Copyrighted by Lorna Tedder. Originally published in Third Degree and Rising.
The last few meditations, since I went into the Underworld and brought him back with me, the man has been in the forest where my dreaming starts. Usually just sitting on the grass with me or enjoying the sunshine that filters down through the trees or chattering away happily in the peace and quiet that soothes our nerves. Iâ€™m not sure why he seems to have taken up residence in my forest, but I kinda like it.
Iâ€™m still intrigued with how these interactive meditations work, since often what I see there isnâ€™t anything from my own experience and thereâ€™s an element of the external that seems to make this a meeting place between the worlds. Only a few years ago, I thought of meditation as boring because nothing happened in my attempts at it or either I was jealous of the way other peopleâ€™s meditations unfolded like Discovery Channel documentaries. But in the past two years, as Iâ€™ve become more and more spiritually aware, the meditations have become quite vivid and informative.
This one is no exception, except that itâ€™s possibly the most intimate meditation Iâ€™ve experienced here in the forest.
As soon as I touch down in the forest, he is here. I think heâ€™s been waiting since he is here before me. As with the previous few times, since my last trip into the Underworld and finding him there in the dark, the floor of the forest is not made of dried leaves, but emerald-green grass as soft and bright and fine as rye. He and I sit in the grass and talk quietly. His hair is in his eyes, the way I like it, and they are either a pale green or a reflection of the new growth of Spring around us.
He likes it here because itâ€™s so peaceful, a safe place he can come to escape the power plays and sharpness around him. He still has guilt and anger to work through, and too many liesâ€¦fabricationsâ€¦manipulationsâ€¦but he is starting to see now, and this is a beautiful retreat for him. He doesnâ€™t talk much about his waking world except that his emotions are jagged and his brain chemistry has been off a bit, but heâ€™s doing something about thatâ€”or will soonâ€”and then heâ€™ll be okay, less confused, and then not confused at all.
In my meditation, I watch in surprise as I rise from the grass and take his right hand in my left, urging him to rise and follow me. I lead the way to the fountain in the middle of the forest. The water doesnâ€™t burst forth loudly or forcefully but this time it simply gurgles from the top, above us, into the lower layers of the fountain and down to the bottom where he stands next to meâ€”willingly, inquisitively, happily next to me. I cup my right palm and dip it into the fountainâ€™s waters and bring it to his mouth for him to drink. The Water of Life. Thatâ€™s what this is. And I am offering to quench his thirst.
He drinks hungrily from my hand, eyes closed, savoring the coolness and sweetness of what is offered. As he opens his eyes, he holds my cupped hand to his mouth, kissing my palm as the last droplets of water roll down my palm and wrist and bare arm.
Heâ€™s kissed my palm before in meditations, and it always surprises me. I do not recall a lover ever in the waking world kissing my palms, nor would I have thought of it, but itâ€™s an intensely meaningful moment for me and I wonder why he does it.
Then he follows the runaway droplets with his mouth, across my wrist, over the inside of my elbow. Then his mouth is on my neck, on my throat, and trailing downward. When he stops, he is on his knees in front of me, looking up at me and I nearly lose myself in his eyes. Then he presses his cheek into my belly and wraps his arms around me as he kneels, holding on as if he fears Iâ€™ll send him away.
I donâ€™t. I run my fingers through his hair instead.
Then I realize that itâ€™s not only a fear that Iâ€™ll send him away but that Iâ€™ll vanish if he canâ€™t find a way to hold on.