Читать книгу LoveDance: Awakening the Divine Daughter - Deborah Maragopoulos FNP - Страница 17

The fear in my heart has been made manifest—my wife is not my own. My adolescent lamentations that she would favor him over me seem ironic, our arranged marriage forced her decision—he has her heart. We do not speak, our only communication is the silence of our darkened bedchambers. What was once divine has become base, a physical release, water quenching thirst, not the sweet wine that satisfies my soul. Before we married, I dreamed of celebrating the harvest with her, making love among the golden sheaves, but my anger drove her from my arms with the excuse that the baby needed her. But I too need her.

Jealousy colors my vision, I cannot perceive her thoughts. She has shared nothing with me of what happened that night, but I sense his energy about her. In rare instances of peace, I can penetrate her mind to find her braving the ethers in search of the cords that bind their hearts.

My rage poisons our relationship, her wall of fear grows higher as she escapes under kasa. Knowing she journeys past the protective mists, I try to view her through the ethers, but all I can perceive is a black crow. As I struggle through this dark time, my wife withers away, refusing to take her meals with the family. Still the baby grows plump, but I fear we might need to bring in a wet nurse. Once I attempted to make her eat but she stubbornly refused the meal, saying food is not what she hungers for. I insisted, she gave in, her tears waking our inconsolable daughter. Frustrated, I told her that if she did not take care of herself, the baby would suffer as well. My words must have sickened her, for she purged her pain into the betshimush.

Never before have I felt so lost in the mire of fear. Perhaps I should have never married, leading our people without the burden of a wife and family. But I believed we were destined for one another. I created this painful reality to fulfill some divine purpose, but what?

Since the full moon of Tevet, the weather has become bitterly cold, and trapped inside with my sick baby, I am ever drearier. Unable to breathe through her nose, Sarah struggles to nurse, her infirmity a reflection of my own sick heart. Last Shabbat, I allowed Miriam to take her for the day, to give me time to spend with Yeshua, but he no longer seeks my company. At dusk I went to the nursery to retrieve my baby and Miriam begged me to let her stay, but Sarah is all I have now.

Tonight the pain in my heart has spread to my body. Wearily I lie beside my baby, praying she will stay asleep as Yeshua blows out the oil lamp, not even bidding me goodnight. Just as I begin to doze off, he reaches for me, his hand on my hip like ice.

“Please, Yeshua, not tonight.” Never before have I refused him.

He pulls me close. “This is all we have left…” I want to be held, perhaps we can talk, but the wall of anger and fear around him seems impenetrable. “Would you refuse him?”

Teoma would never treat me like this! Unwilling to argue, I start to rise.

“Where are you going? Your lover’s tent is gone.”

He is right, I have nowhere to go, no one to confide in; he sent away my only friend. I am very much alone, even face to face with my husband. How must other wives feel when the passion smolders, placating their spouses and dreaming of happier times?

When I relent, his only comment is how hot my skin feels, but it is not passion. Heeding my silent tears, Sarah wails piteously.

“Go….her needs are more pressing, it seems.”

Exasperated, I nurse Sarah and soon they are both fast asleep. Rising to go to the betshimush, my head spins but I never make it back to bed. Somewhere between the baths and our chambers, the sheer weight of the burden of a broken heart and a rising fever overwhelms me.