Magic Man

My Soulmate on Aisle 7  laughs, plays, and smiles, and loves.  We talk and talk and talk.  I never tire of the softness of his words.  Lately I’ve nicknamed him the Magic Man.  We are nearing the ninth month of a relationship.  That in itself is magic at work.

He believes in Heaven, loves rainbows, sees triple digits, and gives generous amounts of care to the intricacy of growth flowering in his garden.  He is a gatherer, a gardener, and a lover of unparalleled comparisons.  He is absent of triggers.  That has blown my mind.

I’ve seen my little anxious child transform into a somewhat less fearful soul.  She takes small risks now, and does not mind if she gets a little dirty having fun.  He taught her to climb a tree and ride her bike.  A year ago, she would have an anxiety attack on her training wheels.   Magic Man waved his wand, and suddenly she is not afraid as much.  She is not as afraid to sleep on her own now.  Her counselor is so pleased.

My doctor chuckles when Magic Man accompanies me, for his funny bone pokes out into others ribs until they can’t help laughing a little.   I go to the doctor often now, much more than I used to have to do.  Stress is a killer.  I wrote recently about the mind-body connection  of PTSD and how it harms a person.  I’ll be in a nephrologist’s care in two weeks.

Magic Man wears his heart on his sleeve, even when it means it might get torn to shreds by those hurting.  He offers all he has, open-handed.  It’s the trait of one who’s done the Work and the Steps, being sober for nine years.  Empathy is a natural evolving process in sobriety.

Well, I just read what I wrote, and I’m shaking my head.  Clearly, I’m under a spell, a love potion, and in love with Magic.



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