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Something happened along the way, and we started to feel like finding pleasure in the secular things in life meant we were disconnected from the sacred. It turned into a problem of wanting-ness that meant we must settle for less. Like we couldn’t want the tangible; as if to hold in our hands & hearts those things we wished for-or to allow all the many pieces of ourselves that want to make manifest, would ignite a small fire in our palms and dissolve them into dust. Maybe it’s the fear of what we’d do if we ever did get the very things we want that disconnects us from our desire.

We started to think that to want things would only make us weary, and we forgot that the wanting is what dreams are made of.

I want sunlight, the 4pm kind that casts soft shadows of green leaves against pale stones as the breeze blows curious in the space between early afternoon and the edge of dusk. I want rain showers with bare feet sinking into muddy earth, the kind of sigh worthy surrender as the body is allowed to release all it didn’t know it had. I want pink terracotta roofs and long skirts flowing around bare ankles. I want mala beads like milestones, accompanied by the dangling grace of a silver cross draped around a rear-view mirror, reminding us of how far we’ve come.

I want wide open desert skies and flocks of birds lifting together on overcast days into the cloud covered air above. I want to sit together underneath an expanse of night breathed open by the radiance of a September moon.

I want the smell of dirt under my fingernails from a river bed’s agreeable earth. I want bike rides on sweaty summer days with the taste of sunblock on my lips and a warmth on my forearms that reminds me of what it’s like to feel humble. I want a crystal blue pacific ocean, salt on skin anointing a liquid baptismal rebirth and when I emerge, I rediscover the cool red polish on my toes and my hair is dripping wet, and weightless.

I want white tee shirts, red lipstick, and skinny blue denim jeans with holes in the knees, just wide enough to feel the wind on my Spring skin, and to receive your kiss. I want bare feet on wooden floor boards in a room with antique purple roses resting in a quiet glass vase.

I want your eyes to meet my slightly uneven bottom teeth and accept my imperfection.

I want our music to feel like home, our movement the lyrics and our time to lay and rest together the reprise. I want bluebirds and mocking-jays to tell us when it’s time to wake up, while I write and you read and eternity exists in every small moment of our time together.

And when we’re apart and get scared or lonely, we’ll look out to the expanse of night sky where white stars shine above oceans of felt meaning, and our hearts will inflate like the wise who know the depth of connection, and the luminous capacity for love.