By Jeff Brown
V-Passion-A Meditation — An excerpt from “An Uncommon Bond“
A few minutes later, I made the long walk up the hill to the meditation temple in the dark. I didn’t want to be without her. The stars were bright tonight, lighting my way, the perfect flashlight to my beloved. As I set foot on the cedar deck, I stopped for a moment to listen to the water trickling into the deck pond. Such a peaceful invitation to soften.
I left my shoes beside the door and entered. Inside, there were dozens of empty meditation back-jacks organized in rows. Sarah wasn’t here yet. I sat on a back-jack in the back row and closed my eyes to meditate. My breath deepened, as I searched for a mantra to center me. After a few minutes of jittery contemplation, I heard the door creak open. The room came alive. Sarah had entered. Rain began to pound on the temple roof.
I tried to meditate, but it felt avoidant, preposterous, unnecessary. The proverbial leaves kept floating back into consciousness with her juicy body on them. Who needs mantra when God is already in the room? There was only one mantra I wanted and her name was Sarah. Detachment was one path home. Selective attachment was another.
After some time, she coughed and my longing rose to the rafters of consciousness. Be still, my surging heart. I opened my eyes, and saw her sitting two rows ahead of me, back-jack reversed, staring deeply into me with her smiling eyes aflame. We looked into each other’s eyes for yet another eternity as shards of love-light merged into the perfect mirror in our shared heart. At each stage of in-to-me-see, new universes rose into view, as though birthed into being by our love alone. The next undress rehearsal. How many more until we were truly bare?
I felt my soul yearning to merge with her, stretching at the seams. The yearning first took root in my heart—a heart-on of momentous dimensions—and then spilled over to my genitals. Soon enough, my desire flooded me and demanded expression. It wasn’t enough to heart-gaze with my beloved. I had to merge with this Goddass, or risk internal dam-nation. Block it, or express it. It was time to express it. Without any effort at containment, I hurtled over the back-jacks and pounced on top of her. In a soulbeat, we were undressed and writhing madly on the temple floor. The Buddha was aghast, as we attached, desired and clung our way to God. The rain intensified, and flashes of well-timed lightning lit up the temple—her temple, too. It was all a temple now.
I surrendered to a sexuality that was different than anything before.
Suddenly my genitals were a pipeline to divinity, my whole body a conduit to the cosmos. My usual lovemaking had no place here. Love was the turn-on, at last! There was so much love that I had to cry, moistening our sex with tears of gratitude. Oh the heart, the heart.
As we moved together, we became a divine invocation to the Godself, a prayerful homage to the love-soaked wellspring that sources the all. Had a team of monks stormed in on us, we would surely not have noticed them. Tonight, lovemaking was the loom that wove our spirits into one. With every rhythmic thrust, we smashed through the veneer between our hearts and the universal heart. We moved together until there was no felt distinction between our bodies. Her pleasure was my pleasure, my arms hers, her breasts mine. We became one unified body-being, crossing the gender bridge with every breath. I was touching she who was me who was God. This was our body.
At some point, I felt a need to speak the love poem that was us, but my mouth was busily lost in hers. The writer within made his way down to my root chakra and I began to write my love inside her, dipping my pen-is in her liquid well of wonder, inking heartspeak all over her inner walls… Beloved, Grateful, IU. I felt my hips take to the task, a true poetry in motion, spelling out this love with perfect penmanship. She received my poem with a heaving hunger, her love walls tightening their grasp, then loosening at just the right moments, as though our love sonnet had been pre-choreographed by the divine. This was the highest form of expression—God’s cosmic heart graffiti. I wrote one love poem after another inside her, until I had nothing left to say. After a wondrous orgasm, we fell deep asleep on the temple floor.
Afterwards we lay startled, awe-struck. We could only say “perfect,” because it truly was. Holding Sarah’s hand was like holding God in the palm of my hand. It was wordless, but it said everything perfectly. Even if we wanted to move, where would we go? We were already everywhere. It was as true a thing as I could ever imagine. One person will come to divinity while sitting alone in a temple. Another will find it in the arms of his beloved, lying side by side, hand in hand, in a little cabin in the woods. Grateful and Gracious—in the arms of God.