Soul Mates, or What?

I spent my life hoping to find a soul mate, the one person who would feel like pure cosmic energy was zapping between us when we were together, even when we were apart, and still going long after death. I have been both blessed and cursed with many loves, and I always believed there could be many beautiful mates to my one passionate soul. I believe, you know, life is a river, always flowing and evolving, not an isolated lake. But that was all before I found him. As a woman in her mid-fifties, I have come to find that this one is definitely my soul mate. I am not sad it took so long. I am thrilled it happened at all.

Some part of me always knew, deep down, and sometimes declaring to the world, that the men I have loved have never been my true blue. That doesn’t mean I didn’t love them. It did mean I spent a lot of time wishing it was different in key ways. It did mean that when the chips were down, I was utterly alone much of the time. I don’t regret it. It was all necessary, I suppose.

It didn’t mean something was wrong with me. Although, there were lots of things wrong with me. It wasn’t about that. It was about the solid fact that I may learn a lot from this relationship, but we were not meant for an eternal time together. I’d still take a bullet for a few of them. Most of them meant something important to me.

It didn’t mean something was wrong with them. Although, there were plenty of things wrong with all of them. Being my soul mate has never required perfection, nor actually anything even close to that. Perfection is boring and repulsive to me.

It’s just that now, it is different. I don’t know if I found him so late in life because I took this long to love myself. A lot of people believe in that. I am confident you can find your soul mate long before you learn to love yourself, and I have seen it happen. Perhaps our soul mate helps us get there.

Yet, there is something quite lovely about finding someone when you finally understand that you are worthy of such an ecstatic love, a love that feels safe and constantly thrilling all at once. A love that will spend an entire day eating and lounging and playing and maybe even challenging each other, if need be. A love that you can just tell is never, ever going to ditch you, or betray you, or think you are embarrassing. A love that erupts in serious belly-aching laughter, in a vessel you can’t seem to stop touching. A love that takes dancing lessons for you. A love that feels exactly that same way you do about that love. The sort of love that makes you smile when they have a funny walk or stupid jokes or likes a song that sounds like a chainsaw.

A love that feels like you just came ashore after epic battles with mythic beasts. A love that is simple but never boring, even when you are doing nothing at all. A love that you just know can never be replaced, no matter how great other people can be.

If I lose this love, to another, or to illness, or to some dark fate, I will be done looking elsewhere. I would keep living, since that is my right and my duty, but to try to love this way again would be a great disservice to anyone new. It would be far better to find other ways to find joy than to spend a single hour searching for something I was blessed to know at all. It would be greedy. I am a realist. I spent a long time thinking he was possible, but knowing I might be karmically fucked. So now, I intend to treat him like a king. I will count that blessing every day, after he is gone, and thank the gods for the fact that I finally got what I had always hoped to get, for however long I could hold it. And for someone like me, a woman of raging fire and unwavering ice, that should say a lot.

Why I Love Sorrow

The story of the Egyptian Goddess Isis tapped a long buried part of me, a part of me that felt betrayed and steeped in sorrow since I was a little girl.

Isis loved her brother Osiris and was – in keeping with the autonomy of the gods – also his wife. But their younger brother Set slaughtered Osiris in a jealous rage and scattered his body parts needlessly. Isis and her sister Nephthys swiftly scoured the land for his parts, and Isis magically pieced him back together, securing one night to consummate their love and bear their son Horus. Isis hid Horus from the fierce Set until Horus could one day battle Set himself. Horus lost an eye to Set but gained his freedom and power in the end. Osiris became the God of the Dead, and Isis was revered and worshipped as a cunning and maternal protector.

So adored was this trilogy of power, even the Greek King Alexander the Great embraced the sacred family of gods, and the love for Isis eventually extended even to England.

The part of this story that cut me deep was at the heart of Isis’ lifelong sorrow and it was as though I could feel it. The shock of losing her lover, and their beautiful life together, as a result of someone who should have also loved them. The sorrow of such an early death. The sorrow of betrayal. The sorrow of being hated for her own divine beauty and strength. The fact that she was a badass who tricked Ra, therefore obtaining her magical strength, and usurped the power of wicked Set only made her a goddess I felt would inspire hope.

Because she didn’t just leave it all alone and grieve and weep and sulk and curl up and die. She didn’t lament for long, even though that sort of loss can never be fully healed.

She did something about it.

She took back what was salvageable, and birthed something from it.

She rose to an even greater power, that which comes from the mutual devotion of her people, and the respect of the gods. The lessons of these divine entities is always a relatively simple one. Isis represents an idea, a spiritual value of rising up and choosing the way of the survivor, the path to make things right. She comes to accept that greater things are now at hand. A son born of sorrow and love now emerges, and glory is restored!

Who better to watch out for others, to empathize and protect us than someone who had been shattered by loss, then rallies and flourishes?

For who could be better to help the suffering than those who have suffered as well? Who better to bring hope and power to those who feel beaten and despondent? Who better to bring the sorrowful world back to life and fight until it is won?

Who would better know about the need for courageous love than those who were once hated?

No one.

DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME

It won’t be a problem

For me

I’m already moving

I will fly over your waves

Dive deep in my watery caves 

And flush the sting

‘Til it’s numb

Make mad love to the gods

Slip and curl on the kitchen floor

Rhythmic souls need no one

I won’t just paint it out

I will be the art

That makes you shiver

Hammer it down under my feet

And let it burn in my lungs

Let the hobos stare. 

They’re mouthing something now.

My ears are already screaming.

It’s a comfort when no one can 

Make it worse.

Tell my girls only fools

Say no 

And cackle witchy words

When the darkness floods

My room

Unleash the monsters

From my throat

Cry the fierce resounding gall

Don’t worry about me.

I’m already over it.

— Isa