Beauty is not the only attractor

The night ends. The hundred candles are a mere resemblance of what they were six hours ago. I still recall the warm invigorating scent. I still see the shadows dancing on walls that extended 20 feet into the sky. The inner courtyards exposed a veil of stars and a faint light shone from the watching moon. The evening, perfect. The setting, unreal. 16th century, Moorish palette, an ambience, a perfect canvas.

We sit 18 feet under beamed ceilings and our feet kiss Italian tiles. The shadows cast from the archways obscure a grotto so inviting, magical, that I consider a short hiatus from the dinner. The secrets behind each passage and open area intrigue me, their provided breezes sustain me. She used the crystal and the silver, I learn as I shamefully place the silver in the washer.

I see him watching me from the corner of my eye. I am the “flame” this evening. He the moth. Our conversations are disparate, yet he continues to listen. He has only been here two days, but he feels “home.” I overhear him lean in and tell the host.

I walk. And he follows. I lean and the blue Italian tiles of the counter caress the small of my back. I smile. And he tells me I am a closed-book. We return to the table, now cleared, all of our glasses remain flickering in the light. We lean in over no less than twenty candles between us. Their light illuminates our expressions, our engaged eyes and connection. He continues, “a listener, an observer.” I accept these words, his sentiments a compliment. My mind travels and questions my storytelling moments. Earlier I stood hands up, “don’t shoot”—the table in tears. This is going in my book he said.

My mind returns pensive to our conversation. The others go outside gifting us with solitude, urging an intimacy or sensing a connection, I presume. Awareness in my acquaintances. A trait, I much admire. He recants my earlier words, the look in my eyes, he smiles and his eyes now ignite as he assigns an exact number to my mention of the word “balance.” My words are all noted. They were too by the others. A thesaurus, I am not. But this evening, my words captured.

I get up to use the restroom, the inviting grotto smiles in its darkness. I glance at my phone. 2am has approached too easily. Empty bottles placed in a perfect line. Our responses to each scrawled in pencil on the labels by the hostess. I don’t revive the intimacy. I don’t return to him and our table. It is time to leave. My colleague and I say goodbye. Light and empty promises of everyone seeing each other this coming evening.

The hostess lets us out the 20 foot wooden door. We leave and walk up the cobblestone street. The camera clicks. Moments captured on her wide format lens. Blurred images in the quiet street. Without flash. Simply outlines. Memories.

My colleague asks if I know who he is. He informs me.

He is here taking a break from his life of power . . . attaining balance.

History Repeats

Written December 19th flying back to New York:

This is where I was a year ago. I know what happens next, because I have been here before. The difference is only that this time, I am only uneasy, not scared.

When history repeats itself, there is a common source. “The teacher comes when the student is ready to learn.” While, I may have always known the truth, this is the first time I am letting it in. This is the first time, I can entertain the truth, unbury it from the confines of my being. Despite this, I still don’t feel ready. My nerves heightened. My personality’s edge sharpened. An easy route is tempting, but the recurrence of events, cements that this truth, this conflict, is me. Not an egotistical boss or an inequitable situation.

I mention that my world may be changing to those close few. I refrain from saying, “It’s just like last year. “ It’s impossible to not feel as though I failed. I check my integrity. I check the truth. I scan my ethic. I dissect my focus. I review my hours.

I am good at what I do, but I still miss the mark. JR. The name, eh. A silly third party borker who dramatizes my faults, an act beyond highlighting. While his statements are an exaggeration, I suppose exaggerations are disproportionate truths. Even a lie, must have a conception. That seedling further validated by my ongoing review of my procrastination. . . .

And so it is. I know, this isn’t what I am supposed to be doing, this isn’t my passion, my career destination. At 25, err 26 in 27 hours, I have gotten so many things right, learned so much. I have adapted.

I review my last year’s resolutions, the majority of them, now true. Balance. Travel. My salary. My goals then are now the reality in which I live. If we all have a journey, a life that is aligned with who we are, I consistently get much closer. I know I am aware of the secret behind this elusive thing called legacy or passion.

Every event in my life has been a lesson that has lead me closer to such. Always a gift. Redirecting my path were it not the right one. Jim. Robbie. P. My disease. And the many lessons that have taught my empathy. I smile now for life provided me with my own equivalents for everything I couldn’t relate to:

My belief that my mother was weak, naïve.
My intolerance for drugs., alcohol.
My narrow world of ambition.

Life upset that of which I held true.

I now am intimate with loyalty, addiction, and distraction.

This flight is the first time which I have internally vocalized that there is a disparity between my career and my identity. I hate the typed words. Erase? Breathe. It is December 19th and I know something is going to change.

I feel different.

I drove home. The words in my mind sprinting, poetic. If only I could regurgitate them precisely here.

I feel full. Satisfied. Leaving Starbucks with a completion, satiated not only from my sugar-free, non-fat, extra foam latte, but deep within. I want to go home and run to my dog, kiss him, hug him. I love my dog, always, but I never display an extreme outpouring of affection upon walking in the door. Perhaps much like my father who would tune out to the TV at the end of the day, nothing left to give, depleted.

I have changed. It’s as if a part of me was missing and has been found. I am capable and calm. Knowing that everything is about to change. For the first time in a long time, I am able to work. Focused, motivated. Its amazing, The knowledge of what will come from a directed energy. I know our projects will come through. I know if I only I reach a little deeper, like an athlete running a race. The ability to dig deep, find an untapped energy is what sets records. Just working is not enough. Or rather, working, truly working, is the secret. I feel as if I hold the key. As if some internal conflict resulted in a daily war- distraction, procrastination, employee, not rainmaker.

Now the longer hours invigorate me. A second wind. The knowledge that if I take the helm, the ship will sail. I also know that I am failing miserably at writing my mind’s earlier sentiments-so perfect they were.

I try and remember what my mind was thinking. I was thinking of Yammy. A true friend, and I wonder if a woman, a true friendship is what was missing. And I think of “The Secret Law of Attraction” by Talane Miedaner. A book I started lightly reading. I stopped. Planned to revisit. Am yet to do so, however I did steal this concept—how we are limited and controlled by our unfulfilled needs.

As I write this, I am so content. I am sure I have felt this unstoppable before. However, I remind myself, “with every high comes a low.” Perusing my memories, my past highs were not so calm, they were full of giddiness, a “pinch me-I must be dreaming” feeling. I wonder if I have ever truly felt this . . full. Ironically, my life at the moment would suggest the opposite. Owed two paychecks. Spending ability of only the cash in my wallet (less than $40), bills unpaid, my mother, no love interests  . . .

Which reminds me this entry was supposed to be my list- but as I drove home I started listing in my mind, those items that I desire. Thinking about the law of attraction and the power of actually receiving that of which you ask for. Oddly, I questioned if this Mr. Right is what I want now. I thought so. I craved an intimacy, needed it. Perhaps, this was my unfulfilled need dictating my life. Maybe Yammy and Rediscoveringme provided satiety.

The corners of my mouth upturn, a smile forms. For some reason, I have a feeling that now that I just want, don’t need intimacy from a partner, that’s exactly what I am about to find.