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“It’s just you and me now, kid,” my grandmother told me when my Papa died, and for the last year I have learned to paint a truck well enough for it not to rust, trim a lemon tree with 60 year old trimmers from an ancient ladder shakily erected in the bed of said truck, and maintain a house despite my grandma’s best efforts to tear it back down sometimes because she tries to do it all herself. I have had to let go of some possessions of his that I held dear. I have learned how to transfer the title of a car over state lines. I have researched the best options for adding someone to the deed of a house without it wildly affecting the property taxes. I have been the only one who could pick up the urn and slide it into the statue inside which my Papa is interred. I have been a thousand miles away when the hospital called to ask me for consent for treatment when she needed stents put in her heart.
My husband helped me drive the truck home, making the best of the impromptu roadtrip to stop at some amazing roadside attractions. We saw the Borax mine. We spent a night in Las Vegas. We stopped at the end of a rainbow during a rainstorm in Utah to pick wild sage. He held me while I broke down with exhaustion and emotion because I put a dent in the truck at a gas station in Colorado. He talked me into stopping “one more time” at the hot springs and just let my soul and body heal.
I gave up going out for New Year’s Eve to make sure she was alright. I’ve spent hours sitting in Papa’s spot on the couch watching Hallmark movies because she’s lonely. I’ve silently held space for her as she grieves, even as she tries to hide her pain, because that’s what she’s always done. She’s always been the strong one, the fixer, and the one to hold everyone up, and I know she’s tired.
All this in the midst of a year of other great loss, of a custody battle for my stepson, of a world biting and scratching to return to something that resembles normal after a two year pandemic, of maintaining a full time job on the road and my own household two time zones away.
And now as I pick up the responsibility of my dad after the death of his mother, he echoes the words from almost a year ago.
“You’re all I have now.”
And I smile. And I reassure. And I write to-do lists.
I’m stretched thin and I’m tired. I’m navigating multiple things that are out of my wheelhouse. I’m overwhelmed.
I couldn’t be doing any of this without my chosen family. I’d have crumbled months ago without my partners offering both emotional and physical support. When people ask me “how does poly even work?” this is the example I hold up time and time again. For an only child with a strained relationship with most of my cousins, this family we’ve built is holding me together. Without them I’d also be all I’ve got, and I don’t know if I could do it.
The hill behind my grandmother’s house is covered in yellow clover, and in this unseasonably warm weather it’s blooming in a breathtaking golden cascade…and she has me ripping it up. Why? Because they’re “weeds” no matter how pretty they are, Therefore, everything must go. I’m sad for the senseless waste, especially because the bees love this spot. I’m frustrated by the hours of extra work ahead of me. I’m acquiescing because if I don’t do it she’ll kill herself out here doing it herself.
As I tug and pull I am overcome. We’ve done a lot of work to have an adult relationship, but as a child and young adult I was always the weed. An artistic kid, neurodivergent, though girls in the 80s and 90s were rarely diagnosed as such, with curious tastes in most things. An only child with a small smattering of friends, I kept to myself mostly. There weren’t kids I could walk to see. It was me, my mom, and the animals, and that was fine with me, but it made me weird. It made me different. It made me what both grandmothers I saw regularly would use as a backhanded compliment; it made me unique. There was no place for weeds in her garden, no room for black sheep in her herd, so I learned to blend in, struggling under the radar until I could plant my roots elsewhere.
When I left for college I thought I’d be back, and it’s a decision I’ve questioned for the last 20 years. I struggled a lot without the resources I needed to survive. I dropped out of college. My career path was fractally diverted. I wilted without health insurance to provide neither insulin nor mental health care. I juggled new trauma with pockets already overflowing with past trauma. I kicked, I screamed, and not once could I make myself fit into the planter boxes that had loomed over my since birth. I died several times over only to find myself blossoming in a new garden, one I had plotted for myself. Ironically enough, this would be exactly when I would be called back home.
I don’t hide now, but it’s a careful game of chess where some of the squares are equipped with land mines. I still stand out as the sunflower in the rose garden. I am belladonna. I am an orchid. I am a blooming thistle. But I’m here.
You see, I’m the one, in the entire cultivated garden, that thrived. I’m the one, in the specially selected herd, who came back when no one else would pick up the mantle. Just as I know this clover will return. Especially since I play to find some in the spring in the garden center being sold as “ground cover” to welcome it back.
The idea of kitchen table poly has always appealed to me. I was an only child, and having a chosen family structure is an imperative part of my life. That being said, the key word here is”chosen”, which implies a choice, and by placing an “ideal”on something we strip away its choice. Here’s the rub.
In many cases it’s a fairly simple equation. My partner and I have a loving relationship. They and their other partners have loving relationships. I love people who make my people happy. Come to my table! Sometimes, however, people don’t get along. I can’t force anyone to like me. I can’t force anyone to want to get to know me. I can’t force anyone to want anything to do with me. In that same vein, I can’t force my partners to get along. Ideal vs free will reality, and with free will reality comes a choice.
Do I cling to the Rockwellian portrait of poly I’d love to see or so I adjust expectations and keep my heart, and the seats at my table, open?
Enter The Community Table.
It’s possible to maintain the spirit and ideals behind Kitchen Table Poly and adapt to free will reality, you just have to tweak perspective a little. As a kid, my parents were divorced, and those households treated dinner very differently. At my Dad’s house dinner was 1700 every night, Hell or high water, and it was expected that everyone would be there every single night. To this day, if you call that house at dinner time someone better be dying. My mom, however, ran things a little more fluidly, depending on schedules and when people were hungry. If she cooked and you weren’t hungry, you could sit and chat. If you were busy with homework or something else was happening, as long as you respectfully let her know what was going on there was no harm done. My friends knew there was a seat for them at our table, on our couch, in our home, whenever they needed it, day or night. Two tables. Two very different ways of approaching the same experience.
I’ve recently started to see the images in my mind of the ideal situation change to incorporate my mom’s adaptable Community Table approach to my life in general, not just my poly. If you’re a part of my Ohana there is a seat for you at my table, regardless of whether or not you ever use it or want it. The people of my people are also my people, and in times of need nothing else matters. My mom didn’t necessarily approve of all of my friends. I know for a fact there were a few she couldn’t stand, but if they were hungry they were welcome. She might not choose to eat dinner with us, but it didn’t mean I had to send them away. The Community Table gave all of us an open invitation, a place at the table, and a choice, and this is what poly, what family, is about for me.
The Community Table leaves the lines of communication open and supports the opportunity to build relationships without pressure or finality. It authenticates freedom of choice by allowing every day to be a new choice, and it gives us all the room to grown and adapt as the table changes shape and size. The Community Table becomes the access point for my life and my Ohana, where no one is pressured or sent away, and that’s my “ideal” situation.
Aloha.
Go now. Find your seat.
Every year I write about Brighid and what a healing experience the time between Mabon and Imbolc is for me. This year, as I felt my next chrysalis, Sammhain hit me like a bonfire that fed on every last bit of emotional detritus left inside me. This was going to be a big step…if I survived the firestorm.
For three months I spent trying to extinguish smoldering embers and salvage what I could from the rubble of my health, my family, and my job, and what i came out with was a collection of what’s actually important in my life, mere handfuls of priorities and commitments that were struggling to speak in the cacophony of what I’d let dwell inside me for too long. It took a lot of work. Internal, external, interpersonal. It was exhausting, and there were times I wanted to give up, but I’d fought too hard to get where I was to throw it all out. For the first time I wanted to pull through and shine, and this is the true testament to the work I started years ago; this is the real victory. It’s not that nothing will ever be this difficult in my life, again because I’m sure it will, but the fact that I was able to identify what needed to be done and keep doing it no matter how shattered I felt was the big inhale just before the big jump.
Ironically, I thought Imbolc would go by this year with not even a ritual to attend. I figured I’d have my simple solitary blessing and the wheel would turn just fine without me. Life was busy, people were sick, and the to-do list read like a Stephen King novel. That day we were on our way to another event, and we were late. Everything seemed to be telling us not to go, but we were still trying. About halfway there, Hubby turns to me and says “do you want to have a fire tonight for Brighid?” Um…yes!
An hour later we had tools gathered, food prepared, an a celebration on our minds. Once again, the earth had other plans, and it began to rain on our circle space. A quick regrouping and a lot of simplification later we were clandestinely huddled in my mother-in-law’s attic with the rain tapping its rhythm on the roof over our heads curled up in blankets because it was at least 25 degrees outside. It was perfect.
We sat in the tiny space around a candle as I whispered the quarter calls, then everyone settled onto piles of sleeping bags as I softly led them on a journey I’d quickly jotted in my journal, but didn’t need, as Brighid led me herself. It has been a long time since I led a group journey, but it was powerful.
It was 2am when we finally crawled out of the candlelit attic, reeling from the journey we’d just taken, each of us having a different experience with Brighid, but each of us knowing we’d pull out of the darkness together with the help of her flame and the support of family.
Go now…heal, and walk through the fire.
Aloha and Blessed Be 
It’s been a long time since I’ve posted here. There’s been a lot of change, and it’s been good, but I didn’t feel prepared to really put it all down on “paper” until I had come through the brunt of it, and as you know if you’ve been playing along at home…Mabon is generally “the brunt of it”.
The last year of my life has been nothing short of a chrysalis for me. Last October found me shattered, heartbroken, and frankly, fed the fuck up. I haven’t spoken up much about my ex, but what I thought to be a turning stone turned out to be my last mountain to summit. He was the fist relationship I’d started after Good Girl and the healing the entire experience brought to my life. It felt healthy and full and open…but it wasn’t. It was manipulative and extremely unhealthy for both of us. After the dust had cleared I realized it was a final test to see if I’d retained any of the lessons at all. Or maybe it was the final fire I needed to really get rid of all the emotional rubbish I’d been harbouring. In any case, the fall of that relationship was the avalanche that got the momentum started.
A year later I can say I’ve had an amazing journey around the wheel. I committed to a partner in one of the most beautiful commitment/family blending ceremonies I could have ever imagined. I have new relationships that have shown me what it is to be loved, respected, and trusted. My failed relationship showed me where I needed improvement, and these new partners have been nothing but supportive of my growth. We communicate in ways I never would have before. I am safe. I am healthy. I am improving my physical and mental health. My marriage has become a home again. I’ve stopped keeping people in my life who drain me, and I’ve stopped feeling guilty about letting them down. I’ve started stating my boundaries, asking for what I want and need, and finding creative ways to compromise. All because, frankly, I was fed the fuck up, and it showed me how much I betray myself by sacrificing her for people, jobs, anything that isn’t healthy for her. I owe myself better.
In comes October, my emotional PTSD boss level with all its painful anniversaries and reminders of loss and hardship. It’s been said that my seasons turn in such a way that I plant my seeds in the fall instead of the spring, and it’s always been true, but before seeds can be nurtured the detritus from years past must be torn out. October.
I can’t say I have it all figured out. I can’t say this is the culmination of anything really. I’m sure there’s another test. Another transformation. Another period of growth. Honestly, I hope there are many, because this is how we live and shine and become better humans. This year feels different. I feel stronger spiritually, and I look forward to the path ahead of me. I’ve taken on the role of a mentor and teacher, and for once I feel like people actually acknowledge that I do carry some wisdom and experience. I’m not a child. I’m not a newb. I’m not by any means at the end of my learning path, but I can contribute to my tribe. As I mature in my Mother phase, I feel my Crone calling to me, and that’s something I’ll talk about more in-depth later, but I feel ready. I can embrace all of it and keep moving forward.
I hope you’ll all stick around to see where the journey takes me.
Go now…then come back when it feels right.
Aloha.
Lughnasadh always brings an interesting energy with it. While Lugh won a lot of trials in his life through sheer skill, some of that skill was humour and wit, and there is never a shortage of humour or wit in the messages that come through this time of year. But what else? In honouring Lugh we remember the funerary games he organized for his foster mother, Tailtiu. We play games of skill and celebrate our respective talents. We dance, sing, enjoy the life energy of summer thriving around us. Now let’s incorporate the celebration of Lamas, the first harvest. Traditionally the first grains would be used to make bread to bless the occasion as the community came together to enjoy the bounty of harvest. Sometimes bread was baked in the shape of the Green Man in honour of the sacrifice he gives so that we may thrive. In all of this there is a theme of both celebration of the light and recognition of the dark as we begin to notice the days shortening, reminding us to be thankful for the harvest that will sustain us in the coming winter.
In my practice I’ve used it as a time to cleanse and bless my hearth and home, fortifying our household for the year to come with the rich energies of summer. This year I took a deeper look at that practice. Yes, I will probably still cleanse our home and reinforce our crystal grids, but the more meditation I’ve done the more thought I’ve given to the “hearth” in my life. While my tangible household is a brick and mortar place, my home is transient, my family scattered between the coasts, farther once I incorporate metamours. So what of this tribe? What of our hearth? How can we be cleansed and fortified for the year to come?
The beautiful thing about our Ohana is that everyone, no matter how far away or how little involved, brings something to the tribe. We each have our strengths, skills and talents that enrich the energy of the whole. There is not a single one of us who doesn’t work hard and strive to really experience life in their own way, and this energy finds its way to the core of what makes us strong as a unit. Those skills and strengths become our grains, and with some nurturing and encouraging, those talents flourish. Through their harvest we begin to manifest our best selves, and we become the bread men of Lamas, ingested to feel the blessings of the very earth that grounds and holds us. So, the hearth? The hearth is community, fired with our dedication to each other. It’s love, support, and solidarity, but it’s also sacrifice. We each give at one point or another so that the others may thrive. When each of my partners’ family becomes my family, and we weave a web of compassion and love, we become a strong tribe. Through that web we feel each other’s joy and pain. Through that web none of us can starve no matter how cold the winter might get, and because we’ve got Lugh on our side we do it with the flare of laughter and maybe some smartassery. Ok, a lot of smartassery.
Aloha, and Blessed Lughnasadh
Go now, celebrate your talents!
My husband has a new girlfriend. She’s young, she’s cute, she’s skinny, she’s bendy, and she has a pretty high pain threshold. She has the long hair he always tells me he wishes I could grow, and they click like kin. I’m happy he’s happy, but as I’ve mentioned before, poly will draw every insecurity, every self-doubt, every self conceived blight you have ever had, and I am not known for my high self-esteem. This is not the reason we have issues, honest. Really that’s because she lied to me, and I hold grudges, which is something else I’m working on. It’s something I’m constantly working on, but occasionally old habits rear their bitter heads.
Feelings of physical inadequacy can tear down any relationship if you let them, but this has the potential to be detrimental to a poly relationship. It would be easy for me to think this girl is Hubby’s trophy girl, but it’d be all my own internal baggage. He has not stopped looking at me or telling me he thinks I’m beautiful. Our intimacy has not waned or changed in any way.
I have no reason to let these fears creep back up inside me, but I admit I sometimes when new partners enter the equation. When Hubby met his first girlfriend, Emmy, I had just started to be sick with what would later be diagnosed as fibromyalgia. I was sick, I was weak, and it hurt just to be touched. For a very long time sex was out of the question. Emmy, on the other hand, was just starting to explore herself and was loving the new experiences Hubby was able to offer. Hubby never told me he was disappointed, but it was palpable every time he tried to touch me and my body just couldn’t take the pain. I felt like a failure as a wife and lover, and while I was happy he was taking this new step in our poly life I also felt a tinge of inadequacy. It was a very trying time in our marriage, and there were times I listened to the voice that told me he could only stand to stay with his invalid of a wife because he could still get his rocks off somewhere else. It was an extremely negative thought process that only lead to more negativity. I grew bitter, resentful, and depressed, and eventually I took it out on him.
The further decline and eventual improvement of my health forced a huge change in attitude and perspective. I decided that if my marriage was going to survive I needed to stop looking at it as a need for him to find something more desirable. Instead I learned to celebrate my strengths and experience and know that I am just as desirable to him as I always have been. He may have someone young and sexy to have fun with, but he still comes home to me with the same heated fervor. While there is the new shiny factor that comes with all NRE we have a passionate bond that only time and knowing each other’s ins and outs can bring. I still see the want and need in his eyes, and he lets me know all the time that he thinks I’m beautiful.
In my head I accepted his love and admiration long ago, but I try to keep this perspective in mind whenever the voices of doubt and insecurity, and sometimes a little envy, creep into my heart. All that comes from negativity is a self-fulfilling prophecy. If I act on the venomous emotions and thoughts I become ugly and undesirable, somebody no one wants to be around. This is when I lose him. This is when he seeks others not because of his own love and freedom but to be away from me. It’s not my physical baggage that pushes him away, it’s the mental and emotional. Luckily that’s something I can fix.
I feel thankful every day that I have someone who joins me in ogling men and women when we’re out, who is overjoyed when he feels he’s snagged a looker and never minds sharing, and who is proud of me when I manage a fine catch myself. Hubby lets me know constantly that I am his dream woman. Even on my worst days he reminds me that I’m beautiful, capable, sexy, and smart. I still catch his eyes watching me, and he is just as playful and romantic as the day we met. Through ups and downs, problems with other partners, and bad experiences, he has never let me feel ugly or worthless.
So, yes, my husband has a new girlfriend. She’s young, she’s cute, she’s skinny, she’s bendy, and she has a pretty high pain threshold. She has the long hair he always tells me he wishes I could grow, and they click like kin. I am happy he’s happy, and I am learning to forgive and let go of past indiscretions. I also hear she’s quite fond of me and my body, and I am determined not to let my tainted self-esteem close that door to me. After all, she’s young, she’s cute, she’s skinny, she’s bendy, and she has a pretty high pain tolerance.
So, in 2012 I wrote this, and wasn’t I cute. Go ahead. Read it. It’s still valuable information, but it merely skimmed the juvenile surface of a much more mature problem. Also, note my almost defiant optimism that what we now know as The Vanishing Act would not, in fact, be a disaster. Ok, so Hubby may have been right on that one, but now this is the evidence he needs every time he thinks a new relationship is a bad idea. I’m surprised there’s not a commemorative plaque on the wall to mark the day in history.
This started out as a post about the balance between having compassion for the growing pains my existing partners experience when a new partner is added without letting it completely destroy my NRE. Then it morphed, as I began to have more and more conversations about compersion, not only with my partners but with friends. Here’s the Quick Guide to Compersion. Or at least what I understand of it.
Compersion is unconditional. It can’t only exist when you’re being doted on just as much as the new partner. It can’t only exist if my NRE is exactly like it was with you. It can’t only exist if you’re in some other way occupied. It compersion isn’t there even when you’re having a hard time processing the new relationship you’re lying to everyone, including yourself.
Compersion doesn’t mean not questioning. If you have concerns you still have to voice them rationally. If you have disagreements you still have to work through them. You’re allowed to ask for compromise or whatever you need to process, but compersion requires you to handle it like two adults who love each other. Isn’t this what it’s all about? Aren’t you together because you love each other?
Compersion doesn’t invalidate growing pains. You can still have your process, you just can’t use it to be a shyte to everyone else. You’re more likely, in fact, to get the extra attention and compassion you need if you’re not. Compersion means understanding and putting the happiness of your partner in the forefront, but it does not mean sacrificing your own well-being. It’s your responsibility to address it before it becomes a big scary issue, a fight, or resentment, not your partner’s.
What this all boils down to is love, respect, compassion, and balance. In a relationship, shouldn’t those things exist already?
Aloha.
Go now. Demand your balance.
This year I got a rainbow tattoo. It has other things on it, but I decided on a rainbow to represent my pansexuality in a tattoo about freedom. I know, I know, there are debates about whether or not those of us who are bi, pansexual, and all other kinds of ridiculous queer nomenclature are allowed to use the rainbow, but I do. Why? I like rainbows, and I hate pink.
I give this disclaimer because I have been repeatedly told that I am not allowed to be in the queer club because of my lifestyle, which makes me cringe every time I have to defend myself in a community that preaches acceptance and diversity. I have had women walk out of dates when they find out I not only continue to sleep with men, but am married to one and not opposed to others. As a pansexual male who by appearance is very masculine and seemingly heterosexual until you get to know him, my husband gets it worse. Most people simply don’t believe bi men exist, and he has been lectured by gay men, lesbians, and even bi women. This has made both our dating lives a little more complicated than I feel they need to be despite it being the reason we chose polyamory in the first place.
When we first opened our marriage it was just for same-sex partners as a way of being able to express our sexuality honestly and completely. Let me start by saying that this was never a requirement. I am perfectly capable and happy having monogamous relationships no matter how my partner identifies. This was simply a way I had never considered or tried before. My husband’s first girlfriend, as I’ve mentioned before, was supposed to be part of a triad situation. However, after our first sexual experience she decided she was not actually bisexual, so I was no longer a part of the equation. This made a lot of our decisions hard, fast, and undefined. Had we opened as two heterosexual adults things may not have gotten such a rocky start…then again, it could have been much worse.
My entire life I’ve had to field the assumption that as a bi woman I should just be ok with the man I’m seeing watching every encounter with a female partner, like my sex life exists purely for his fantasies. Let me tell you right off the bat that I’m not a huge fan of threesomes or being a spectacle. I may be game for the occasional diversion in that direction, but not as standard protocol. I cannot count how many times ex-boyfriends told me “of course you can see girls! As long as I can watch!” This has been a common thread even now that we’re poly. Many times people seem shocked that I don’t sleep with Hubby’s girlfriend or that once I have a girlfriend of my own I don’t just lend her out to the rest of my household. Apparently, nobody’s personal taste or chemistry matters in this scenario as long as the plumbing fits. Hubby and I have shared partners, but that was because we loved the same person not because we wanted to share women.
I really enjoy the fact that I have the freedom to have my marriage and the freedom to put together the family I want to have, regardless of gender or sexuality. Not all of our partners are queer, and I have never viewed any of my same-sex relationships in a different light than any others. What really matters is how we interact and love one another and that there is respect and acceptance for everyone.
It really IS that simple.
I have stressed many times the idea of the group identity of a poly household. Today I’m going to flip that at focus on exactly the opposite. With so much focus on the family unit as a whole sometimes we can forget to focus on what should be our top priority: Ourselves. Recently I planned to go to a poetry reading that I attend monthly, and I mentioned it to my sister-in-law, who I thought would enjoy the event as a fellow writer. I have invited other people in the past, but I intended to go either alone as I usually do or on a date with a woman I’ve been pursuing for some time now. After the event, which I never even went to, it was brought to my attention that A felt left out. Hubby suggested I invite her next time. I had not intended to exclude her from the reading, it’s just something I generally attend on my own time as a personal interest.
This may sound selfish, but it’s a lesson that many have learned the hard way, especially care takers and parents. I must take care of myself before I worry about the others in my family, with my children coming a very close second. If I am sick, stressed, exhausted, or emotionally burnt out I cannot begin to give anyone proper attention or care. If I refuse to take any time for myself and my development it can breed resentment and negativity directed at those I love. Not every minute of my life needs to be spent on my children. Not every minute without my children needs to be spent with one of my partners. Not every waking moment of my life needs company. I need the time and space to continue my personal growth and development. I cannot allow the Google calendar to consume me. Otherwise I would become a useless partner, an absentee wife, and a jaded parent, as well as a stunted human being.
I really enjoy my alone time sometimes. In the case of the aforementioned poetry reading it’s something I really like to go to with no distractions or expectations. I can show up, read if I want, and feel no pressure to leave at a certain time nor stay until the end. Especially on weekdays when I am on my own for work, I have my routines and my regular activities that do not include anyone outside that particular “circle”. It’s not that I’m ashamed of them or my family, and I’d never intentionally separate the two, but I do enjoy having time just for me and my whimsy.
I feel the same way sometimes with activities as a couple. If there’s something Hubby and I enjoy doing together on a regular basis I don’t see any reason to always invite the whole family. It’s our routine, and I feel our relationship needs things once in a while to remind us of a very important thing. While it’s fine that our lives revolve around our family unit we cannot allow our entire lives to become the family unit. Just as the household needs maintenance and bonding time, so does each couple, and so do we as individuals. It doesn’t make us bad parents or spouses to not include everyone in everything we do.
Not taking this personal development time will lead to stagnation. Hubby fell in love with me, and I with him, because of our respective personalities. We took this journey together, and decided to add to it others whose character and interests complimented ours. We did not set out in search of clones. Nor do we expect anyone in our family to give up any hobbies or interests that we don’t all share. What brought us together is who we are as individuals and what we bring to the table to share and teach. We are a unique blend, but if all the components look the same we will never reach our full potential as a family let alone as people. If we do not take the time and opportunity to nurture ourselves we become fallow and colourless.
It is not the point of life to be absorbed by a family, to have our free spirits grounded, or to have our hungry minds starved. A household should support each other’s personal endeavors and encourage growth, whether or not why share the interest or understand the motives behind it. I do not exist solely in the hearts and minds of my partners. I also live within my own heart and soul, and I cannot be true to myself nor my family if all those components are not happy and healthy. I cannot give my whole self and my whole heart to something that doesn’t see who I am and love me for it, and I cannot put energy into something that puts none into me. The whole should enrich the one as the one enriches the whole, otherwise both will shrivel up and die.
Pearls and Pentagrams 
What Say You?