Like a mother, you’re a creator. Of great things! You’re the empress. That most celebrated of goddesses. The one who has the power of every element. Earth, air, water, fire. All combined in one spectacular woman, you make equal use of each. You’re in that ancient story. When all the male gods brag about their separate powers of nature, it is a mysterious woman who points out, to each of them, the source of their own being. To not get too cocky about the whole thing! Because that source can wipe it out of them in an instant. And, while she is talking about the Transcendent Itself, by God, she is the one who could do it! When looking to cast the role of a queen in a medieval epic, that *face* – that one that sends ships off to war, for that part they turn to you. That power in your self-assured gaze. The divine beauty of you. A spectacular face that can offer so many messages it would have to be broken into milliseconds to observe them all. You mesmerize! There is a literal weakening of the knees, and it’s not just age. You are seen, and it’s followed by a need to sit – wherever it happens to be. An index finger presses the skin above the temple. A silent “wow … ” is mouthed. Classic is the word oft used in referring to your beauty. Classic in that everyone recognizes it in you, and yet, there is only one you. A rather unfortunate reality. Sad as it might be for those who spend nights tossing, the fragrance of spring peonies filling rooms through windows left open, white drapes wafting like ghosts, and the wondering of what magic it would be to catch the moonlight in your eyes. You are simply the most beautiful woman who ever was. It’s really come to that. Of a classic line, yet only one exists of this most cherished model. But your beauty would be wasted with most, anyway. The Mercedes gifted to the boy who can’t maneuver a shift. You instinctively know the ones who recognize true beauty, all that is classic about you, who move and thrill to the soft purr of your engine, and who expertly and effortlessly navigate your curves. When you are soaring at your highest speeds, he breathes his most calmly at this point, deep in a meditation of being one with your road. Entranced by dictates only he can hear, enhanced by summonings only the two can feel. Moved by your silent requests, he feels and acts on each by a deep, deep instinct. And you are driven safely home. Every time. He never feels deserving of the gift, so he acts from his deepest virtues. Every time. The gift never becomes “last year’s gift,” or “oh, that was a gift …” You are always *The Gift*. It is always present tense. With you. You feel it in every thought, word and action. And you do it all with a look, I swear! Because the look is symbolic of so much more. Like that tip of the iceberg they talk about. That tip that represents what is seen. But underneath the water is an iceberg too mammoth to fill even ten thousand pictures. Some barely even notice what lies above, while another dreams of all that lives underneath. The source of that magic that lights your eyes. The source of that being that transfuses his own heart. You may have a child. You might have many. Or whether it’s a wonderful animal that feels your love daily, you are always a woman. You are the empress in her most beautiful form. You have that divine power. You bring life into the world. You bring life into his. You’re the source of anything he creates that is good. You’re the muse. You’re the inspiration. *In spirit.* You are in the spirit of all he does. Just the thought of you. You are divine. You are regal. Even if one is brimming with confidence, the one who sees the divinity in you would bow his head when near you and, if not backing out of your presence, because that might look a little *too* odd, moves a bit sideways with a gentle parting wave, as if to say, “Even if awkward, I would never turn my back on you.” You have the power to make men look like fools, not that we need any assistance with this. And the power to evoke absurd over-the-top acts of us, if only to gain your view, and if only for a moment. Those eyes of yours. They see everything. More than that old oculus sign even saw overlooking Gatsby. Another one with a heart that would give away his life simply for the dream of what lies at the end of the dock, by that green light. Building himself up by any and all means. Attaining whatever it takes to make an easier way in the world of the material, to create the softest landing, and by God he does it. And it all comes with a certain amount of ease! Because you’re creating it through him. In every thought and word and action, no matter how trivial or with whom, you are the at the impetus of each. In-spirit. You are the answer to “What is my motivation?” with *every* scene, every line of dialogue, every beat between speaking. You are creating all the time. And your creations are creating. All in the hope of creating something with you. But who needs one green light, anyway? When there are two blues (or browns or grays, as the case may be) that can give a look and a nod so subtle, you feel it’s for you. Like that look is your own child. You treasure it. He knows every purr of your engine. His ears are tuned to every sound. What separates the expert from the novice. Knowledge. Instinct. For the gradual or sudden gathering – or attenuation – of your signals. When to express. When to retreat. Moving as one with the vehicle. You roll. You carry that heavy cart. Never ashamed. That’s not you. You embrace it. You make it cool. Others follow your lead. Tomorrow there will be carts everywhere! All about, through city streets, over cobblestones, up elevators. Up a seventy-story skyscraper’s stairwell to the tippity top if asked! Or if not asked! You never need to ask. Even though you hold the power of all the elements, the picture of struggling over some piece of cobbled stone alone brings out the love of a parent for a child, the love of a child for a parent, the love of a lover for a love, a friend for a friend, all combined. All mixed up. Always feelings mixed up in the best of ways. You splash the color on the walls. You spray the fields with rain. Divine rain. That comes down so hard it bounces three inches off the ground. Overpowering love to celebrate you. Overpowering love to sing you. Overpowering love to carry the one who needs no carrying. Because you carry others without even knowing it. The wish to show you in whatever gestures you are so, so, so deeply appreciated. Somebody always wants to roll your cart. With the proud lilting trot that says, “I’m the cock of the walk! Don’t you know whose cart this belongs to?! It’s *Hers!*” The creator. The empress. The face on the billboard. The cover of the magazine. The queen in that epic movie where ships go off to war. The journalist. The activist. The doctor. The lawyer. The world leader. The brick layer. The server. The tower climber. The teacher. The pacifist. The artist. The lover. The mother. The wonderful one who looks at you with eyes that may or may not ever be meant for you. But, you treasure her. Because she’s the creator. She’s the mother of life. In you. She makes you grow. She lets you shine. She softens the darker days. She eases the harder moments. She births hope into faithless times. She opens your heart to divine things. What was that line of Nietzsche’s? “Religion is a defense against a religious experience.” I get it now! There is no getting trapped in words here. Words in books. That weigh you down. Rocks on your back. So much that all one feels are rules and punishment and oppression and sadness. Lives not fully lived to their potentials. Out of fear. And the judgment and oppression and lack of living is spread to the next person. Where the “Judge Not” is forgotten, but the harder words remain. No! She is the *experience*! The experience of the Divine shining through mankind. There it is! I see it shining. It’s right there!! Right here!! See it?! The *epiphany*! Lightening it Up! That burst that opens up the heart in you. The “A-ha!” moment that smashes opens parts of you to compassion. For her. For others. For everyone. For everything. Not judgment. LOVE! Big, over-the-top, circling-the-moon-and-earth-in-spectacular-figure-eights kind of love! That splashes color onto black and white pages. That blazes a deep opening into wonder. The experience of divinity through divine human form. The rocks falling off your back – as you rise up to assume your own loving power. To give. To admire. To bow. Because she inspires, she awakens, she opens. You. To love. She lifts you oh-so gently off the ground. With a look. That look. Yet again. And something new is borne into the air. Something loving. Into the atmosphere. Every time. … And, that’s big stuff. ❤️