“What are your fantasies?” a message came in last night, and it lullabied me with my waking dreams shortly before the other kind would take over.
I sorted through the collection in my mind, considered each dream, lifting it up against the nightlight; twirled it, until every stone sparkled with light; and I measured each one against my skin like a pair of long, mysterious, gypsy earrings.
I selected a few:
“Being naked on a beach in Greece. Ditto in Barcelona — but with a lover,” I responded.
There are so many places teasing me with their exotic promises. But mostly, I am interested in chasing just another variety of peace. I am not really after a particular slowness of time, but a serenity that comes with knowing that I have finally surrendered.
Surrendered to what?
To stubborn kindness no matter how difficult it may initially be, with a stranger; or with a new lover. To the gentle nature of my motherhood. To the esteem of knowing that I have found, pursued and succeeded in my calling. Or, at least, that I’ve given it all — my best.
Yes! That’s it! That I have given it my all — my very best. And that I have loved, always and selflessly.
Last night, I rummaged for a bit longer, found another dream I hadn’t examined in while, dusted it off with my breath and lifted it above my pillow. Lazily, the teardrops of amethyst-purple captured the light with their prisms, divided it and bounced it back at me. It made me calm, with possibility.
“Sitting around a bonfire with gypsy bards,” I sent off another message to my interviewer. “Then, learning to ride their horses, at sunrise.”
It would be like a magnanimous homecoming, and I swore I could smell the morning dew as I would ride through the fields of another place with its exotic promises, in laughing company of my people.
“What about your sexual fantasies?” the voice on the other end of town cut through the city’s diameter with an instantaneous message.
Oh. I wasn’t even thinking about that. Certainly, there would be love in every one of these adventures. There would have to be! Because I had always loved — and selflessly! And I had assumed that to my interviewer, my vision was just as clear.
Still, I opened another compartment of my dreams’ jewelry box and looked inside. I haven’t rummaged through this one in a while. The precious stones caught the light and sparkled lazily. Which one? Which one?
“Oh, my!” I sent off another message across town. “I don’t even know where to start.”
It used to be a better hobby of mine, in youth. With every new love looking over my shoulder, I would visit this increasing collection of my fantasies, dust them off with my breath and twirl them, above us and in between.
“How about this one?” I would look at my beloved’s face through the polished surface of a giant garnet or a convoluted insides of an amber. His face would illuminate with the colors of passion and hunger.
“Yes! I’d like to try that!” he’d say.
And so: We would.
And it would be so liberating to share a dream, to discover each other through the intimacy of our secret desires. Revealing my fantasies would arouse me with trepidations, especially if their exploration unveiled the braver sides of me. If (or when) my lovers reluctantly reveled their own secrets, I would be open-minded and humbled. And I would honor them, with the same preciousness my lovers had shown me.
Because I had loved, always — and selflessly! And I had always given it my all — my very best!
At the end of every affair, the secret would remain safe with me. I wouldn’t throw it across the room in an argument with the departing. I wouldn’t flaunt it in front of the lovers that followed. Instead, I would lock it up, in a compartment with my own fantasies; and I would unlock them only when missing that old love, or when seeking inspiration, with a new one.
Last night, I stared at the lifted cover and the pile of stones full of stories. But in that pile of stories, I seemed unable to find what I was looking for.
“I think they’ve changed,” I confided in my witness. It surprised me that in a box full of treasures, there was no angle or a cut, no shade, no sparkle, no formerly adored setting that taunted me with a desire to explore it: to lift it up against the nightlight and let it lullaby me to sleep shortly before the other kind of dreams found its way.
“Maybe, I’m not ready yet,” I thought to myself.
But that didn’t sound true at all.
“I think — I have changed,” I confessed to my interviewer.
My witness beheld:
“I think, my only fantasy now — is the goodness of my men.”
The confession echoed with so much truth and self-awareness, I immediately locked down the lid to my secrets. This was something new, something clear — something very precious. Because I have loved, always — and selflessly…
Because I have always given it my all — my very best! — I was finally willing to ask for it, in return. I was ready for my goodness to come back to me, after being reflected through the prisms of my lovers’ decency.
My main fantasy was found in a new desire to be partnered with someone worthy of my goodness — someone good, on his own terms.
Last night, the other kind of dreams would take over shortly. But this time around, there would be no nightmares at all.