We’re walking through the twilight to the Thai place on the corner.
Meeting some friends. Mock duck massaman curry. A few laughs.
The usual delight.

 
Quick steps through the half-frozen mist. Arms linked, bodies pulled close for survival. Cold to the bone.

The conversation turns . . . futuristic. He muses on the notion of moving out of his place, by next winter. My cue! I happily remind him that the idea of living TOGETHER is a source a great excitement, for me. Arm squeeze. Right, right?

“That’s still on the table,” he says. Detached, unbothered. One option, among many. “But I’m not in any rush. I still value my independence.”

And then, as my heart lacquers & seals itself shut, he launches into a breathless description of how excellent it would be to shack up “. . . with my friend, when he moves back to town.” Subtextual, irrational inner-world translation being: “. . . instead of with you. Which would be no fun at all.”

I’m silent. I’m stunned. And I’m worried.

I spend dinner stewing. A few tears in the ladies room. Stiff and unyielding. I’m worried, I’m worried, I’m worried.

We get home — well, to my home. The home I’ll apparently never share, with someone I love. The bed he spends nearly every night sleeping in, but can’t fathom calling his own. I make tea. Hideous thoughts. I’m unlovable. This won’t work. It’s already over. There’s nowhere to flow from, from here.

I’m tightening, trailing off, facing away. This isn’t me. These aren’t my real thoughts. These aren’t my beliefs. I’m infected and frightened. I’m worried, I’m worried, I’m worried.

A sip of tea. A few deep breaths. He senses my grief, and asks me what’s wrong. I look into his eyes.
And then, suddenly — like God, like grace, like goodness returning, like a bad fever breaking:

“I’m not worried.”

I’m not worried because . . . everything is survivable.
I’m not worried because . . . my agitating what-ifs are just premature echoes of future hypotheticals. Unreal. And unnecessary.
I’m not worried because . . . my mom loves me. This tea is good. Mr. Rogers would be proud of me. My dad thinks I’m a genius. And history has shown, time & time again, that I am — that we all are — heroically adaptable to unexpected hiccups, pivots and heartbreak.

And, as one brief, tear-streaked conversation reveals, he worries about losing me, also. He never wants to make me unhappy, either. He fantasizes about living with me, too. He’s just a cautious man. (And he was really hungry, earlier.)

Good to know.

Either way. Anyhow. And moresoever.

“I’m not worried.”

And now, a brief word from our sponSOAR . . .

In Spanish, they’re milagros. In Greek, they’re thauma. In Latin, miraculum. For Bri Saussy, there are many words for the same thing: a miracle. The fulfillment of spiritual law. Traveling towards — not away from — our inner Godliness.

Miss Bri is a Spiritual Counselor & Root Magic Ritualist who blends earthy Hoodoo & Conjure magic with the elegance of Ecclesiastical rituals. Translation: she creates magic spells for a living. And her clients can’t get enough.

This spring, Bri Saussy of Milagro Roots invites you to experience the greatest miracle of all — self-knowledge.

Join her for The Miracle Tree Sessions — a three-month course that combines personal counseling with spiritual, theological & philosophical study, from Celtic goddess rites to the Socratic method.

Spring 2012 registration for The Miracle Tree Sessions is open. Swoop, swing, soar into this course.

Bri’s love is unbridled: & her magic is real.