The God I Loved

At the age of five, I hoped I wasn’t too different from others. I hoped that others saw the world through similar eyes. The last thing I wanted to be was the only one of its kind. How forlorn that would be.

So I did a lot of questioning and prodding to find out if others thought like me. Biggest difference I found was that I was openly willing to tell others what I was thinking. But others were not. They guarded their thinking like some big, grand secret that they could not share. Still, for those secretive individuals, unwilling to share what they were thinking, I had something in my heart and head that could lead to discovery of the unspoken part of them – my intuition.

Not many men have the same intuition a woman has. Women can intuitively read truth in the eyes, in barely audible sighs, and in body language (without having studied it). And when it comes to their offspring, Mother’s intuition has for all time amazed the Medical community enough that Doctors are finally learning to listen to it and trust it.

So be as secretive as you like. It matters not to me. I can still feel out the air around the occupants of a room and determine if that room is steeped in mistrust or anger, with nary a word being spoken. With my intuition, I can sense danger, when none is apparent. And my intuition consistently prods me from solid slumber to alert wakefulness when I hear nothing more than a soft rustle in another room.

I use my intuition in other ways as well. I use it to form quick first-time assessments of the nature and character of those I meet. As an important helper to decide whom I should trust and whom I should distrust. And yes, I use it to form assumptions. And when I say that, don’t even start in on me about how ‘assumptions’ are so bad, and how ‘ass-umptions’ make an ‘ass’ of us all. That’s total crap.

Whether you like it or not, we all drag around assumptions as surely as we are constantly trailed by our own shadow. We connect life experiences to our childhood environments, to our upbringing, and to our own unique life experiences and in that blend we form perspectives on everyone around us. These are the tools we use to form first impressions and from these impressions, we form moral judgments, and from these moral judgments, we decide whether we are open to affection or rejection.

So with that introduction to my thinking, I now want to frankly discuss with you my assessments of someone I met years ago. We were friends for a time, good friends, but in that first meeting I gazed at all things I normally gaze at to build that first profile. I liked what I saw. Serene eyes, adorned with crystal-clear windows of truth. A fine athletic build. Open friendliness and an unabashed way of speaking.

Once past those first introductions, our conversation flowed into a creative and stimulating discourse. We discussed sensitive things, practical things, and imaginary things. We discussed the human condition of both men and women. We discussed vital forces, agonizing tensions, vanity, and sincerity. We even discussed the misunderstandings women endure that normally remain veiled and unspoken in their relationships with men.

And in all this, every word from the lips of that man was wonderfully sweet. I was hypnotized by the smoothness of his voice, the parsing of his words, the wisdom of his lyrics, and the poetical magic of his wit. He knew all the tough stuff and all the sensitive stuff. And he showed no reluctance to discuss those things, that as a woman I find hurtful in such curious ways, that it is almost impossible to adequately articulate them.

He was so amazingly adept at bypassing my clumsy mix of words and drawing from them such a fine and clear interpretation. I laid out my torn heart and mind and soul and he reassembled it in a healing and orderly fashion. And in all that exchange, in all that affiliated thinking, even my weirdest perceptions were merged into a comforting understanding by a young man omnipotent in his wisdom – superior to all men in every way.

And how did I feel about him? I loved him immediately. I loved every line in his face, every hair on his head, every tone in his voice. I loved the girth of his shoulders, the serenity of his countenance, the spicy scent of his after-shave.

But the affection I felt that so ardently burned like a fire, discounted, with puzzling revulsion, any desire for bodily contact. There was something perplexing in the thought of his cheek pressed against mine though my soul was fired with soaring affection. Perhaps because it was difficult to see him as a mere mortal.

He was more like a deity, an ethereal form made flesh. Descended, through some kind of ‘assumption’ (different from those first assumptions we discussed) that unified God and man. All I can say is that in his presence, I was enveloped in an aura that filled my heart with awe, respect, reverence, and love.

So now what? Should I just let him go? How do you invite romantic overtures from a god? It’s shouldn’t be so difficult. It’s not as if I am not bold enough to know how to flirt. I can be right brazen and downright lewd in order to get what I want. But in the presence of this kind of purity, how sacrilegious would that be?

I must devise a plan of gracious capriciousness that will wholly surpass the most rigid of Puritan and principled thinking. But it is unknown to me, completely foreign to me, how to conduct this kind of seduction. I’m highly doubtful that diverted eyes, blushing cheeks, and silent and reverent prayer will work.

Let’s face it. Even absolute modesty and shallow indifference skids into the realm of hussy-flirtation in this highly uncommon situation. But obviously I cannot just let him go. This deity that is so sensitive and a kindred spirit like no other I have ever encountered and known. Whose presence is like a wondrous gift of warm tonic that is rich and soothing to every microbe of my emotional being. Nothing in paradise can surpass the dream of living a lifetime in his presence, in duality with his mind, buried in the sweet melody of his voice, and bathing daily in his quick wisdom.

So why is there this unexplainable chasm that separates us from sharing the awesome love and respect that I feel for him. I don’t exactly know how he feels about me, but I am secure that he cares about my simplest hurts. All I can see affirms that he is truly special; a prize, priceless, one of a kind. But still that inner intuition repeatedly flings up a wall of fear and distrust.

I guess what I need to accept without question is that the ways of gods are too profound and mysterious for mere mortals to understand. It is like trying to understand why the God of the Bible allows so much sickness, war, and tragic death. Or trying to understand why his son threw a childish temper tantrum and whipped money-changers in the temple.

Likewise I cannot understand the traitorous ways of this loving ‘god’, who so completely understood the feminine mysteries of my being, and shared such a parallel connection with my soul. Who surpassed all that I could ever dare to hope a man to be, yet who so quickly, without warning, left our sweet alliance to become the life-long partner of a man!

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Here I will be quite blunt with you. Going back to my own assumptions, I risk being politically leprous by admitting that despite facts, exposure, and education, I still remain reluctant to accept without prejudice modern-day theories about sexual preference.

I do accept that some individuals have hormone imbalances (or a physical duality), that triggers that sort of thing. But my inner convictions tell me that the rest are simply bored with ‘standards’ that have become too mundane. And at the same time, these are transformations buoyed by allegorical and symbolic flags of social acceptance that wave in the breeze and invite them to a new, more exciting, citizenship.

I guess even gods can be seduced by that approach.