Polyamory Worked for Me One Time . . .

Full Body Moon - Copyright October 2016 - $85  (24x12) Watercolor on gesso wood frame.

Polyamory 

worked for me one time. The Moon,

you, me . . . now you've left.

Whenever I think I've dealt with all the emotions there possibly are to deal with, something comes up. Bidden or not, words come together to express what what I am dreaming, what I am painting.

When I was a young mom I connected with an amazing group of women of all ages who gathered every month on the night of the full moon.  As the night of the full moon drew near, we'd plan time, place, and who would perform a small ritual, who would build the fire.  These gatherings took place in parks, fields, along creek banks and lake shores, in back yards, and once, during a January blizzard, in my family room in front of a gentle fire.

While my partner at the time was first puzzled and concerned about this pagan activity, he grew to appreciate how I grew more confident in myself, my body, my place in the world. He also appreciated and looked forward to my coming home and sharing a bit of the night's rituals with him, opening a passion in both of us.  Sometimes we'd lie in bed after making love, looking at the moon if we could see it, sharing a gratitude for the fullness of our and our children's lives.

The landscape in the painting shows the harsh sensuality of that relationship.  During a particularly difficult patch in our marriage, I came home on a full moon, and we fell seamlessly into this comforting ritual.  I was reminded, just as I'd been the prior month and so many months before, that things were okay in spite of the arguments and tears.

Only this one time, the last time, instead of lying in each other's arms and assuring each other we, and our children, were all right, would always be alright, he said, "let's not talk tonight."  Soon his breath turned to snoring and I made my way to another room to get some sleep.

I awoke in the darkness of pre-dawn to him sitting on the bed I was sleeping in.  He was crying.  I began to apologize, told him I'd come back into our bed.  He just sobbed and said, "no, no, no." Finally, he took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders.  "I need to move out," he whispered. "I have an apartment. I move in December 1st.  Don't tell the kids." Then he stood up and walked back to our bedroom and shut the door.

Yes, a harsh, sensual landscape.  But notice in the painting . . . out of all the harshness of the landscape, cities have popped up.  In the arable patches I sometimes didn't even know were there, new and lucrative ways of being, grew up to express a different way of being.

Apart now for nineteen years, I can't help but wonder how he spends his full moons . . . .