Today I was asking God why do certain experiences in romantic relationships keeps working out against me? And an intuition immediately rose up and whispered to me that this is how it must be for me: to go into the dark places of people’s hearts and put turn up the light of love there. And I thought, hmm, well, for that I don’t mind the hurt that oftentimes come with that kind of responsibility; I thought it to be a very worthy Cause…then I said, Okay, okay then; I get it, BUT PLEASE send a life partner soon to walk this road with me!!
I share the above before I share a poem that came to mind this week on a That Guy’s House Life Visioning meeting delivered by Karen Mills-Alston and offered to its authors. That Guy’s House is a publication company, where my book will be published- my first publication, though I have been writing since year dot!
My book, entitled Back to Love, is a testimony of my life journey, my healing, and my coming into fuller Expression & Being.
During this live Life Visioning Event, along with the other authors in attendance, an image arose of me dancing… I love to dance! It was a childhood dream of mines to be a dancer… but life took me off in other ways, where I got to dance – the Dance of Life-in more subtle and mysterious ways…
Anyway, along with the image of a care-free-spirited-young-woman dancing, I remembered a poem a stranger wrote and gave me…
I used to see him… must be 10-15 years ago…on the street: a lost soul using alcohol to self-anaesthetise. A black west Indian man, say in his 60’s. Though dishevelled, I could tell he used to be quite a looker in his time: handsome and slick. I always try to give some time to so-called “strangers” on the streets, who, what seems like, randomly chooses you to converse with…
I used to see him, on and off, over the years; then one day he says to me, I wrote you a poem. And I became a bit shy, like I do when someone pays my attention; when someone makes any kind of compliment…I mean, who was I that this stranger would write a poem for me, especially a stranger addicted and struggling. ..?
I said to him thank you. And he said something like he would like to give it to me some time…seeking permission. And I told him that he should; that I would be honoured to receive that from him…The next time I saw him, he searched around in his pockets eagerly, and gave it to me. I thanked him.
I saw him again after that, on and off, a year or two later, but like I said, that was some time ago. And a month ago, as I do from time to time, I wondered what happened to him…wondering if the alcohol addiction took him out of life’s picture…
His name was Aubrey…
Thank you Aubrey. I remember you! And thank you for the poem that keeps on giving and makes me appreciate the difference I unknowingly made in some moments of your life, where you got to taste, again, how sweet life in essence is! I continue to be happy that in the bitter there was the sweet; there was some momentary comfort & relief for you. And like in your poem, I am myself comforted imagining you plucking roses always with a smile-wherever you are.
If there is a morale to this story it is, people, don’t underestimate the difference (even momentarily) we can make in people’s lives, becoming in our kind actions, the closet thing to God, to love , that person has ever experienced & known- Love’s utter marvellousness!!
Here is Aubrey’s poem he wrote for me, typed out as written; written in that beautiful old school handwriting West Indians/people once wrote in (which I have been unable to recreate here):
Written for someone I’ve been watching for sometime- of whom I know nothing about I’ve given this poem-a title ‘AN ‘JAH’ LENIA’ (A poem written in ‘Art-Form.’ By AUBREY
AN’JAH’LENIA (THE FLOWER CHILD)
I sat alone without a thought:
the wind came nothing it brought!
Is this punishment that I bought?
All the loneliness I did sort.
I sat here, have I surrender?
Is their nothing pleasing I can remember?
O’yes a rose, so sweet so tender.
So beautiful a rose, yet no sender!
The name of the rose, was – AN’JAH’LENIA.
Her smile she kept shy-
Her lovely composure 0′ my!
I think after her but why?
She was lost in my dreams
O’ yes she was a natural Gleam!
Dancing she was or so I felt.
Out of the door with my heart she left-
Roses are lovely the special ones you keep-
She is my rose! my icon! my fete!
anjahlenia, anjahlenia my sweet flower child.
I will be picking roses always with a smile.
anjahlenia, anjahlenia, my sweet, flower child,
there’s no invention in north london, that shine.
For you’re an icon, perfection in time!
Peace & Love,