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    Loving a Woman Well
    Loving a Woman Well
    Loving a Woman Well
    Ebook137 pages2 hours

    Loving a Woman Well

    By Ronn Edmundson

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    About this ebook

    Even if a woman achieves seven orgasms in the hands of a skillful lover, does that endeavor in itself mean she is loved well?

    Loving a Woman Well, a collection of 16 personal essays, attempts to answer that question. Through introspection coupled with a review of women who have enriched my soul, I now see that a woman is a tree of life, a temple of the sacred and a corner stone in a Divine Trinity.

    Loving a Woman Well opens with memories of my sunlike mother and closes with images of my only begotten son taking his first steps to initiate a conversation with a beautiful young girl in a hair salon.

    Ultimately, Loving a Woman Well is a song of Thanksgiving to those wonderful human beings who have shared their bodies, their tablespreads, their hearts, their intelligences and their divinities with me.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisheriUniverse
    Release dateOct 11, 2004
    ISBN9780595780310
    Loving a Woman Well
    Author

    Ronn Edmundson

    Born and raised in Tulsa, Oklahoma, Ronn Edmundson attended Booker T. Washington High School. A football scholarship and later academic scholarships allowed his matriculation at Bishop College, the Claremont Colleges, the University of Michigan and Brown University. He has worked as a newspaper reporter, a public relations director and a university instructor. He currently teaches creative writing in Southern California.

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      Book preview

      Loving a Woman Well - Ronn Edmundson

      Loving a Woman Well

      All Rights Reserved © 2004 by Ronn Edmundson

      No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

      iUniverse

      For information address:

      iUniverse,

      2021 Pine Lake Road, Suite 100

      Lincoln, NE 68512

      www.iuniverse.com

      ISBN: 0-595-33247-1 (pbk)

      ISBN: 0-595-66792-9 (cloth)

      ISBN: 978-0-5957-8031-0 (eBook)

      Contents

      Loving a Woman Well

      The Mystical Women in My Life

      Divine Chocolate

      Corina Fields

      Aunt Dee

      Ramona

      Divinity

      A Mystic’s Vision

      Tonia and Jeanine

      Dorothy and Duchess

      Sandra

      Ms. Lewis

      Black Queens

      Ms.Tahlequah

      A Son is Born

      Hair Gallery Romance

      Loving a Woman Well

      While a rainbow of women have seasoned my cerebral being, my ever teeming brain cells providing a virtual library of privately contemplated pleasures, that rainbow finds it genesis in the sun of my biological mother. It is the sun of her being that has allowed me to experience that multiplicity that, like the natural landscape, incarnates any woman.

      I am reminded of one of those cerebral pleasures savored while an undergraduate student at Pomona College in Claremont, California. That pleasure involved reading Herman Hesse’s novel, Narcissus and Goldmund, a meditation of the stark contrast between the two brothers who take separate paths to ecstasy with regard to the world of women.

      Narcissus chooses the monastic, cerebral, contemplative life while Goldmund selects the carnal one where he steeps all his senses into the feast that is woman. Of the pilgrims, Goldmund achieves a vision, a wisdom of what it is to love a woman well while his monastic brother can only imagine what that being, woman, must really be.

      I had no idea that I would in mine own life travel Goldmund’s path and reap a similar wisdom and vision of the universe. An idea, a conception that even predates Western civilization. For in truth, did not the ancient Egyptians have the Goddess Nut? In Egyptian art, is she not conceived as the over arching universe that the Sun God Re must pass through to be resurrected daily?

      Am I not the sun who has risen from the sun of my mother’s womb to know the sun in a spectrum of chocolate, strawberry and vanilla women? Have I not like the Egyptian God Re journeyed through her heavens and her earths, her nether regions of being only to be born again, anew each day in the autumn, the winter, the spring and the summer? Is not the sun celestial and carnal the source of all that lives in animate and inanimate image? So is my mother to my conception of what it is to be conscious.

      For in her being and through her being, I have known agony and ecstasy in mine own being and in the celestial, cerebral and carnal being that is woman. A trinity of the sun my mother is as are all women conceived in the sun that is divine love. Divine love is the quintessential manifestation that God is. To love a woman well is to love God well in the fullest sense of that idea.

      That conscious consummate practice opens all the doors of heaven and earth and all our essential needs and dreams are satisfied. A multitude of visions flood mine eyes when I think of the woman who endured the agony of natural childbirth that I might rise from her womb like the sun rising from the earth in the ocean that is the blue universe of all being. Like the earth circling the sun so thoughts of her circle my heart forever more.

      Through a child’s eyes I remember my mother and I bundled up in coats, scarves, hats and boots standing in line with other likewise attired Black folks waiting for some now forgotten warehouse to open its doors so that we could receive government commodities—powdered eggs, powdered milk, can beef, cheese and God knows what other nutritional supplements.

      I remember sitting in Mount Rose Baptist Church on Sunday mornings basking in the sunlight of her countenance, her corporeal presence and lulled to sleep by the choir singing and the humming of her voice during congregational affirmations of God.

      I remember her fervent participation in those PTA meetings and open houses at my elementary, junior and senior high schools as well as her visible interaction with my teachers. I remember her attendance at my glee club recitals with other Black and Caucasian students. Like the sun shining through the four seasons, she was always there.

      I remember one July summer afternoon when she had returned from a Los Angeles vacation and had stopped at Grandmother Fields’ home to retrieve me and my siblings. In mine eyes, mother seemed a glamorous motion picture star or indeed a celestial angel who had just descended from heaven to anoint us with her radiance.

      I remember those flower gardens in the front yard of our family home flushed full with yellow flowers that seem to symbolize her golden radiance and the spiritual splendor of her corporeal being. I imagine that luminous sheen of her honey colored skin no doubt captured my father’s eye and heart.

      Embarking for those yet unknown academic worlds and their assorted adventures, I remember her walking a ways with me and wishing me the best. Often times, I recall those partings and wanting to stay with my mother. She was always at the gate of our home waving me good bye.

      I remember her attendance and participation at my college graduation ceremonies and the reception in the college library that followed. Intuitively she knew which young woman I had an eye for and she even made that intuition known to me.

      Since those times, I have traveled into distant lands, matriculated at a multitude of colleges and universities and known a multitude of feminine pleasures carnal and cerebral. Yet it still seems to me that the sunlight in mine eyes and the sunlight that has illumined my path reaches back to my own mother who like the sun however distant has shown on me and provided the quintessential inspiration for me to pick up the quill and weave a song in her honor and a hymn to her eternal beauty.

      For whatever beauty I am and whatever beauty I have seen in my life past, present and future stem from the radiant beauty I first saw and imbibed from her eyes.

      The Mystical Women in My Life

      When I cerebrally remember the spectrum of chocolate women in my evolving conscious being, I am not at all surprised that I was always immersed in their collective presence. I was always in quiet awe of their several powers to hold my eye and ignite my curiosity to know the landscape oftheir dark symphony. Their presence gave birth to the sun daily in my chocolate being.

      To nurture that luminous being within me, those chocolate women whose faces and names I can no longer remember use to escort my elementary classmates and I to a Baptist church a few blocks from our school. Hand in hand my classmates and I would walk to that black institution to be immersed in the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

      In retrospect, those chocolate women were in charge of our several souls in both the secular and spiritual worlds. In a metaphorical sense, I suppose like Thetis, goddess mother of Achilles, we were being collectively dipped in a river of amulets, of signs, of images, of symbols that would in theory protect us as we made our separate ways through the worlds that laid before our eyes. We were being tattooed with ideas we could neither comprehend nor clearly appreciate at the time.

      So, I suppose in the years to come as we made our way through worlds not of our own making, we would at least have a social and cultural frame of reference that would help us make sense of where we were, why we were and who we were on the path to immortality.

      In retrospect I suppose my elementary, middle and senior high schools constituted my introduction to a world of educated chocolate women. Of course there were chocolate men in these institutions, but it seems to me these women out numbered them seven to one. These women taught me language, arithmetic, music, speech and art. They inadvertently taught me how a woman should carry herself in public. Indirectly, perhaps they demonstrated through their several professions how I should look at a cerebral woman; that is to say, though her being might arrest mine eyes and stimulate my young mind to venture beyond her public persona, I should mainly appreciate the wealth of experience, wisdom and knowledge she incarnated.

      If I failed to appreciate her cerebral treasures, I would in effect have missed the better part of her being. To miss that dimension would have also caused me to dismiss or devalue my own cerebral gifts. If I had pursued that logic, what would I have gained when my body was consumed with old age and death waiting in the wings? Would I still have nutritional provisions to see me to the far, mystical shore where mortality cannot tread?

      As I remember my first teachers arrayed in their professional clothes, I suppose, given the conservative nature of their attire, often the only indication that these chocolate Sundays were indeed mortals was a glimpse of their ankles and calves in high heels. Perhaps my slowly awakening curiosity to know the mystery of these well-dressed goddesses of the fine arts commenced at Marian Anderson Junior High School.

      I am not at all sure of the exact moment when the dark clouds of my mind’s eye commenced to roll away and the mystical sun of my being, the mystical eye awakened from the innocent dreams of childhood. I am not at all sure when the first surge of my chocolate covered testosterone arose and flowed through the fibers of my conscious being. I am not at all sure when mine eyes commence to actually look at a chocolate woman well heeled in this cerebral world of learning.

      Ever a curious child, I wanted to see through their personas and know the dark symphony of their natural landscapes. Why? I really do not know. I had never seen a full-grown chocolate woman naked and I knew not the dimension, the complexity or scope of her sexuality. Of course, I suppose I intuitively knew that her sexuality could not be identical with mine, but I had no idea what it could be. Having no idea of her sexuality probably implied I had no idea of how I came

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