I had make up sex early this morning.
You know what it is I’m talking about, right?
The kind where you thought you had lost each other forever and how it frightened you both and the world became a dark void—huge and hollow.
Then he walks through that door and you’re both so happy, you could weep. And you both cup each other’s faces and whisper each other’s names over and over for the sacred prayer that names are and you are both shamelessly on each other. Frantically tearing each other’s clothes off—doesn’t even matter that what he tore was a very expensive piece of lingerie.
You. Don’t. Give. A. Shit.
You unbuckle, and unbutton and unzip and want every inch of him and where he wants every inch of you as well.
You can’t have enough of each other and where you need to surface for air because you forget to breathe.
You’re pinned on the wall, on the bed, on the floor, everywhere and every crevice of your body is wet with his his-ness.
You feel every little magical thing he does to your body right down to your soul and it is playful and intense all at the same time. Drenched in each other’s sweat, you want him.
Only him. So bad. And no one else.
And he wants only you, his beloved. No one else.
And when you are both done, every part of your body hurts—even the tip of your ears and your toe nails. And you look at yourself in the mirror and you have raccoon eyes and yet you glow.
Yup. I know you know exactly what it is I’m talking about.
Well I had it this morning. This wild, sacred makeup sex I speak of.
And it was with running.
I hadn’t run in 10 days. What can I say, the world got too noisy, work piled up and I forgot to tether myself and I let go of running.
I got stir crazy inside too–the very kind of crazy I hate. With noxious fumes that made me curl up like a fetus and want to die. The kind where I beat myself up black and blue, full of self-loathing, without even being aware of it.
The kind where you think there is something seriously, seriously wrong with you that you can’t get one good thing done right and you constantly needle yourself over it and you wear yourself down.
And you’re just so mean to yourself, your self-talk would put Mayweather to shame for the horrid trash talk that it is.
“Hay nakoHH.” “Such a simple thing. You couldn’t get it done.” “You had ONE thing. ONE thing to do…and you couldn’t even do it.” “What the hell, girl!???” “ WHAT. IS. WRONG. WITH. YOU??!” “Clearly you don’t have it in you. Just give up. What were you thinking?” “You’re going to die without seeing this done.” “What a waste.” “Hey Einstein.” Rolling of eyeballs. Deep sighing. Look of utter and abject discontent to self. Tsk tsk tsk-ing over and over and over.
And on and on and on…
No wonder I curl up in a tight fetal position.
I hadn’t been aware that I let go, a little at a time, of the good and steady things in my life that bind me to it.
And one of that would be running.
Then today, I woke up when the world was still asleep. Something in my dreams nudged me awake and from the depths of my soul, whispered to me so this time, I heard it.
Like I’d done a million times, I put on my running shoes and strapped on my water belt and put on my running cap and got outside into the crisp early morning air and …ran.
And I’m wondering—is it possible only runners know this?
How just getting out there and putting one step in front of the other saves you. How it makes you come alive.
You breathe out all the accumulated shit in you, the lies you told yourself about yourself. And how all these self-inflicted wounds that got deeper and deeper because you couldn’t be bothered, didn’t have kindness to self to put on your running shoes and get you the hell out of the trenches of daily life and all the self-disappointment and all the blah blah “you’re no good” shit you told yourself
And breathe in stillness and clarity.
When you run, the water stills and you see yourself clearly. And, as it turns out, you like what you see— this pony-tailed piece of imperfection–a human being, no more no less. Divine and human both at the same time, doing her best. Just doing her best. Taking her place, unlocking the Mystery or sitting still in it, stumbling, picking herself up time and again.
Always, just someone, who, given this small space in time on this awesome ride called Life, aches to do her best.
And I may not get it often. And I may not get it right the first or second or third time. Or at all, ever. And I may stumble far more times than I care to count.
But always, I pull myself up and strap on my shoes and..run.
And I meet myself time and again on that early morning road, the only soul out there while the world around me sleeps. I breathe in the crisp morning air and it is always sharp and clear.
And I take my self by the hand and embrace me tight and it occurs to me just how badly I miss my Self.
And running has me pinned on that wall, on the bed, on the floor and it makes me want this person I see inside me so bad that I want to know every inch of her and I tear off everything that covers her because I want to see her unadorned.
And I whisper her name over and over because it is sacred to me, this name bestowed on me by my father and mother from whence I came from.
I cover her with all of me and we dance and we sing and we jump with joy and we hold hands, tight–at this blessed solitude where we see our selves clearly. Drenched in sweat, we come up for air ever so often. And the only person in the world that exists for us at that moment is the Other.
And oh, how we love this person before us. She shimmers and shines and sparkles and there is none like her. And for all her monumental faults, gaffes and foibles, she is beloved anyway.
And when I am done, I feel every part of me ache—and it is the good kind of ache. The kind of ache that reminds me that I am alive, not dead like I thought I had been.
And I remember all the hidden parts of me that I had forgotten existed until I ran and that part of me said, HEY, GIMME SOME LOVE OVER HERE, GIRL.
In the end, I see running for what it is to me—a kindness I give myself. A love no one else can give to me but me.
And it’s made me see that I must not burden the world with needs that only I can give myself.
That if I give to myself what I must give myself then I am free to love without demanding that the other make me whole.
And that for as long as I give me what I alone can give myself—wholeness, I will not panhandle through life, begging for love from anyone.
That, in the end, it is my job to love me, not anybody else’s.
Make up sex.
I love it.