Bumfuzzled. I’m a smitten puppy man, 66, still a afraid how overwhelming my 12 year old naked and ashamed feeling addicted. I feel spilling over and out and over and my interior smitten-ness acts putting a mink stole around you, "Wear this, put it on, please.", a substitute for how I like my feelings to feel for me for you, soft fur brushing your skin, just putting my past on you. It’s unfair. Stop. I cannot. There’s no “to you” but for parts of a few hours out of a day out of a week for six. Do you sense my feelings' reverbs in the echoes bouncing and reflecting off and fading away from what’s in that not anymore? No? Hush, huuusssh, huuuuusssssh.
I love the you I see and I love the you I hear and I love the you I read and I love your soft quiet voice from within you and I love your you in writers’ words you introduce me into, your passion. And I love your you in your flash of discipline, your “no”, a steely push-back-with-eyes from within through the narrowing open window of your eyes and slightly pursing no lips. I love your you in your courage you do not know yet and I love your you put in your image-I-na-tions. . . hoping. . . documenting … abiding ... still … joyous … come, Lady Abbess of Wilderness. Riding my imagination fueled by words from my beginning I see and hear and taste and dream and inside I’m burning up with desire.
This is the first love letter I’ve ever written, I could’ve written, forgiving and accepting myself, my pathos. This love letter is 66 years old. Early, I was trained to the practice of unforgiving. I was not steeped, the simple or natural way, for words to say what I knew I felt. And why I love what you do - you just love your wilderness - I just love something in the way you are in my I am.