Post by goldenmyst on Jun 28, 2022 17:58:34 GMT -6
Her Touch Is Our Hidden Oshun Consecration
We cross the pelagic continent like buffalo migrating to fresh green grass.
When we arrive at Glacier National Park the air is sanctified by the natural cooling that make it crisp.
Finally, we reach a dirt road. We turn off and began to climb. There is a roaring mountain stream beside the road, filled with water that once had been part of the caps of ice and snow on the mountaintop.
We eventually reach our destination, a small emerald lake with mixed pin and aspen trees, their leaves trembling in the wind. My wife is a country girl at heart and is ready for a wilderness honeymoon in the Montana Alps.
We ascend the flanks of a snowy mountain for our first Alpine experience.
The steeply forested valley rises with our footsteps on our pathless ascent past log cabin ruins. Moxie, my wife, speaks homilies to Montana like a disciple of the western sky. She says she sees in the land something sacred. My pondering meets hers, “Where we live is beautiful too. Lake Michigan beach is gorgeous in the summer.”
“You are right my love. The western culture is white bread, whereas Chicago is the Yangtze, Neva, Congo, Nile, and Amazon, all combined,” she says. She continues, “Look at how spry and limber you are. Could that be the genius of your youth and my eighteen years ahead of you?”
Her words sigh with the wind: “Your wings are those of a man in his roaring twenties on the cusp of his thirties.”
We overlook the gulf of time where evergreens face us across the valley carpeted with snow powder like a gingerbread castle covered with confectionery sugar.
My youthful wonder awakens ours “Those kids sure must get spring fever.” There before us is a castle of ice.
Moxie looks moonstruck. She says, “You know we are alone out here. A big ole grizzly bear could pounce on us from out of nowhere.”
“Are you saying you want to go home?”
She says, “Not just yet. I am just airing out my concerns with the man I love. But aside from the wildlife there is something else that bothers me. I could swear I saw miniature glaciers in your eyes before you kissed me as your bride. I hope you didn’t get cold feet.”
“Pure misty-eyed love. No doubts or regrets.”
“Now that is my man. I think I saw bear tracks in the snow.”
“Honey, if that bear comes close I’ll wrestle him to the ground.”
“I don’t want my man in danger anymore than me. But you’re making me skittish. Don’t feed into my wild imagination. The natural world is more afraid of us than we are of them.”
“I was on the fencing team in college. If he stalks us I’ll break off one of those icicle stalactites and use it to defend you.”
“You are brave to deal with the ectoplasms in my mind. But I wonder if the bear is just an apparition in my headspace?”
“The chances of a bear even showing up are less than those of being struck by lightning.”
She replies, “I wouldn’t have followed you this far if I didn’t trust you.”
I reply, “I hear the entrance to the cave is the deep blue of Arctic ice.”
She says, “I’ve always dreamed of visiting the Arctic. You lead the way.”
We retrace our steps descending under pale blue sky on feet of clay pacing the ancestral path in unity of soul and oneness with the Great Spirit.
We unpack our wedding gear from the truck and don our nuptial apparel to consecrate our marriage among the clouds that touch the lake on their float where vapor meets liquid.
She faces me like the daylight hemisphere of the earth facing the sun. Like the earth embracing the sun, she draws a circle around me.
We run into the cold H2O splashing all the way. Then our marital baptism turns into the steam from deep breathing until her glacial gaze deepens into fathomless fjords.
Her Christian faith is witnessed by my Darwinist theory that waltzes gracefully in step with her Biblical creationism. We lay together on the soft bed of shore grass moist with dew. She pouts puckishly and tickle teases me into tumescence with a flurry of finger fire.
My words tumble from the open weir of my lips. She vetoes our return home. Tongue tied I ask what her goals in our marriage are? She beams the sassafras smile of my lass smitten from a break in the silence. She replies, “I’ve been through the sweatshops of romance. My boyfriends professed their faith to me but took the red eye to a Las Vegas of my broken heart. You are more religious than any of them and aren’t even a believer.”
I reply, “You are my religion.”
She giggles, “You are my spirituality. There is a difference. You’ll learn soon enough. Come now, give me your hand, time to get up and start our day.”
I follow her lead in the word caress until the softness of her being is all I need to know.
We cross the pelagic continent like buffalo migrating to fresh green grass.
When we arrive at Glacier National Park the air is sanctified by the natural cooling that make it crisp.
Finally, we reach a dirt road. We turn off and began to climb. There is a roaring mountain stream beside the road, filled with water that once had been part of the caps of ice and snow on the mountaintop.
We eventually reach our destination, a small emerald lake with mixed pin and aspen trees, their leaves trembling in the wind. My wife is a country girl at heart and is ready for a wilderness honeymoon in the Montana Alps.
We ascend the flanks of a snowy mountain for our first Alpine experience.
The steeply forested valley rises with our footsteps on our pathless ascent past log cabin ruins. Moxie, my wife, speaks homilies to Montana like a disciple of the western sky. She says she sees in the land something sacred. My pondering meets hers, “Where we live is beautiful too. Lake Michigan beach is gorgeous in the summer.”
“You are right my love. The western culture is white bread, whereas Chicago is the Yangtze, Neva, Congo, Nile, and Amazon, all combined,” she says. She continues, “Look at how spry and limber you are. Could that be the genius of your youth and my eighteen years ahead of you?”
Her words sigh with the wind: “Your wings are those of a man in his roaring twenties on the cusp of his thirties.”
We overlook the gulf of time where evergreens face us across the valley carpeted with snow powder like a gingerbread castle covered with confectionery sugar.
My youthful wonder awakens ours “Those kids sure must get spring fever.” There before us is a castle of ice.
Moxie looks moonstruck. She says, “You know we are alone out here. A big ole grizzly bear could pounce on us from out of nowhere.”
“Are you saying you want to go home?”
She says, “Not just yet. I am just airing out my concerns with the man I love. But aside from the wildlife there is something else that bothers me. I could swear I saw miniature glaciers in your eyes before you kissed me as your bride. I hope you didn’t get cold feet.”
“Pure misty-eyed love. No doubts or regrets.”
“Now that is my man. I think I saw bear tracks in the snow.”
“Honey, if that bear comes close I’ll wrestle him to the ground.”
“I don’t want my man in danger anymore than me. But you’re making me skittish. Don’t feed into my wild imagination. The natural world is more afraid of us than we are of them.”
“I was on the fencing team in college. If he stalks us I’ll break off one of those icicle stalactites and use it to defend you.”
“You are brave to deal with the ectoplasms in my mind. But I wonder if the bear is just an apparition in my headspace?”
“The chances of a bear even showing up are less than those of being struck by lightning.”
She replies, “I wouldn’t have followed you this far if I didn’t trust you.”
I reply, “I hear the entrance to the cave is the deep blue of Arctic ice.”
She says, “I’ve always dreamed of visiting the Arctic. You lead the way.”
We retrace our steps descending under pale blue sky on feet of clay pacing the ancestral path in unity of soul and oneness with the Great Spirit.
We unpack our wedding gear from the truck and don our nuptial apparel to consecrate our marriage among the clouds that touch the lake on their float where vapor meets liquid.
She faces me like the daylight hemisphere of the earth facing the sun. Like the earth embracing the sun, she draws a circle around me.
We run into the cold H2O splashing all the way. Then our marital baptism turns into the steam from deep breathing until her glacial gaze deepens into fathomless fjords.
Her Christian faith is witnessed by my Darwinist theory that waltzes gracefully in step with her Biblical creationism. We lay together on the soft bed of shore grass moist with dew. She pouts puckishly and tickle teases me into tumescence with a flurry of finger fire.
My words tumble from the open weir of my lips. She vetoes our return home. Tongue tied I ask what her goals in our marriage are? She beams the sassafras smile of my lass smitten from a break in the silence. She replies, “I’ve been through the sweatshops of romance. My boyfriends professed their faith to me but took the red eye to a Las Vegas of my broken heart. You are more religious than any of them and aren’t even a believer.”
I reply, “You are my religion.”
She giggles, “You are my spirituality. There is a difference. You’ll learn soon enough. Come now, give me your hand, time to get up and start our day.”
I follow her lead in the word caress until the softness of her being is all I need to know.
