Nameless Kindred Spirit

"I wonder by my troth, what thou and I

Did, til we loved? Were we not weaned til then,

But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?...

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears 

And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;

Where can we find two better hemispheres,

Without sharp North, without declining West...

If our two loves be one, or thou and I

Love so alike that none do slacken, none can die."

Nameless Kindred Spirit and I went to the woods one warm autumn day and made a nest among the leaves. In our pack we took an old blue blanket, a bottle of red wine, two small, plain glasses, water and various things to eat. After walking for a little while, we found it - our earth-bed, a small sunken space barely big enough for two. Tucked between large trees and nicely sequestered from any intruders. Here we opened our pack, spread the blue blanket, uncorked the wine, sipped and nested among the dried leaves and ripe, pungent soil. We lay for a long time looking up at the sky and trees and I said, "imagine that every time a leaf falls it is laughing. How do you suppose each one would sound?" He looked at me quizzically, then at the falling leaves and began to laugh; first in a booming fashion then a shrill or giggle. Each time a different leaf fell he would alter the sound he made. Nameless Kindred Spirit and I lay there laughing at falling leaves for the better part of a lovely, lazy autumn afternoon.

I met him several years ago, this kindred spirit that I prefer to keep nameless. How could I know then that meeting him would bring me to a greater awareness of my self? How could I know that I would find him again after centuries, after a thousand years of searching. Only those who have chanced on a kindred spirit can empathize and understand the depth of love and suffering, encountered and endured. Nameless Kindred Spirit and I are members of the same pack. We belong to the earth, are rooted to it, need it and the connection to it through our dogs. They infuse us with their energy, delight us with their antics, respond to our touch with loving affection. Without them our lives would be empty pots holes of drudgery and chores.

He sent me poetry, this kindred spirit. Poetry from the old school of rhyme and meter; choosing very carefully just the right sentiment to convey his words. He is handsome, rugged and lean yet athletic, with eyes the blueish color of a Robin's egg, blended with aquamarine and a bit of turquoise. His eyes are hard to describe they are so blue. I have lived on the earth amid the forests and woods many times with him. I am certain of this. Ours is a mutual love and respect for nature, for all living things and most especially our dogs. We love to go tramping through the woods with our pack full of goodies; granola bars, oranges, peanut butter and beer or wine. He always brought coffee with sugar and cream for me, black for him. No matter where we went, whether in the city or the woods, when we went tramping around he always had cream and sugar with him for my coffee.  He has that old-fashioned sensibility about him. Once he sent me an email that read "lunch along the lake sounds lovely to me. I shall bring food. And I shall bring sweet kisses (at least 2 or 3). And my sense of humor. And I shall drink in the sweet smiles of my brown-eyed girl. -- the lad who cavorts with coyotes." He liked to end his emails with "Lone-wolf or Lobo." In Women Who Run With The Wolves, Estes recounts a story about a women and her down-under-the-earth lover and their reunion. He was, and is, mine.

I had many lovely poetic emails from him and was sick at heart when I lost them. That's the rotten thing about email and computers, if you don't archive them, they are lost forever; unlike paper which one can tuck away in a box or drawer, a secret place to return to now and again.

We had wonderful talks, he and I about astronomy, baseball, literature, politics, art, music, nature and dogs. We often read together on our picnics and nature walks. He would pull out Deepings, Uther and Igraine and read a passage to me. At other times it might be Hardy or Binyon, "When the thronged world round my spirit hums/ and soils my purer sense, and dims my eyes,/ so grateful to my heart the evening comes/ unburdening its still rain of memories..." We would walk, talking about our respective projects, engrossed in conversation until some natural phenomenon caught our attention. Whether it was shelf fungus, a green-backed beetle, spider web or the blossoms of a pink crepe myrtle - we would pause and revel in its beauty. Many times we talked about the local wildlife; eagles, hawks, blue heron and geese, exchanging stories and encounters that had taken place in between our times together.

I would go on very long walks with Willa and Henry, making mental notes of my feelings and experiences over what I thought or saw in the woods saving my stories for when we were together. Excited to see him again after days apart, I would recount how I saw Venus lying close to the moon on a cool, dark October morning, or how I could see the blueness of Jupiter and yellow Saturn from my back yard. Or the indescribable beauty of the Canada geese flying in v-formation over my house on a red November evening.

We tramped to and about many incredible places he and I. Once on a misty July morning I woke at 5:30 so we could hike five miles to the top of Arthur's seat. I had stretched a ligament in my knee and was in a bit of pain, but didn't want to miss the opportunity to see Edinburgh from this viewpoint. It was a steep incline and we were in a hurry so we decided to climb straight up as opposed to taking the longer, safe trail. A fine, steady rain was falling creating muddy slicks between chunks of granite. In between the rocks delicate, white flowers were blooming and I could see little berries, ripe and ready for picking. I had to be careful with my footing so as not to slip or I really would have been in bad shape. He never wears hiking boots, preferring instead to wear regular tennis shoes. I marveled at how quickly he could climb. We arrived at the top nearly forty-five minutes later to find three drunken Scots boys and their empty cans of Budweiser beer strewn about. Appropriate I suppose, seeing as it was the Fourth of July back home.

Another time we drove through the tangled Welsh brush on winding, unmapped roads just so I could take a dip in the Red Wharf Bay. The tide was out when we arrived and people were running up and down the ruddy surface, more mud than sandy beach. He is not much of a swimmer and opted to meander about taking pictures of various things. I however, am as connected to the water as I am to the soil and couldn't wait to take off my clothes and dip in. He said he was certain I was once a Selkie! I ran fast and hard, diving straight in and felt a tremendous shock. The water in the Red Wharf Bay is very briny and really cold even in mid-summer, but that doesn't keep the native Welsh from enjoying a dip and it didn't keep me from one either. Afterward we found a restaurant with a nice view of the bay and relished in our pints of ale and steak and kidney pie.

I tease what I call his "pedestrian palate." His love of pork pies, bad mexican food, cheap wine, chips, candy bars and other junk stuff. His favorite meal is a BLT sandwich on white bread or home-made tacos, seasoned with chili powder and ketchup. He does have a fine sensibility when it comes to good scotch, music and rare books; sparing no expense for any of these items. He has given me lovely presents, introduced me to new and unique musicians and restocked my scotch supply when it is low. We daydream at times about a cottage in the woods or along the Cornish coast with our dogs, kayaks, books and good scotch. He has shown me amazing sights thus far, whether wandering over a farmer's field to inspect a possible cairn mound or neolithic burial sight, to castle ruins and long lost medieval churches. We have traipsed through cemeteries and graveyards inspecting ancient celtic crosses and centuries-old gargoyles and even the ruins of Tintagel Castle in Cornwall.

Falling in love with him was the death of me. Before I could ever come to an awareness of myself, I first had to die. Nameless Kindred Spirit and I became separated by the move. I had to make a choice whether to stay in my idle with him; the woods, the life I had made for myself or move to place where I could support and define myself and live on my terms. And not wait any longer. Doing so was the death of me for a very long time.