Gently Giant

He's what others would call a giant of a man; a gentle giant.

Tall and strong, his bone structure rivals any man-made structure of iron and steel. His face handsomely chiseled with high, wide cheekbones, his light brown hair flows to his shoulders when he unbraids it.

He's 6'7"; walks as if he's tethered to the ground with roots coming out of the bottoms of his feet, and yet there's something pulling him up to the heavens...the Earth-Sky connection that many Earth-Centered people are born with. He embraced his heritage later in life, so he's just now experiencing this life walking the Path, walking tall, in honor, between sky and ground.

The physical man I see doesn't begin to tell of the expansiveness and sweetness of the heart he carries deep inside.
There's a poet-in-residence in there coloring his every thought and word.

I don't know if he speaks with his head, his heart, or his never-quenching desires for hedonistic pleasures, or the yearning for a woman's gentle touch and how he loves to pleasure her in return.

I do know that he speaks Truth, as he feels it, and says the things that no one dares to say anymore about love and loving. He's not afraid to "wear his heart on his sleeve" and gets kidded about it at times. But he doesn't take harsh words to his heart.

He has no guile. Guileless. What he thinks, he says; and what he says, he means. Nobody does that anymore, or rarely. It's scary that he's so real. That he's so true.

He likes touching the outside of me, watching my eyes close and my breathing become deeper in reaction to his big hand stroking my skin ever so gently, as if he were moving a hawk feather lightly across my skin...yet he sees into "me" as well; that lost, sometimes-insecure woman who is curled up in a protective fetal position hiding from emotions running rampant, careful not to project my needs, or to tie any "strings" to anyone.

I can see the light of care in his eyes...in his big, gentle eyes that see deep into my soul, making me tremble and try to pull away. He pulls me back. I can't meet his eyes. Or, I won't. Not for more than a few seconds before lowering my lashes. Not lying in his arms after we've made quiet love. Not lying there, my emotions exposed, and facing him.

He doesn't turn away, yet keeps his look focused on me, whether my eyes are open or shut tight against his gentle, ever questioning gaze. I steady my breathing, but I know he's still searching my face for something he wants to see, but I can't give to him. Like warm sunshine I can feel the intensity of his gaze against my eyelids. "What? What are you looking at? I'm not anything special," I want to shout to him. But he makes me feel like I am...special, and worthy of love.

Without my permission he somehow manages to get in there, inside, touching me, past the walls I've erected to keep real emotion out, past my hard, crusty armor of my "control issues". And he pushes his way through all my blustering that "I don't need a white knight" in my life. Somehow he knows that I'm lying, trying to fool everyone and myself, and really do want to be carried off, and away from everything that is my life right now.

And he lays his heart's truths upon me, as soothing as the balsam of Mecca, the Balm of Gilead, and he slowly and surely heals a part of me.

I just know that he's someone who I'm lucky to have known...once upon a time.
For Brother Hawk. Aho.

February 22, 2008