively as to bring about a prolonged sickness that ate away at every part of her soul and her body.
The tailor gradually showed signs of deterioration as well. With no one to hold him, to rub his hairy chest at night, and to blow life-giving breath between his lips, the poor man gradually lost both his strength and his stature. Within a few months after his wife's death, he had become a midget again, just a little larger than he had been before he first met Emma.
In parallel fashion, after Emma's death, there was no one to kiss her first-born son each morning and tuck him in bed and read to him fairy tales at night. Now he came home from school each day and entered a house where no one greeted him with hugs and no one made him hot chocolate and cookies. No one asked him what he had learned at school, what games he played at recess, and what was the condition of his heart.
So, with his mother absent and no one prepared to take her place, it is no mystery that the eight-year-old boy ceased to grow as he had done before. If one could peer inside this little boy, one would notice that portions of his heart had slowed down and other parts had stopped functioning entirely. Decay set in. Like dead leaves, some portions of his heart actually rotted and left behind a gaping black hole.
As soon as my Angel understood the brokenness of my heart, she quickly invented a plan of action. She prompted me to see my affliction as concealing a hidden blessing. My Angel then encouraged me to become very small and to enter the dark hole and to explore its interior. Inside, to my surprise, was not just the stench of death and loss, but a prisoner. This prisoner I came to recognize as Wild Man. He who emaciated and chained in my broken heart by his bully of a brother, Dutiful Man. This "voice within the darkness" was a surprise that only my Angel could bring me to face and to hear. Thus my story continued:[Note: It was at this point that my sympathy for Dracula's anger against God was born (although I did not know it yet). This will be taken up later.]My mother was only twenty-eight when she died. I had just turned eight. I remember vividly kissing her cold, pale-pink cheek as she lay motionless and dead in the casket placed in the living room of our home. One of my beloved aunts noticed my kiss. She rushed to my side and took me in her arms and confided to me, "God must have loved your mother very much to have taken her to himself so early."
I had every reason to accept her well-meaning advice. After all, I firmly believed that God loved my mother very much. Yet, in the years that followed, when I began to suffer daily the full measure of my mother's absence, I began to ask myself how God could be so good to my mother at the same time that he was so immeasurably cruel to me and my family. As I saw it God already had his own mother, Mary, with him in heaven. He didn't need another mother. I, on the other hand, was desperately in need of my mother. God may have loved my mother very much as my aunt suggested, but he was surely "a stinking monster" when it came to leaving me and my siblings to suffer the rest of our lives without her.
| Author Notes |
Here are my words that set the pace for what is to come:
Oh, do love me recklessly spontaneously savagely sensuously seductively. . . . |
By Aaron Milavec
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.
Note to my dear reader: This chapter explores how the mutual interplay between me and my Angel grows through our letter writing. If you have not met me and my Beloved in Ch2 or Ch3, it will be difficult to understand how our mutual grief forged a tenuous bond that united us in a common purpose. The letters exchanged here consolidate this common purpose and slowly set ablase a burning love that makes us confident that we will heal each other in yet more dramatic ways in the future. You, the reader, get to watch this unfold by reading the private correspondance of two would-be romantic lovers. I would estimate that 15-20 minutes would be required to read and absorb this autobiographical narrative.
Just as I was beginning to shake off the coldness of death, the semester ended and I was scheduled to go off to Switzerland to do some collaborative research for five weeks in Neuchâtel.
As time draws near to when you must depart,
All I desire is to give you my heart,
To wrap my arms around and to pull you near
And whisper how much I love you into your ear.
Walnut Hills, May 29th
Dearest Traveler,
The peace of the Lord be with you, my friend. I feel your distance from me already; however, I am able to turn inward to the breath of your spirit that you gave me and feel nourished. I have thought of you often since leaving you last night. Mostly I am in awe at how beautiful our relationship has been for me. . . .
You are the breath of heaven in my life. Your spirit unleashes all the heaviness of my being. You set my heart free. I really experienced this as we danced last week, but almost everything we do together is liberating and invigorating for me, for my soul.
I had a fantasy that I danced for you in a more seductive way, in a way that would allow me to express more of my feelings. What a wonderful, delightful way to let my secret feelings be exposed. The interpretative dance that you earlier shared with me enabled me to let go of all my inhibitions. But as I reflect upon it, I wouldn't do this with anyone else so fully. I am totally free when I am with you. For some reason, I can really be what God created me to be, most fully and most easily, when I am with you.
Oh, let it be my friend! Let it be, oh Windy One. Blow your gentle breath into the deep canyons of my heart. Revitalize me to the core. I want it all. Stir up all that has trampled down and been forgotten. Lift up all that has been bent over from pain and sorrow!
I say, "Yes," to you, dear Wind, just as I say, "Yes," to God. "I want to live the real-life" [John Cougar Mellencamp]. I also want to be with you, to know the deep valleys of your life. I want to be the swift comet that illumines your atmosphere with my red glow. I want to shower your canyon walls with sparks of my love. I want to set fire to your life. . . .
Oh, how good it is to be your friend. My joyful spirit praises God. I celebrate how precious you are to me. My prayers are with you . . . as well as my heart that wants to burst open in your gentle hands.
Your Angel
I look up to
Everything you are.
In my eyes, you do no wrong
And I believe in you
Although you never asked me to.
I will remember you
And what life put you through
And in this cruel and lonely world
I've found one [true] love.
Walnut Hills, May 30th
Dearest Friend,
When I close my eyes, I think of you, you, you. I see the deep dark brown of your eyes, the outline of your lips, your red cheeks, and luscious hair! What a beautiful man you are!
I can see you dance slowly, as the Spirit of Wind within you gently blows and praises God. I can also see the pain within your chest, within your heart, that is the result of a little boy who had to do it all by himself, deprived of a mother's tender love. I see a man who has seen the face of God, who seeks justice, a man who heals, touches pain boldly, and blows the Spirit of Life within him out to others. My friend, precious in God's eyes and in mine, you are the Wind of God.
I will be going to hear Tracy Chapman this Tuesday night. I had the fantasy of going with you. We were seated on an aisle. This gave us access to the space to dance out the spirit of many of her songs. We smiled at each other a lot. We both enjoyed singing with Tracy about liberating the imprisoned and about our desire for a just world. After the concert, we walked by the moonlit river filled with the hope and the vision that we had just breathed and danced together. We held hands and treasured greatly the time together. Our smiles and eyes and bodies celebrated our friendship. We wanted the night to last a long time, like forever. Then, after driving home, we went to bed in our own homes knowing how good God is and feeling how powerful love is in this world.
Your spirit continues to blow into my life and to refresh me. I praise God for this, and with all of creation, join in giving God glory for my Wind.
Love,
Your Angel
Ne
uchâtel, May 31st
Dear Messenger of my Lord,
The train ride from Geneva to Neuchâtel [Switzerland] was electrifying. I delight in the familiar red tile roofs, stucco walls, vineyards, and the rocky beaches of Lake Geneva. I breathe this in and silently say to myself, "I belong here. This is home for me." Memories of my student days in Switzerland flood over me, and my body sighs in knowing recognition.
Oh, if only you were here! Then you could see all this with my eyes. . . . Exhausted by the eight-hour flight and train ride, I would hold you close to me all night. I'm laughing now for I suspect that I would find you wide-awake at 4 a.m. (since our internal clocks would be registering 10 a.m.). Then I would listen to all your fresh impressions and add to them some of my own. . . .
Now we sleep,
Wind
P.S.: Tell me that you will read my letters only when alone and save them for me in a place "for your eyes only."
Walnut Hills
June 2nd
Hello my Darling! Hello my good Friend!
Today I spent a lot of time at your home. I went with my husband to hear Rachel [your wife] preach at the 10:00 Mass. Afterwards, I took your free-spirited little daughter Natasha to Eden Park while Rachel preached at the 12:00 Mass.
We flew a kite. As the kite danced and soared through the wind, my thoughts turned to you. I became the kite, and you were the Wind lifting me up and turning me about. You blew so powerfully. Ah, how refreshing and how energizing it was to feel you moving me in the air—at times, slow and smooth, and at other times, gusty blasts! It is as though we were again dancing together, following each other's lead, fashioning a beautiful, creative rhythm. Let's do this again sometime soon.
After the kite flying and a brief period on the swings, I took Natasha home and met Margo, your longâ??time friend. Margo and I spent a long time getting to know each other. She's a beautiful woman with such a simple spirit. I deeply enjoyed getting to know her history.
I wanted to know what Margo knew about me since she mentioned that you had told her something about me. I wanted to know everything that she thought about you, but for some reason, I felt uncomfortably to ask her. Most likely, next time I will, or maybe you'll tell me in a letter.
Today, I felt like I was very near to you because [in your home] I saw your tea cup, your computer, your desk, etc. At the same time, there was a real emptiness in being at your house since, in the past, we had always been together there. I'm sure Rachel, Natasha, and Margo all felt the same way as they reminisced about the things you have done together.
Natasha [age=4] misses her daddy. She tells everyone, "My Dad left on a plane. He'll be back tomorrow!"
I want to know you through and through, my Friend. I want to hear your thoughts, feelings, desires, dreams. I feel like I didn't know enough about you today, and I desire to know you more, to come inside you, to be with you a while, and to touch your canyon walls (and have you sink in and absorb me as I do). Most of all, I want to wrap my arms around the void that rests within your chest and squeeze it much smaller by loving you.
I feel fortunate to be one of the women who loves you, and, although I'm sure the love given by each of us is different, I want to express mine to you this day!
Love,
Your Angel
Neuchâtel, June 5th
My dearest Angel,
Two beautiful letters arrived dated May 29th and June 1st. They lift up my spirit and bring it so, so, so close to you. How to respond? A reverend silence and this solemn accord:
Oh, come swift comet!
Race past all my defenses;
Plunge deep into the hidden
Canyons lost to all but you.
Hit down hard; rock my soul!
Shower the wall with your sparks;
Melt me down with your fire;
Burn away the banality of my life.
Shape and pound me as you will!
I trust you as I trust my God,
Alas, maybe even more. . . .
Tonight (in my deepest and truest imagination) I touch your cheek and kiss your eyes. You are with me, here, one-quarter of the way around the world. When I retire, you are at my side breathing in my ear and rubbing my chest. I sleep holding my Angel in perfect peace.
When I awake, you are running your hand through my hair and moving your delicious body so as to capture the warm sleep still radiating from mine. When I work long hours here, you are curled up with a book of your own by the window at my side. You stretch your toes under my thigh from time to time so as to capture my thoughts—warm and silent and waiting for the period when we will take a break and speak to each other face to face. . . .
You say that I have set your heart free and you thrill at being my friend. My chest tightens. Tears come to my eyes. No man should be so happy!
Mybreathentersyouforever,
Wind
Walnut Hills, June 8th
Dear Wind,
It's been a difficult few days (which I'll describe later perhaps) and my spirit has been formulating a poem for the last two days. This is a very special poem, probably my favorite:
Wind Dela
Breath expelled
and taken up spirit
shaken, awakened
love rumbles, stretches
and reaches long
all-embracing
red-bubbling
holy exchange . . .
dela!
The word "dela" comes from some African language. I'm not sure that I have spelled it right. During the Chapman concert (which we imaginatively attended together), "dela" was being used (as you remember) over and over to indicate "deep and total satisfaction." So my spirit yearns to share this "Wind Dela" with you.
I do so enjoy writing you. I received a letter from you today, and I enjoyed it immensely. I'd like to hear more about our sleeping together.
Wind, I long to hear all the stories, imaginings, thoughts, and emotions evoked by your surroundings. Please jot down what you feel and think so I can share this joy with you.
I spent some time alone with Natasha last night. What a beauty. I took her to my Grandmother's birthday party. On the way home, her right leg sang a song to her left leg. Then it was my turn to sing. Delightful!
I also spent a long evening with Rachel, which was also most enjoyable. She thought I was a 2, but I think I'm a 4 (tragic-romantic) on the Enneagram scale. We talked about you a lot, which was fun for me, as I was able to learn even more about who you are.
Sending a big hug to you Wind,
Your Angel
Neuchâtel, June 9th
My dearest. . .
Angel, spread your wings!
I want to fly away with you.
Take me in your arms;
I know that you are dying to.
It's Sunday. There is a stillness in the house and on the streets. All the stores close here Saturday at noon and do not open again until Monday morning. Such beautiful sanity reigns in this part of the world where the Sabbath rest is alive and well.
Walk with me to the lake! Yes? Yes! Orange lichens grace centuries-old stone walls lining our path . . . grapevines sprout fresh tendrils reaching out to touch you . . . so, so, so good to hold your hand as we go . . . little stone houses with little gardens everywhere . . . hundreds of roses blooming . . . I pick one for you . . . the path descends . . . wood smoke from a cottage chimney scents the air . . . sweater weather . . . you sing, "You make my heart free," in the tunnel crossing under the highway . . . the words and the echo thrill me . . . holding you close to me, I spin you around 'til I am dizzy . . . through a muddy construction site . . . then we arrive next to the lake walking on the orange sandstones at the water's edge. . . .
I hold you from behind as we watch the swallows diving near the surface of the water to catch their supper . . . three times I blow warm air into your blocked and aching ears . . . the Jural Mountains of France rise up on the far bank, three kilometers away . . . surfboard sailboats dart back and forth like large, gray moths dancing over the silvery lake. . . .
I hold you tighter to warm you against the chilly late afternoon wind . . . peace comes over me . . . the sun breaks through and warms your hair for a brief five minutes . . . holding you like this, I enjoy the smell of your hair . . . we say nothing, but I watch everything with your eyes. . . .
Oh, to see this beautiful world with your eyes . . . angels stop to watch us and kiss each other when they see how happy we are . . . a light rain begins to fall . . . so silently, so silently . . . little droplets cling to your hair like heavy dew . . . I kiss your hair dry . . . then, suddenly we are alone before the blazing hearth in the little cottage we passed when descending . . . night falls . . . amen!
Your Wind
Walnut Hills, June 12th
Dearest Wind,
Today I was thinking of you on the way home from work as I listened to John Cougar Mellencamp (the CD you gave me) in my car. How fun it was to do an interpretative dance with you to this music on the Tuesday before you left!
Oh, how deeply I am envisioning sharing more of our spirits together through dance! I think of you so often. It gives me life at every moment to remember my friend whom I love so much.
I miss you, my Wind, even though I have been very busy.
I carry you with me in my heart wherever I go and whatever I'm doing. I long to be close to you again and anticipate our joyful reunion even now!
I'm beginning to see less distinction between body and soul. Your words came back to me, "When two people joyously and courageously share their spirits, their bodies quickly become jealous and want to take part in that fine thing happening as their spirits intertwine."
My love is ferocious and I want to attack!
I see that I love all of you, body and soul. So, let's dance, sing, touch, laugh, cry, and celebrate our blessed love! My love goes with you
As your love stays with me,
Your loving Angel
Neuchâtel, June 13th
My dearest Angel,
Its' raining. I arrive home from the research center wet and exhausted. Listening to the soundtrack of The Mission that you gave me, I warm myself on your letter. Oh, dela!
Mon chèr Ange, I want to love all of you, even those parts of you that may be displeasing to yourself. When I smell your fear, the brokenness of your life, I will love YOU more! How can I melt all of you in the furnace of my passion, if you show me only your safe and sure and saintly side?
If I am your Wind,
I shall snap the kite string from your hands
And take you to dangerous places—
To heights that make you scream in fear.
If I am your Wind,
I shall blow the coals of my love red hot
And melt down every piece of your protective armor
Every shred of calcifying civility burnt away.
So, prepare your soul to soar and your body to burn!
And, alas, you'd like to hear more about our sleeping together. Get ready! Even this may be part of God's future for us.
Hewhowaitsforyou,
Wind
Walnut Hills, June 15th
Dearest Breath of Life,
My body trembles as I read your powerful letters. I quiver with passion and with life within. I feel so intensely, I hardly know where to begin. I yearn to be with you, to have your arms around me to comfort my aroused spirit and body. I feel like crying, for my soul aches to have you touch me, to hold my heart in your hands, to burst open again and again and again.
I want to be with you, to be one with you, and you with me . . . to sit with each other totally exposed and open, and to be loving toward each other . . . to love you and kiss you and to feel your body touching mine.
I want to see your beautiful eyes and comb through the soft hair around your ears. I want to touch every part of you, especially the black emptiness within your chest. I want to gently move it to the side and flood that place with love. I want to dive into that void and pour God's love (through me to you) therein until the blackness is transformed into a brilliant shining light that burns with fire.
Come close to me, yes, even closer, my Breath. I too want to come into you. I know you possess the secrets of God, for your breath gives me life and heals my yearning soul.
Breath of life, Wind of joy,
Lift me high, I long to soar
I want to fly away with you.
Fill me,
free me,
touch me,
heal me,
I am yours, and I am. . .
Wanting You So,
Your hungry Angel
Neuchâtel, June 20th
Mon chèr et doux Ange!
Burning with desire, how can it be that you are so far away? So I bring you close to me where I need you. . . .
Sunday . . . our day of rest . . . we walk together to the local Catholic church with Christoph, an extraordinary sensitive young man whom I admire and whom I have asked to join us . . . the colored light passes through the cut glass and bathes the stone altar with a glow of divine presence . . . so peaceful to find you here by my side . . . the rite has a simple dignity throughout . . . hymns animated by a woman with a clear voice like Judy Collins. . . .
We sing "prepare a way for the Lord". . . that's when you press your hand over mine . . . oh, in some mysterious way, I sense you are clearing the rubble out of my life so that this Lord can bless us and renew us . . . my heart jumps (as did the child in Elizabeth's womb) in anticipation. . . .
After Mass, we sit on the grass chatting with Christoph on the power of symbols, of sex, and of medical care. Lunch is always chicken on Sundays . . . so, so, so good to feel your love as you discretely touch my thigh as we eat!
After a long after-dinner tea in my room, you sing to me as you cradle my head in your lap . . . I even doze off briefly and awake to find you peacefully looking into my soul . . . your hair frames your face so beautifully . . . and your sensuous and full lips wordless invite me to rise up and kiss you. . . .
Your fresh Wind
It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love for your dream for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon . . .
I want to know if you have touched the center of your sorrow
if you have been opened by life's betrayals
or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own,
without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own,
if you can dance with wildness [Oh, YES!]
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic,
to remember the limitations of being human. ~~
Walnut Hills, June 24th
Dear Wind of dreams,
Your last letter was a healing experience in itself. As I entered into your fantasy and into mine, my body and my emotions were overwhelmed. For a moment, upon first reading your letter, I was confused about how to assimilate our love into my life. I immediately began to write, praying for direction as I went ahead. Gradually, I became totally open and unafraid of the love I have for you.
Once again my body quivers as it thinks of you returning. I wish so much that somehow I could get to you in Switzerland. I feel like a little girl who makes a wish upon a star and whose fairy godmother comes to her aid.
This might sound silly, but I've never allowed myself to wish like this. I've always been very practical. Maybe I've never wanted anything so much? It feels so good to be free enough to dream again and to have a wish held deep in my heart.
I would love to surprise you by walking up behind you and kissing your neck, even before you realized who it was. I would fall into your lap and hug and kiss you all over. Then we would embrace deeply, and long minutes would pass, and tears of joy and of love would stream down our cheeks. Then we would look at each other and laugh and delight in the sheer presence of touching again. Then our souls, they would laugh a little and become quiet as they suddenly realize that they have no need to enter into fresh embraces since they have never ceased embracing from the moment you left!
How good it is to be loved by you!
Take a few minutes today while you are outdoors to feel my presence, my ferocious love, my warm hands. . . . I'm closer to you than you can imagine.
Is Rachel picking you up at the airport? I would love to, but I'm sure Rachel will be, right? I'm really aware of the need, after talking with them over the past few weeks, to be gentle with Tim and Rachel. Rachel and I talked at length. She is still unsettled about us, but is very open. Tim, too, struggles, but is trying. Ahhh, so much to consider. Couldn't we just vanish for a few weeks?
Your Angel sauvage,
very close to you.
| Note to the reader: At this point, you may skip forward a few pages and go directly to the final chapter, "Distressing News." If, however, you are a fan of Bram Stoker's Dracula (novel and 1992 film), then you will want to discover how this film helped me to further consolidate my love for my ferocious Angel. In that case, read on. |
My imagination flashes upon the condition of Mina in Bram Stoker's Dracula (novel and 1992 film). In the bedroom scene, Count Dracula is so in love with Mina that he tries to persuade her that he could never entertain the thought of having Mina join him among the "undead." He explains that she would be hunted and hated down through the ages until the end of time. Mina, however, is not put off by these arguments. In tears, she proclaims her fierce love to the Count saying, "I want to be what you are, see what you see, love what you love." In effect, she says what my Angel says to me: "I am totally open and unafraid of the love I have for you. . . ."I know that you must fight [against Dracula]—that you must destroy [him] even as you destroyed the false Lucy [who murdered children] so that the true Lucy might live hereafter; but it is not a work of hate. That poor soul [Dracula] who has wrought all this misery is the saddest case of all. Just think what will be his joy when he too is destroyed in his worser [sic] part [as was Lucy] that his better part may have spiritual immortality. You must be pitiful to him too, though it may not hold your hands from his destruction. ~~ Mina Harker (Stoker: 327-328)
| Note to the reader: This is a simplified version of my argument. Nina, during the final death scene, says this: There, in the presence of God, I understood at last how love could release us all from the power of darkness. Our love is stronger than death. [How so?] The full meaning of these words only became clear to me some years later. Hence, I put them into Appendix 1 so that you can come back to it after reading the exciting climax of our central love story in Ch5. |
| Author Notes |
Many waters cannot quench love,
neither can floods drown it (Canticles 8:7). Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, for God is love (1 John 4:7-8). |
By Aaron Milavec
Walnut Hills, July 2nd
Wind of life,
I have some distressing news. Tim opened one of your letters before I got home. It sounds pretty bad.
We talked for about two hours yesterday. I told him that we experienced the love of God (totally complete and good) through each other's love. I was very calm. Yet I think he only understood half of what I was telling him. He was very threatened by what you wrote, but he was open to listening about our relationship.
Long ago you advised me to yield rather than fight any demands that Tim might make relative to our friendship. And so I yielded to his suggestion that I would not see you anymore. Later, he agreed to think about it for a week and then decide how he felt about the possibility of us continuing. I was glad to hear that he was open to reflection on this matter.
At times, Tim yearns for a "normal" wife, but I also know that he loves me because I'm not. Tim mainly objected to the intimate overtones of your letter. He's looking in from outside.
Ahhh, this was my worst fear, although, on the other hand, I'm glad he is now more aware of those things that I've tried to communicate to him all along. In effect, he wasn't willing to talk about our relationship because he was too threatened by what he might find out.
Today I feel depressed because I can't even bear to think of not having you as part of my life. I really won't allow myself to think of it right now because I can't emotionally handle the pain, not today.
I want to hug you, most of all, and assure you that I too am a long-distance runner. My love continues, more deeply, more whole, more, more, more.
I am with you,
Your Angel
P.S.: Tim promised not to read any more letters of mine.
Neuchâtel, July 4th
Dear Angel,
Your letter hit me like a hammer. I cried. Never, never, never did I intend to present myself as a rival for your affection. Quite the contrary, I had hoped to bless your life and Tim's indirectly as well! Now I have caused both of you pain.
Have you misunderstood me? You are the rose whose roots are planted deep within the soul of your husband. He feeds your roots, and you enchant him with your fragrant blooms. I am the manure that stinks and rots on the surface. Yet, by some strange grace, it sends the roots deeper, and the blooms become larger and more fragrant. This and nothing more!
Yes, my letter was "intimate." Here is where my imagination comes into play. Take this out of our relationship and it becomes ordinary, even bordering on the banal. My letters represent the "imaginative voyages" of a man away from family and friends writing back home to someone who might relish my madness and allow my loneliness to be dispelled.
You and Tim need only know that during my fifteen years of marriage I have never been unfaithful (i.e., sexually intimate with another). You can call Rachel today and question her about this. You can invite Tim to do the same.
In sum, I am not like other men. And you are not like other women. I do so want to embrace you (all of you) as a friend and a kindred spirit. At the same time, I invite you to embrace all of me, including the wild imaginings that have caused you and Tim so much grief, so much pain.
Wind
P.S.: If you can believe parts of this letter, feel free to share those parts with Tim. What you cannot believe, please let's let it rest until I return.
Walnut Hills, July 6th
Here I am holding you,
Your eternal Angel,
Love pouring out to you,
Will I ever be this happy again? The pain pours out of me, I grasp for air. Will I ever be filled, be whole again? Your Angel weeps tears of loss for those journeys into my soul and yours that will not be made.
I am very sad because I know that no one can liberate my soul as you have been able to. I, too, yearn to liberate your soul, your pain, your inhibitions, so that you too can see God face to face.
Our friendship has allowed a rebirth to occur. A part of me that was smothered comes to life when I am with you.
However, I anticipate a dark future. Tim doesn't want me to spend time with you anymore. He feels threatened by what you have come to mean for me. I anticipated this reaction as a possible response that might follow upon his coming to glimpse what we share—a deep love, a holy love.
I received two of your letters today, and I cry as I read them. Why? I cry because they are so beautiful, because you are so beautiful. Your letters that I have grown to cherish with my heart and soul give me the freedom to explore my life. Your letters and your love have unlocked the dreary inhibitions of my life. You "set my heart free."
ur Dearest Friend of love,
ur Angel of God
And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them as their God; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them; he will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more (Rev 21:2-4).
This is God's promise to us, my beloved Angel. I will be there and you will be there. And we will eventually find each other in the great crowd of the elect. From that moment of meeting and hugging, the tears and pain of our separation will be no more. Then the holy promises that we made to each other will be magnificently blessed by God and forever set into motion. We won't even have to get into line with those waiting upon the Lord to wipe away their tears. So much the better, for that line will surely be incredibly long.
On that day and in that place, true lovers will be doing for each other what God will be doing for those who have never known such love. God will not be jealous. Rather he will be relieved to know that some of his children have gone ahead and began doing for each other what God has always wanted them to learn to do for each other. Thus, the words of the beloved apostle will find their fulfillment: "Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God and knows God" (1 John 4:7).
| Author Notes |
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here are my three questions: #1 Did I fail to protect my Angel's interests? Did I give up too much? Should I have asked my Angel to insist on a restaurant meeting once a month? Tim might not like this; yet, he has to allow that his wife is suffering greatly with his "no contact" call. Doesn't her welfare deserve some close attention as well? Moreover, in the face of such a one-sided resolution, doesn't Tim take a fatal step that risks his future with his wife? Won't the day perhaps arrive when my Angel will see his demands as selfish and manipulative? Then what? He gained the lion's share, but the lioness sets out to hunt on her own. So by gaining everything, was he risking to lose everything? [#2 How would you advise Tim?] #3 And what do you make of the final paragraphs where my Angel and I wipe away each other's tears and have no need, accordingly, to get in the long line where God (not Jesus) does the final healing? For those who have read this far, I offer you a free copy of my entire book, including Appendix 1: Dracula and Minah. Enjoy it yourself and feel free to share it with a few friends who might enjoy it. My hope is to publish a paperback edition in the months to come. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ |
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