Annie.

I see her gazing at me. Her heart feels heavy yet her eyes always carry that beautiful light emanating from her core.

Genuine and well intentioned.

Annie with the sincere heart and cinnamon spiced cocoa skin.

A reflection of hushed embers, an amalgamation of earth and heat.

I’ve always thought we look good together, her pop of color to highlight my cloudless night sky. Or maybe it’s the other way around, and I’m actually the complementary one. I like experiencing that type of confusion. The inability to pinpoint what exactly makes the pairing meld so well, like the secret ingredient that makes your mother’s sweet potato pie taste better than anyone else’s.

Softly, Annie closes her eyelids, inhaling deeply. I count silently.

One, two, three, four.

Pause, she holds her breath.

Four, three, two, one.

The air leaves her nostrils with a slow exhale that in six counts relaxes her jaw, neck, and tight trapezius muscles. Her breath, an innate healer, alleviates the physical and emotional manifestations of energetic tension, guiding her shoulders away from her ears; granting what most people so desperately want but are too afraid to allow,

full permission to release.

She breathes in this 4:4:6 pattern often. A self-care practice implemented to center herself in preparation for vulnerability. Annie places her palm on my sable skin.

It feels present, yet undemanding. Never clawing for attention.

An effortless belonging, our touch smooth and knowing.

Connected and unconditional.

I trust her as her fingers caress the length of my black strap, carefully slipping underneath its surface. Lightly tugging, a flirtation with its buoyancy, Annie slides the strap from my body with intentional care. She’s an intuitive lover, possessing witchy fingertips, allowing their erotic magic to flow. Her inner magician instinctively feeling exactly where in the body desire craves acknowledgement.

Although our bond is strong, Annie is not attached to me.

She ebbs and she flows.

Although she is both sweet and kind, these words are no more synonymous to codependency than the words stable and reliable equate to doormat or boring. I guess the right kind of people understand this.

Love feels good this way.

Liberating and accepting, we enjoy our differences.

I love her adventures and storytelling. She loves that I am attentive, that I listen well.

With strap removed, Annie carries me onto the bed, a place of comfort. She gently lays me down on her soft, pastel peach sheets, languidly rolling onto her side and propping on one elbow. The tips of her golden dipped locs dangle at her clavicle, showcasing an ornate neckline comparable to that of a Hindu temple goddess. Annie tenderly voices how grateful she is to experience my natural gift of emotional security. A quality, she says, not many possess, and fewer still, exercise without manipulation.

“You accept my inherent wild woman, you are a witness to Her infinite becoming,” she whispers. A soulful reverberation that I imagine scales each of her vocal cords, the jazz notes of a sultry xylophone.

We open to each other, beginning where we left off, yet always leaving a blank page for something new. I harness my strength of attention and hold space for Annie’s heart as she wields her pen and begins to speak freely in her preferred language.

The language of written tongue.

“Molé," my given nickname in reverence to one of her favorite Mexican dishes, “I received notice today from the coordinator of the florist contest I entered, called Brighten Your World. They love the pictures of the bouquet I submitted. You know, the one I told you about with the deep magenta snapdragons, white anemones and yellow ranunculus?”

Annie’s bouquets are subjected to a very unique selection process. She isn’t satisfied with the final arrangement until its beauty swells so greatly inside her heart that it makes her giddy, like a squealing school girl. A mute, but squirrely shrill that travels from her heart, to her throat, to her ears, creating an indefinable energy that expands and contracts so quickly, that she imagines her ears must appear to be moving forward and backward like wings. In these moments, with humor, she proclaims that her Dumbo angel wings are flapping, a quirky final approval of her floral combination.

“The judges commented that the bouquet made them feel grounded, abundant, and happy. They would like to see more of that energy reinforced in our community, as a reminder of the positive traits its residents already possess. Molé, they want to sponsor me. I’ve won $20,000 to help with the startup costs for my own florist boutique”.

I felt the enthusiasm and excitement as she confided in me, but like everything, there was an inevitable yin to her yang.

An onset of anxiety. An onset of doubt.

A revelation of her shadow, growing tall and luminous.

“I’m scared, Molé,” her dark eyes began to mist. “And I’m ashamed of it. I don’t know if I’m ready. No one in my family has ever maintained a business.”

As tears streamed down her ember cheeks, Annie speaks to me of the lack of generational wealth that persists in her bloodline. She faces the uncomfortable truth that the members of her family don’t understand the nature of money nor the fundamentals of a wealth mindset. What they do know, and what they have passed down through generations, is how to survive. Survival is necessary, but it is also an ugly beast, a growling demon that ruthlessly controls its possessed, keeping them securely bound by limitations, shame and feelings of unworthiness. Prolonged survival wears the prideful stamp of ’The Struggle Is Good Enough’, but rarely explores beyond that struggle. To want more, sadly, creates resentment.

An accusation of ungratefulness and egotism.

“What if I mess this whole thing up?" she tearfully questions. “I’m terrified that I will misuse the resources they are awarding me. From my skin, to my muscle, to my bone, I know I’m meant for something greater. But what if this is an illusion? My own grandiose fantasy? There is probably someone more qualified and better at this. Someone more deserving. They are probably questioning why I’ve been chosen. People who look like me aren’t always taken seriously in business. Mostly, we are perceived as second best."

Annie puts her pen down. Overwhelmed by her racing thoughts, she buries her head in the pastel peach sheets, darkening them with each defeated sob. She cries the weighted tears of someone tasked with breaking free from ancestral trauma. The weighted tears of someone on the precipice of fully stepping onto their path. The heart-wrenching cries of a hero on Her journey, experiencing a lapse in faith.

I remain silent. I give her time, allowing her to fully express. As much as I desire to intervene, to make it all better, I must honor my purpose. As her confidante, my purpose is to support her, not to heal her. Only she has the capability to do that. She will realize that through her words she is learning her weaknesses, a valuable asset on the path of ascension, and a companion as she discovers more of her own strength. I bare witness as a loving canvas. A space to write upon as she becomes the scribe of her own destiny. As she pursues what shines in her sincere heart, she will know how deserving she already is.

This is the work required for growth.

This is the work required for healing.

As Annie quiets, she lays on her back and sucks in a large gust of air, a tornado to shake up the remaining despair, and dispel its contents as she forcibly pushes the wind from her lungs.

Annie reaches for her trusted black moleskin notebook, closing its front cover and remounting its black strap. She hugs it to her chest with gratitude, and with a sigh she utters, “Thank you, Molé. I needed that."