Letting It Happen
Copyrighted by Lorna Tedder. Originally published in Life in the Third Degree.
I have no fears that I will not be loved again. I have seen it. Better, I have felt his feelings for me—from the inside.
We can hear men tell us how they feel about us and hope they’re not lying. But we can never really know for sure. Except…in one regard, in one instance, I do. And that is enough.
It’s an incredible gift from Spirit during these past few days of illness mixed with meditation. I know these visions come from outside of myself—not a memory or dream—they’re composed of things and people and positions and places I’ve never known personally. These “psychic flashes” have become more frequent, but they’re now more than that. What started months ago as a quick flash of sight and feeling is something I can now call up on demand, and I can go into the “scene” and experience everything there.
Including him. Including how he feels about me.
Whomever he is….
I see through his eyes. Feel through his skin. Know both physically and emotionally everything around him, from inside his body. I am inside his head and heart and body.
He sees the bed and room around him in the periphery of his vision, and it’s my bedroom as it is decorated now though he has no particular interest in the velvets or sheets. He focuses entirely on the woman beneath him, and she bears the familiarity to me of my own image in the mirror, only here she is three-dimensional and more. It’s a strange way to see myself, through his eyes.
He presses my right leg down into the sheets, and I feel the muscle of my mid-thigh under his hand, feel the bulge of tight muscle in his arm. I feel the weight of my other leg against his other shoulder and upper arm and he leans forward on the other elbow and the pressure on his elbow. The muscles of his arm are forceful and don’t shake under the stress. He rubs his thumb against my lips and slips it inside my mouth, turning my head to one side as he stares into my face. I feel her hand—my hand—come up behind his head, splaying the shorter hair on his neck and catching in loose tangles as she rakes her fingers through his full hair.
I hear the rush of his pulse in his ears. I feel the sway of his body. I hear his breath, louder and faster now and matching hers.
But as intriguing as this physical coupling may be, what astonishes me most is the rush of emotion and passion for me he carries inside him. Almost as if he keeps it secret and sacred from the world, maybe even from me, it’s so treasured and close and lost.
And I know without a doubt that this man loves me.
I don’t know who he is. I know he’s out there. How far into the future, I haven’t a clue.
I’ve tried, devious as I might be, to get a look at him. I’ve gone into the vision and tried to glimpse his face in one of the mirrors on the wall, but none come close to reflecting it. The best I can do is look for him in my own eyes, the eyes of the woman on the bed, but her eyes reflect not his face, but mirror the feelings I’ve felt in him.
These things shall come to pass. I know this. Just not when. And not who.
And I can do everything in my power, in my need to control, to try to make this happen when I don’t know who he is or how this will come to me.
Or I can just wait and let it happen.