Sometimes, when I get so far down, I forget to look up. Does that ever happen to you? It's like the darkness drags me further away and I concentrate on it instead of the light. That's never a good thing, but it is a reality. It's just so hard at those times to force your eyes to rise instead of continuing to look down toward where you're afraid there's no bottom.

And sometimes it just takes more out of me than seems even possible.

It helps to have a guide to lead me back to the light. But is it ever really fun to be someone else's guide when they're not yet ready to follow? I can't imagine it is.

Guess I'm a tough person to be around in those times because I simply don't know what it is I need but I know I don't need what I'm going through and until I figure it all out, I'm capable of being disgusted by nearly everything and everyone.

Unfortunately for Cort, he had planned to come spend some time with me during a darker time. I had tried to get the visit canceled, begging off by saying I had too much work to do and couldn't really take any time off to entertain him just then. He would have none of it and on he came to see me.

He suffered for this decision. Not on purpose, because I adore Cort way too much to deliberately do anything mean to him. It's just that he picked up the vibes the instant he saw me and no matter how I tried to hide it all away from him behind a smile and busy silence, he kept trying to figure out how to make me share the reasons for my sad funk. After he'd been with me a few days, tension was between us that we both refused to acknowledge. There's only so much even friends should have to put up with, don't you agree?

"I'm going to pull us over here," I told him from the back of the canoe.

He glanced at me from over his shoulder and shrugged when I didn't say anything else. We were only a short, half-hour paddle into a swamp not too far my uncle's house outside of New Orleans. I had actually been planning to go on this little day trip by myself, seeking solace in solitary pursuits but Cort's face when I mentioned my plans made me realize I was being a jerk and he didn't deserve it.

Other than giving him curt instructions on paddling up the short stretch of the fast, deep river whose tricky currents we'd needed to negotiate before heading into the swamp's calmer waters, I hadn't said much to him. I was glad he was letting me be so selfish but there was a purpose to this trip. There was something I could do here that gave me the chance to gain a better frame of mind for the rest of his time here with me. I had to snap out of this funk.

At the marshy side of the swamp where we pulled over, I nestled us against the mud bank before stepping out. Buried past my ankles in muck and water, I held the canoe steady to make it easy for him to get out. He studied my wet feet. "Can't I just step up onto the bank?" he asked me.

"You don't want to get your boots wet, Padre?" He shook his head at me and gave me this tiny grin. "Then you shouldn't have worn them out paddling. Why don't you just stay here and wait on me? I'll only be a few minutes. Just need to look for something."

I turned and left him, hearing his pissed off grunt behind me as I trudged up the bank and instantly felt bad for being so rude. But before I could turn to apologize, there was a huge splash behind me.

Turning to see. Not believing my eyes. He must have decided to accompany me and in trying to rise from the canoe by himself, had turned the whole thing over and fallen in the swamp's cool wetness.

He was rising from the shallow water, soaked from about his waist down and a look of indignation mixed with a bit of righteous anger on his face. I almost laughed because he actually looked kind of cute. But then I saw what he'd done to my canoe.

"Jesus, Cort, could you be any more useless out here? How could you sink this canoe? It's almost impossible. Dammit. Now we've got to drag it up here and drain the water out," I grumbled to him.

"Thanks. I'm fine, thanks for asking, darlin'."

"Well, of course you're fine. Now grab the paddles before they float away or we'll be stuck out here."

"Yeah. That would be such a blast. Being stuck out here with you," he muttered as he waded over to the paddles.

I ignored him. Started heaving the canoe over, tipping out the bulk of the water so it would be easier to drag up to dry land to drain. If there's one thing I hate, it's having to paddle in cool weather on a damp wooden seat. By the time Cort corralled the paddles and the life jackets that had floated free, I almost had the canoe up on the bank. He helped me turn it completely over so the bottom was up and the water flowed out.

He plopped down to sit atop the upended canoe bottom and began toeing off his waterlogged boots. I couldn't see his face but just knew it held a sour expression.

"Stay here and try not to do any more damage. I'll be right back," I said, this uncharacteristically nasty tone in my voice to a man I adored for all the wonderful things he'd always done for me.

Now, I have mentioned before what fast hands Cort possesses? Well, those words were no sooner out of my mouth than one of his hands had grabbed hold of my arm and dragged me to a halt. I didn't look at him; instead I looked at the ground and waited.

Took him a few seconds. Then finally, an angry voice for me: "What have I done to piss you off? You've been acting like I'm in the way this whole time I've been here. What the fuck's going on with you?"

"Not a thing. I just need to ..."

"You need to talk to me is what you need to do."

Eyes in his direction. My tone of voice did not match my words. "I apologize for being so curt with you."

No response. Eyes back on the ground.

"I'll be right back," I told him, quieter voice and much less harsh.

"What's going on, Ann? I've tried real hard to be patient but I'm through with that. You want me gone? Fine. I'll take off when we get back. But until then, how about ... Christ, woman, you need a paddling for the way you're treating me."

Eyes flashing up to his and I know he read my challenge. Snide voice for him: "You really do have a thing for that, don't you, Padre? Well, I'm not one of your other women and I'm not about to let you spank me with the good book. Now let me go and ..."

I saw this hard look pass over his face and before I had time to even think about what that might mean, he dragged me over his knees and smacked me hard on my rump. Other than a huge surprised squeak, I was too stunned to even react. Just stayed right where he had me and my mind seemed to go blank with shock that he'd done that to me.

"Have I got your attention, darlin'?" he asked me, his soft voice pitched into a slow drawl. "Then hear me when I tell you this. I want to know what's going on and I want you to tell me now."

Blinking back tears of humiliation. He thought this would help? Treating me this way? That it would somehow make me feel ... what? Better? Worse? Scared?

"Let me go, Cort," I told him firmly. 

Felt him bend over me and his mouth was near my ear to whisper, "Talk to me, Ann."

"Let me go first."

"Not a chance. Start talking." 

"I said let me go."

Smack.

"You bastard!"

Smack.

That time, the shock of his intent to force me to do what I didn't want seemed to cause something to break loose inside me. Like the fear I'd been battling for so long was gathering steam again and about to overtake me. Like I could no longer keep it to myself anymore, this feeling of vulnerability and exposure that had sent me into hiding as the only alternative I could find at my disposal.

Even I heard the tears in my voice. "I can't tell you about this. Please let me go." When he didn't make a move to release me from his grip, I whispered to him, "Please, Cort. I'm sorry, really I am. I came out here to find a way to work it out because I don't want to feel like this when you're here with me."

He let me slide off his lap and as I knelt between his legs, he pulled me in to his chest. But for the first time since I'd known him, I couldn't feel his arms even though my mind knew they were wrapped around me. I barely felt his lips, yet they were pressed into my temple.

No telling how long we stayed like that before the numbness wore off. I was so ashamed to tell him this particular secret but I told him anyway and waited for the recrimination. Waited for him to tell me what I should have been doing about this mess. Waited for the words of reproach for not being the person he thought I was.

Waited in vain.

Finally, I looked up into his sober eyes. He swept my hair from over my eyes. "Why did you come out here today? What could be out here that would help you deal with this?"

"Padre, I came here looking for my spirit."

It struck him as funny and he tried hard to suppress the grin. "The swamp nymph thing? I thought that was just your nickname from some of your friends. What kind of pagan ritual are you planning to do up here?"

My eyes dropped from his. "Do you want to see why I came here or are you just going to make me feel more embarrassed?"

His hands cupped my jaw and then he kissed me so tenderly on my forehead. It was such a small gesture but it made me feel cherished. "Forgive me, Ann. I do want to see."

I rose from him and waited for him to put his boots back on. Led him down a path through the stalks of marsh reeds that would have been difficult to see except that I knew exactly where it was and where it led. We walked about 15 minutes and I turned to him, put a finger to my lips and told him to walk as quietly as possible. Minutes later, we broke through the reeds and before us spread a wide, shallow patch of water that was pockmarked with swamp irises and water hyacinths.

Looking around, eyes way up high and zeroing in on one tree I knew by heart. But when I didn't find what I'd come for, I felt this pang thud through the empty shell of my body, hearing the echo of disappointment as an omen for continued bad times ahead. I'd come out here for inspiration and ended up with a feeling of desolation.

"She's not here," I said, hearing the clear notes of the blues in my voice. "I needed to see her so badly."

Cort's arms snuck around me and I leaned back against him. "Who's not here?"

"My spirit guide." It was the first time I had felt tears fall since this had begun. I'd had other emotions - confusion, paranoia, irritation, apprehension, remorse, fear - but I'd held this all in for so long and I hadn't dealt with it so well in the last few weeks.

Turning into him and giving myself over to him for comfort and words of wisdom. In my fatigue, I couldn't even work myself up to really sob it out. Instead, my salty tears just leaked forlornly from my eyes. What, he wanted to know, was I really searching for out there?

So I told him of the hand-me-down lore of the local native Americans, the Acolapissa tribe, the ones who'd once claimed this swampy area as their hunting grounds and had lived on its edges until the Yazoos, a rival tribe, attacked them in retaliation for the Acolapissa's allegiance and aid to French settlers. So few of them had survived; only those who'd been able to escape and hide deep within these watery acres had been left to keep their beliefs and their blood.

They believed those drawn to this sacred place were guided there by the spirits of the creatures of the swamp. And that you always knew instinctively who your own spirit guide was if you simply opened your mind.

"And yours is no longer where she usually is?" he asked me, a quiet voice of respect for my need to believe in this.

"She's always been here for me when I'm troubled," I told him. Pointing into the huge cypress that rose solid and intense from the far edge of the open water. "She's the biggest owl I've ever seen in my life. She's huge even for a Great Horned Owl, which is why I know she's a female because they're always much bigger than the males. And she sits up there, just watching everything that goes on around her. She never speaks, but her eyes miss nothing. When I come here, we stare at each other until I feel like I've absorbed some of her wisdom. The experience has never failed me before in getting my spirit back."

"I had always understood that the owl was a messenger of death to native Americans," he said.

"I believe that's true for many tribes. But to this tribe, the owl represents the coming of wisdom for women." I pulled him to sit with me on the bank and we looked up into the trees surrounding us. "This tribe believes that each animal has a power or gift that has been endowed by The Great Spirit. They call the owl 'the eagle of the night' and believe if it is your spirit guide, then it is there to tell you not to fear the dark or mysterious places but to be brave in searching for what others cannot see."

"Why do you think she's not here for you right now?"

I looked into his eyes and felt a jolt of recognition. Cort. My spiritual counselor. The one man who'd restored so much of my spirit when I'd first met him. "Perhaps because she wanted me to see who you are to me again. To see the gift you bring me. Maybe I'm not worthy of seeing her right now because I've treated you so shabbily. Because, like her, you've been a spirit guide to me."

Around us, the swamp grew silent. Like we were in a void. Into this stillness of beauty, I realized I was finding my way to look up again.

Without words, I found forgiveness in him. He found renewal in me.

And when we touched, our fingers were messengers. My apology, his understanding. My fear, his protection. My determination, his support.

"Tell me my sense of loss will go away," I begged him even as I ran my fingers along his jaw and kissed him lightly. "Tell me why I can't stop being scared and when I'll start fighting back."

"Remember who you are, Ann. In here," stroking along my chest, over my heart. "Deep in here, you haven't forgotten you're strong when you need to be. I think you'll fight back at the exact moment you get angry about what's been taken from you."

I knelt up next to him and wrapped my arms around his neck. "Do you know how glad I am that it's you that's here right now? You're such a good friend to me."

He hugged me in against him and I really did feel better for having shared with him because in the sharing he had reminded me that I wasn't alone. That I had others in my corner no matter what else might happen in the fallout.

His muffled voice said, "So, darlin', since we're such good friends, can I ask if you're done being a bitch to me this visit?"

Laughing instantly at him and wrestling him to the ground. Straddling his body and just as I thought I had the upper hand, he was tossing me off and then his body was over mine, not letting me squirm away from his hold on me.

Out of breath and still giggling, I said, "I promise not to be a bitch but you have to promise no more spanking. Deal?"

Evil glint in those wonderful eyes concentrating on me. "You're not exactly in a position to make demands, honey. I just might turn you over my knee again but this time I think I want some bare flesh to paddle."

Whooping out in amused shock at him as he made a move on me. "Don't you dare! I am not about to allow you to practice your sex fetish on me, Preacher!"

"That's it. First we get these jeans off you."

"Stop!" Trying to fight him off but between his superior strength and the fact that I was seriously incapacitated from laughing way too hard, I wasn't doing much more than slowing him down. Before I knew it, he had my zipper down. An instant later, he had me upside down across his outstretched legs and was manhandling my jeans down over my hips.

I wriggled against him and tried to stop laughing long enough to reason with him. I felt his warm hand rub on my bare cheeks and he started asking me how many spanks I deserved. All this time, I honestly thought he was just joking. I never for once really thought he'd actually spank me again. When his hand lifted and then fell with a crack across my ass, I was stunned.

More stunned, to be honest, to realize that there was something about being reminded of his power in the physical struggle with him. Can I confess this to you? Think not too harshly of me when I tell you that between his ability to simply subdue me at his whim and how the spank reminded me I was at his mercy ... that it seemed to make me concentrate on the way the roughness of his dampened denim jeans felt against the exposed soft wetness of my folds. How the sudden and unexpected flush in that area of my body riveted me to that corresponding area of his body.

And when his hand, warm and so big, stayed on my uncovered flesh and gently fondled me there ... that was when I settled down into this experience and went with it. Would you have ever thought me possible of feeling that way? I would not have, I can tell you that for sure.

"That's a good girl," he said softly to me. I swallowed deep and wondered why his voice and words shook me so.

I felt his hand slip down, felt it petting my thighs after he worked my jeans down lower. And then his hand swept back over the roundness of my rear. I laid there, where his other arm had me pinned against him, and felt twin sensations: his hardness and my softness. I sighed when his hand parted my thighs and slipped ever so easily under me and his fingers made an inquisitive pass over my sex.

"That's what I thought," he whispered, his voice now a deep husky thrumming across my fevered body. "Now you see, don't you?"

"Show me, Padre. Show me what you want," I replied and closed my eyes to see if shutting off one sense would sharpen the others. His hand on my bare skin was intoxicating; it made me dizzy with the feeling of safe vulnerability.

He let out a long groan and pressed my hips down into his lap, moving himself against me. Letting me feel the physical manifestation of his growing need and hunger.

"Doesn't the Bible say something about not sparing the rod?" I teased him, but my voice was so rough it must have gotten to him because I felt his hand move to cup the part of me that was so wet and so interested in what his fingers might do for me.

"The rod you don't want me to spare you is not the rod the good book speaks of, my child. But, keep it up and I'll ..."

I gasped as he slowly entered me with first one and then a second finger. Moaned at him when I felt his mouth on the part of me he had smacked not too many minutes before. "Oh, please, Padre. Help me learn this lesson."

"God. Look at you," he groaned into that biting kiss and then panted out, "Hands and knees."

Turning from him as he nudged me to my knees. Feeling his body come up behind mine. Wriggled against him and heard his growling rumble in reaction. With my jeans only down as far as my knees, I couldn't really spread my legs very wide but he had no problem. Insistent hands stroked me. His cock filled me in that achingly pitiless way that could make me nearly come even just from the memory of how it felt when he was with me this way. Reverberations of his need inside me.

Silence. A void. Then sound coming back to me. The swamp all around. My spirit soaring up and spreading out to find the sun it had missed for too long.

And like a message from another seeking spirit, I felt it ooze into my brain. Oh, I had missed her wisdom. Fully formed words and sentiment. Nothing positive will happen until you expect it. I opened my hidden recesses and chased out the blues, swept out the hesitation. And into those then empty spaces, I welcomed my spirit guide's assurances that I was still the person who at my core was a watcher, someone who could see nuances in the lightest light and the darkest dark.

Someone born with an unapologetic dark side but who lived with the light by choice and grit.

It was later, when I was lying on my back and he was draped part way over me, his head resting on my tummy and one leg tossed over mine, his arms holding me loosely around my waist. That was when I saw my messenger was right where she should have been all along.

She had come in unnoticed on wings of utter silence. Eyes of glowing yellow looked out from the gloom of the swamp cypress into my eyes of green. We watched each other. Seeing into the other in the utter peace of communicating spirits. Between us passed a soundless communion and I felt the restoration of my spirit completing.

"She's come back to you," he whispered to me.

"She's forgiven me," I said softly and stroked his hair. Enjoying the way it felt to be enjoying this simple part of being with him.

"You've forgiven yourself," he said and I knew again the jolt of recognition that in my Padre's appreciation of different forms of spirituality, he could see through to signs from messengers we so often miss.

I have so often confided in the anonymous reader about the gifts that each man in my life brings to me. But here's something I've hidden from you for too long. This story is more about the gift you bring me, dear reader. You give me the opportunity to reveal without divulging that much, to explain when reality would never do so well as allusion. You force me to remember and explore; and in the starkness of the words upon the written page, I find myself.