Cleaving Ceremony (for those who asked)

Once a year, usually in Maine at our lakehouse, but always someplace very private and personal, I join hands with Ahmed and we have a Cleaving Ceremony. It’s an old custom, basically a hand-fasting, but a re-dedication of the love rather than an initiation of it.

A few people have asked about it. We prefer this to anything shared or ostentatious. It’s a private moment, but a poignant one.

The ceremony is nothing more than a prayer between two people  who are committed.  We kneel, say a little prayer of our own in silence, join hands, and recite the words below. People new to the ceremony can place a piece of paper on the floor to read from while they hold hands.

Cleaving Prayer

In the presence of my beloved,
Beneath the eyes of our Creator,
With open hearts and spirits,
Laid broken, bare, and eager--
We split the self asunder
To cleave to one another,
      Two spirits bound, ETERNALLY. 

What Was I Thinking?

What was I thinking?

Later this month I will join Ahmed in addressing other couples at a club to which we belong. We were both VERY flattered to be asked to address the topic of jealousy, fidelity, and keeping a healthy awareness of the line between territorial protectiveness and unhealthy control. We’ve worked hard, as a pair of alpha-centered people in love, to have a good sense of those boundaries. So I was tickled to be considered an authority.

Yesterday I got a follow-up phone call about it. Before I’d finished hanging up the phone my inner fat girl, a pudgy creature with freckles and patchy skin, came roaring out of the cave of my subconscious with a nasty shriek. The little bitch was on something—probably cane sugar—and would not be silenced.

WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?

Oh. Dear. Gawd.

I have to stand in front of 35-or-so adult couples, NEXT TO AHMED, and come across as a convincing mate? He’s beautiful! He has that voice! Women follow him around and giggle nervously! MEN follow him around and giggle nervously! What am I going to do?

My inner fat girl has me in a complete wig-out. I’ve made an appointment to get a hair cut 5 days before the event, so it has time to settle. I’m buying new makeup. I need clothes—really flattering clothes. Flats, so I don’t fall down and humiliate him. What on earth was I thinking?

Then, this morning, I talked to him. For about three seconds I was acting like a complete dork, almost nervous, with the love of my life on the other end of the phone. The angels who sent him to me intervened… and whispered in his ear, as always, with a heads-up.

“Who is making you crazy?” He was more crackly than usual, en route to the airport in Kurdistan.

“What do you mean?” Did I sound nervous?

“You sound nervous.”

Ok, yeah, I sounded nervous. “I’m worried, you’re traveling. You know how I get.”

“I do know precisely how you get. I know you, and somebody is making you crazy. What’s wrong? Don’t make me get on a plane worrying about you.”

So I told him. Dismissively. Trying to make a joke out of my concern. He wasn’t fooled for a second.

“At least once a week someone tells me how gorgeous your eyes are. Stop being a dozy shit.” He laughed. “I can’t stay on, but I’ll be there Sunday. I’m happy to remind you of how much you belong with me and why other people want to know our secrets.”

I can’t share the rest of what he said on a blog without burning pixels out of your monitor.

What was I thinking*? :)

*I’m still totally buying new clothes and makeup, though.