Thousand Petals Project

Judah is playing the guitar masterfully and sweetly in Room 5. He is God when he plays. I’m quiet and at peace, and I hold back from disturbing him, even though I want to sing those familiar songs and be one with him. But the time for drawing together is over. The tide is going out, and we can all feel the gentle gravitational shift.

I’ll probably forget to write a little note of gratitude to him; the ‘mila tova’, or good word box, will be emptied one last time before we leave. One of these large-hearted kids put up an old ice-cream box in the main foyer, and we’re supposed to just write kind, random notes to people and put them in the box. Every Friday night after our communal dinner, the slips of paper in the box are read aloud in Hebrew by the youngest child, Noam, and then translated into English by his Dad.

It’s hard for me to put my special appreciation for each of these delightful souls into words that cannot be misconstrued as sexual harassment, so I don’t participate in ‘mila tova’ as often as I’d like. It was so nice to get one, though! I got a few for teaching yoga in the beginning, before I started seeing the Mormon almost every day.

He scratches my itch, and I’m trying not to fall into addictive patterns with him. I know I’m supposed to give him space to miss me so he’d want more sex. And little is more satisfying to me than the warm spread of his ejaculate.

I’m trying. I fill my free time with yoga and cooking and meditation and writing. I’m working on re-mastering a yoga pose that I’d only been able to stick one or two times before my shoulder injury in 2012. It’s a tricky Vasisthasana variation: a side plank with the bottom leg being extended overhead by the top arm. I’m getting close! My right collarbone keeps reminding me that it’s no longer attached at the arm end, jostling around the meat at the top of my shoulder like a Chinese tourist. If I can just work past that discomfort, I’ll be back to where I was before the word ‘divorce’ ever crossed my lips.

I’ve told the Mormon that I’m not into commitment now, and he seems to understand that I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with one person. He’s told me that men need women, and I can’t argue with that. I’ve seen firsthand how a man can flourish, given kindness and devotion. I don’t think my ex-husband wouldn’t have been wealthy without me. It always seems to go one way with my relationships, though. I invest my heart easily and thoroughly each time. My goal is His happiness, and I forget my Self. Every time.

Of course a guy would want this sort of relationship. Forever, or at least until I grow difficult. I don’t see how I can flourish like this, though. I’m a better artist when I’m alone because I’m closer to the one-ness of God. I’m happy and at peace. I really enjoy who I am. Who God is. Men get in the way of that union, and that deprives my soul of its sustenance. And then the art shrivels up to nothing. I’m trying to change the dynamic so I can be in charge of where my heart spends its time. I need to be truly my Self while still getting laid on the regular.

Everyone’s talking about Level 2, making plans to travel hard-core as soon as they can bust out of the lodge. We won’t know the verdict for another few days. I’m the only one enjoying my current adventure, and I don’t want it to end. This steady influx of passion, kindness, and optimism (and, more likely, youthful testosterone) has given me new life. This may be the happiest I’ve ever been.

I guess the lockdown will have to end eventually. Kiwis are astonishingly healthy and obedient. My English Mormon is a little disobedient, and it’s sexy. He’s hooked on me, and I want to enjoy him more. I trust him to find a way to keep me around for a couple weeks before I have to go back to the intolerable reality of the United States.

It’s fascinating to watch the Mormon allowing me past one barrier at a time. He finally invited me up to his home today!

I’ve been to his town, but he’s always kept his home private. Now I know why. It’s not fancy.

The Mormon lives in a caravan on a small farm as a WWOOFer, so he works in exchange for rent. He told me to come on over today, as though he hadn’t been avoiding my intrusion. I didn’t get much instruction, so I parked next to a caravan that seemed to match his description: ‘a little green box.’ That box proved to be empty, but Rex found me wandering aimlessly and came to my rescue.

I greeted him gratefully, and he was overcome with doggy happiness. His tail whipping, Rex led me deeper towards the belly of the farm. There, a small, colorful circle of caravans huddled together staunchly against the wind that swept through the flat-bottomed valley.

I followed Rex around the outer edge of the circle. Pale, long grass gathered at the edges of each man-made thing that squatted there: caravans, shipping containers, farm equipment, and rickety crates full of something worth saving. The afternoon sun was already low, and the angled light gilded the mustard-yellow caravan ahead of us. I saw the Mormon standing there, loose as a scarecrow and dressed in black. His jacket blew around his hips, and he cradled a rollie in his left hand.

He was talking to someone just inside the caravan. As I softly made my presence known, his friendly gaze shifted from the caravan to Rex to me, and I was welcomed warmly.

“This is my mate, Colin,” the Mormon introduced us, “I call him Farmer Colin. He farms this place, and he’s good.”

Farmer Colin grinned at me from his seat in the doorway of his caravan. He looked weathered and grimy around his edges. He wore many layers of voluminous clothes, a green bandanna warmed his head, and the fat gray hood of his uppermost sweatshirt shaded his eyes. I could see his youth in his large, bright eyes, but the wrinkles around them were the badge of a life lived outdoors in the harsh New Zealand sun. His smile revealed that he thought I was attractive.

It’s in the corners of the mouth, you see, when they expand an extra 2 millimeters out and slightly down from the initial smile. Maybe that microexpression facilitates salivation? I tried it, and there does seem to be an energetic connection all the way down into the second chakra.

Colin wasn’t sure how to proceed under Level 3 lockdown regulations. He extended his hand and then retracted it. He wanted to touch me, but we were used to being in our Level 4 bubbles. It was hard to pop those safe havens.

“Hi.” Colin said, “I don’t know if it’s OK to shake your hand.”

“Yeah, it’s cool, whatever feels right. It’s nice to meet you.”

Colin reached out again, and we shook hands like Covid rebels. It felt naughty somehow, and my desire rose as our hands warmed together. Yeah, I liked Farmer Colin with his large eyes and his strong hands. I couldn’t see anything else of him but an achingly regal nose; a nose that was carved into monuments and coins, that could have graced an eagle, and that left no doubt as to his divinity.

“Farmer Colin is another kind of farmer, too,” the Mormon said, proudly. “He’s got a little weed farm somewhere out here. Sometimes he takes care of me wit his homegrown. They call it bush here, don’t they, mate?”

Colin laughed and ducked his head modestly.

“Yeah, mate,” A girl’s voice wound its way towards us through the labyrinth of caravans. Her French accent was overridden by an exaggerated Kiwi drawl. When she appeared, she was also swathed in grayish warm things from head to toe. Her youthfulness showed in her unlined face and light step, but she held herself against the unremitting cold in a brittle way.

“Colette!” the Mormon was delighted to have a little group together. This was, in fact, the largest group we’d been permitted to enjoy since lockdown started. Our bubbles were more mobile now, and more likely to collide. Colette was less hesitant to break through the physical barrier of her bubble, and I shook her lovely hand. She settled into the doorway of the caravan, snuggling into Colin as we talked.

I was delighted to meet the Mormon’s mates. I liked them, and I liked their way of life. Could I live this way?

They did notice when the Mormon talked about nothing in his goofy way. They kindly steered the conversation back to normal when the Mormon spoke at length about Rex’s stinky farts. I was glad to see that I wasn’t alone in my misunderstanding of the Mormon. He’s on a different wavelength.

He’s odd, but so am I. He reminds me of my father… he’s somewhere on the autism spectrum. He believes in his faith as strongly as my father believes in his. I’m not sure whether or not the Mormon’s faith aligns with the book of Mormon, but he seems to fall back on it when asked.

He has a particular view of the world, and if I know my Dad, it will be almost impossible to get the Mormon to budge from whatever preconceptions he might have. I’d have to learn his rigid framework, and work with it. If he’s open enough, and I can be free enough, we might be able to live together.

I’ve learned to work with my Dad. His inane conversations drive me to a special sort of painful frustration as well, but I’ve learned to place boundaries on our time together. I’ve learned to set myself up for success. I do want to spend time with my father, because I love him. And because he loves me, he allows me to choose when and where we meet. It breaks my heart that my father knows that I can’t handle his energy.

Maybe, upside down in the southern hemisphere, I can resolve this dissonance between heart and mind. Can I shut off my unsatisfied mind and just let my heart expand unhindered?

I can do this. For the first time in years, I want to hold on to something. Not the Mormon in particular, but I do want the sweetness of new love, safe arms to hold me, the peace of a home, and a regular hard fucking. I want a shelf where I can put my stuff.