About that village

I think it's good, important even, for parents to have friends and/or family of all genders. These can be friends, other partners, biological family and/or other people. I mean people who you have a logical family connection with.

Just 28 years ago today, it was the other women in my life who were there for my sons and I, after the car accident that killed Cindy and hospitalized two of the three children she and I had. I had one male friend who was a notable exception, his name was Don. My other male friends either were clueless, or perhaps horrified that they too could suddenly be in a position of raising their children in the event of the sudden death of their mother.

My own mother had died about five years before and Cindy's mother was only good at criticising. It was the other women in my life, that group of people, many of whom some thought it was inappropriate for a married person to have; they were my village. They worked hand-in-hand with my sister and my niece in helping do what had to be done when we had to make funeral arrangements while two children are in the hospital.

That I think is one of the strongest arguments for poly. It creates bonds. Your polycule can become your village. It's not about sex. It's about connection and commitment. You can do it with dear friends too. But, it needs to be done. Especially when there's kids involved.

I know what you’re thinking...

When someone says to me, “I know what you’re thinking” I think of a number between 1 and 1000. I then reply, “I am thinking of a number between 1 and 1000, what is that number?” I find that they do not know what I am thinking, even if they think they do. And, why would anybody want to?

Mister Sam...

We were there, ruminating the difficulties of our relationships, my marriage and her triad. "Poly sucks," I said. She agreed.

"I wish I could be straight, be genuinely monogamous," I said.

There was silence. Then, She touched the side of my face. She looked at me, her lovely blue eyes. "Mister Sam," she said. (I love it so much when she calls me that.) "Mister Sam," she said again. "Nobody can make you straight. Nobody, not even me." Then gently she kissed me.

And, everything was okay.

Rescue

I wish I could rescue all the people I love.

I can't though, not even her.

My heart bleeds because I love them so.

But, I cannot save them.

I cannot save her.

Only they can do that.

Only she can do that.

I love them so.

I love her so.

It's not what they need.

She has to love herself.

Two Rings

I wear two rings for a reason. The ring on my left hand is for my family, my wife and children. It has five stones, two sapphires for she and I and three diamonds for my children. The ring on my right hand, my dominant hand, is for me. It’s become a reminder that I am my own primary partner. I got it in Galway. It serves as a reminder of my Celtic heritage. It has a heart on it to remind me that I have the power and the right to love who and how I love and that love is really why we are here. It has two hands coming together holding that heart, my heart. I hold my own heart in my own hands. I own my heart and I own my power.

Rage as passion

I remember when I was a child, an abused child in the 1960s, hearing about brutality, rage and even homicide against family members being called "crimes of passion." My father was so "passionate" that my older brother, to this day, describes his favorite memories of our father as being when dad was gone.

I think for some people rage becomes so twisted with passion that it becomes the same thing for them. Rage becomes passion. Rage becomes their orgasm. For people raised with that, it becomes normal. It becomes home.

My beloved ghosts

When we fall in love with someone and they depart from our lives, we still love them. At least, I do. But, it changes. If the separation is through death or irreversible estrangement and they are gone in a final way, especially. All beings change over time. They change as we change. They change as our memories change. They change as our perspectives change. We love that part of our departed loved ones that's remained in us. We love the spirit of them that fused with our own spirit. Knowing that everything changes, if my own departed loved ones were to reappear in my life, would they be recognizable? When I look on my own beloved ghosts. It's like the part of them in me has become separate entities, still separate from me but separate from my actual loved ones too. My beloved ghosts are neither me nor my departed loved ones. My beloved ghosts that come to me now, and then again, and again, are my own and their own. I cherish them just as they are. I cherish them just as they have become.