We forgot to touch each other's wrists, I told Q this morning. Damn. I had insisted that we follow one of my magazines' instructions for soul intimacy, and had somehow forgotten the part about the wrists. You're supposed to touch each other's wrists for awhile, and then you place your middle finger in the middle of each other's chests, to feel the heart chakra. The middle finger, the one Americans use to dishonor one another, is apparently a important force for good in other parts of the world
And we forgot to bow to each other afterward, too, I said. Oops.
Q put his hands together and bowed to me from his position over by the toaster oven. I bowed back. Better late than never. And we didn't touch each other's auras, either. It's a wonder we're still speaking.
Funny thing, though -- holding my hand to his chest did remind me for the hundredth time how precious his beating heart is to me. How present the present is, and how timeless it can be if you pay full attention to it. His hand on my chest seemed not to register the oddness of my heart, the electrical wires leading from it to my pacemaker, its drug-emitting stent implant, its thickening walls, its bruises: it was life that flowed from my heart to his hand and through him, just as his life flowed through me.
And I don't even know what a chakra is, exactly.
We forgot to hum to each other, too. That would have opened our crown chakras. We hardly did any of the soul intimacy homework. We should have taken the magazine upstairs with us.
Or maybe not.