Good News. Bad News. Life. Death. And Always LOVE.

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I’ll start with the good news– I am madly in love with Serena lately.  She’s so damn cute and smart and… good.  Within the last week, she’s started walking!  She does gratuitous laps around the house, just for practice, wobbling like a drunken sailor.  I’m amazed by her tireless, perpetual motion.  I can tell she’s so proud of herself.  What a feat!  And God, she’s just such a happy person.  Happy and innocent and willing.  My heart feels marvelously crushed.  We made a pilgrimage to Auburn (an hour drive each way) yesterday to apply for passports.  (God willing, we are going to Bali this summer with Cosmic Dad!!!)  The whole drive, she was content and peaceful.  She held her new little stuffed bunny, and she kept saying “Soft.  Soft.  Soft.”  And “Eye.  Eye.  Eye.” (pointing to his eye)   And “Lap.  Lap.  Lap.” (She had him on her lap…)  Such a stimulating conversationalist!

It wasn’t too long ago that I was pulling my hair out and shaking my fist at the sky and wondering why in Grace’s good name I chose to be a mama.  I think because we were both stretching together, and let’s face it– sometimes stretching is uncomfortable.  Sometimes it can even make you tear and bleed and require copious amounts of stitches and a two night and three day “vacation” at the hospital.  (Yes, I’m talking about Serena’s birth.)  But now we have stretched into a space of heavenly resonance and relative ease.  Of course it is fleeting.  But all the more reason to enJOY it.

And speaking of stretching, now for the “bad news”.  While we were waiting for our turn to apply for passports, we “bipped” over to Target because I had a gift card and wanted to try on denim shorts.  Holy Lord in Heaven.  I looked AWFUL  in the dressing room mirrors.  And this is *not* something that I would normally say… because I have worked so hard to heal my self image and love my body.  But fuck.  My skin looked loose and lumpy and squished in gross places.  How in fuck’s name do they expect anyone to BUY anything when the glaring lights and soul-sucking ambiance make you look and feel so UGLY?    

Whoa.  This calls for a massive deep breath.  Because what a terrible thing to commit to a blank page.  Especially as a goddess and leader of the Love Revolution.  But sometimes a goddess just gotsta be honest!  It was traumatizing.  And confusing, too… because I’m almost back to the weight that I was before I got pregnant.  I was one twenty five… and now I’m one twenty eight or nine, depending on the time of day, size of my last meal and amount of exercise I’ve had.  Maybe that mirror was a government conspiracy in action.  Yeah, that’s probably it.  And listen, don’t misinterpret my share.  I’m not suffering about any of it.  It’s more of a fascination with the kaleidoscopic, psychedelic nature of perception.

And then there’s my dear, sweet mama… Her body is now a modest pile of ashes stowed away in the ornately carved, wooden chest I inherited from her when she ditched this crazy planet last month.  Ok, you’re right, the PLANET is not crazy.  She’s actually very sane.  It’s us damn HUMANS that are the nuts!  When I was doing mountains of paperwork at Chapel of the Angels, the mortuary where my Ma’s body was cremated, one form stated that they perform a separate process beyond burning, to pulverize the big chunks of bone that are left… Ha!  And I had to inscribe my initials alongside said statement to indicate that this was permissible by me!  Like, “Yes, I am aware that you will be pulverizing my mom’s bones after you burn her, and it’s totally groovy.”  SILLY!!!

In retrospect, I wish that I had’ve said NO!  I would’ve loved for her ashes to be laced with bone chunks… I could make jewelry out of them.  And arrange them with the crystals and river stones on my panoply of altars.  Am I being serious, or kidding?  Yeah… I’m not quite sure either.

But one thing I KNOW is that my Ma is laughing with me about her hopelessly pulverized bones.

And since we’re on the subject… how am I doing with the whole losing my Ma thang?  Not too bad.  When she was still alive, I used to imagine what it would be like when she was gone, and whimper to her about how much I’d miss her, and how it would suck ass not to be able to talk with her and laugh with her (and even get irritated with her!), daily.  Her immediate response was always, “I’ll still be with you.”  I hated this!  Like, easy for YOU to say, Woman, YOU’RE not the one who will be left behind!  The last thing you need to hear when facing the crushing reality of impermanence, is some woo-woo, conceptual, spiritual band-aid.

But she was right. (Did you hear that Ma???!!!)  She is still right here.  And her oh-so-elegant swan dive into the seductive pool of Infinity has transformed my perception of life and death and God and my Self.  I remember this particularly cray-zay angel I once knew, Hal… He used to say “the cat is alive AND dead”… or some sort of hippy, acid-head koan like that.  I never had any idea what the fuck he was talking about.  Until my mom left.  And now I feel that she is here.  And I am “there”.  And Time is a strange dream that *seems* to divide our limitless Self into a finite notion for a fleeting mOMent.  I know some part of you knows what the hell I’m saying.  Because we are all so immense.  But we must feign smallness as we wander this oddball dreamscape.  Or must we?…

I appreciate the spiritual expansion that my Ma gifted me in her passing.  It’s a relief.  To feel so intimate with Infinity… (while still completely riveted in and by this human dream)…

The day before she died, she reminisced about being at my dad’s dad (my grandpa)’s deathbed… His parting words were, “It’s all a mystery to me…”  She said he appeared truly befuddled.  I LOVE this!!!  I mean, his words sure do sum it up!!!… I have finally arrived at a vista of my existence, where I feel crystalline relief at the Mystery of it all.  I’ve exhausted myself enough times, trying to muscle through and do it (Life) MY way… Only to be disappointed, devastated, destroyed.  I finally get it.  Life/God is waaay more qualified to captain this ship.  Athena Grace just gets to be First Mate, whose primary task is TO LOVE.

…And to write it all down!  With eloquence, honesty, poetic persuasion and humor.  It’s actually a pretty cool arrangement.

This vid is for wOMen.  It’s totally time to cut the bullshit of assessing and defining our beauty by external standards.  Seriously.  Please take my hand and lead the Revolution by making the decision to LOVE YOURSELF and SHINE as the radiant light you are.  Let’s shift our focus to what truly matters.  WAKE UP!!!!!!

An Ugly Confession & A Brief History of My Sexual Evolution

Yup.  I’m right on schedule!  Today’s another broken open day.  It was tricky though… and crept up on me when I wasn’t looking.  I’m at the Kilauea Bakery, sitting outside (so that the breeze can caress me as it likes) staring into space trying to retrace the moment that my world pitched on its head.  I think it was while I was on the internet this morning, trying to figure out flights to Maui in preparation for my impending yoga therapy training.  Doing stuff online is a pretty surefire way to douse my parade, monsoon-fire hose style.  Besides email and blogging, I find all things cyber an unwieldy pain in the butt.  It takes me so much time and energy to navigate websites and all that type of junk.  I miss having a man to do that stuff for me while I dance around and express my flowing femininity.  My housemate Heidi said she encountered that issue when she broke up with her fiancé and moved here less than a year ago… and she thought it was awesome and liberating to claim her independence.

But you know what I have to say to THAT?  No thank you.  I don’t have anything to prove to anyone by over developing my masculine side.  That’s why God invented masculine types… to handle masculine shit.  I am NOT from the school of heavy-handed women’s lib… I don’t need to prove myself by learning to use a screwdriver.  (Although I DID hack open my coconut with Brad’s rusty, dull machete yesterday.  And it WAS a pretty cathartic experience.  I think it could even be considered cardiovascular activity… But I sure did make a mess of my coconut in the process of hacking and hacking and hacking… Tons of hairy pulp got into the meat and it was an arduous mess to sort out in the end.  Though it was a savory enough experience, I would have been just as happy to have my hairy, musk-scented, muscle-bound champion split it with one determined, samurai slice… and then I would swoon over him and make him feel like the most useful, necessary and sexy speck of fleshy space dust.)

Sigh… Life without a man.  I hate to admit this… but I have to… because my blog is a place where I strive to tell the truth.  This truth hurts.  Yesterday Mykael texted me that he missed me so much, his spirit felt numb.  I cried when I read it.  I even want to cry now as I think about that.  It just sounds so painful… and somehow I feel responsible for his crippling numbness.  But truth be told, I am more present to missing the things he did for me (like giving me snuggs at night, handling computer issues, fixing ANYthing, loving my cat so well, letting me use his car…), than HIM.  God, I hope he doesn’t read this!  I am going to tell him not to.  I feel SO ashamed to admit that. But this is something that has been blowing through my mind lately as I take stock and regroup and shift gears… and I’m trying to understand WHY I feel this way.  What I’ve come up with, is that I often felt disappointed by him… so a lot of my experience of the relationship was stained with that disappointment and frustration.  And when I expressed my disappointment and my needs, it often times led to a fight.  Which got exhausting fast.  Plus, we didn’t really do tons of stuff together… just rock climbing (Which I am SOOOO thankful for.  Rock climbing changed me.  It has helped me become intimate with my strength and power.  And Mykael is an amazing teacher.)… everything else I loved, I did alone.  He was like a boot camp trainer for my impending life as a single woman.  Now I am a professional at going to church alone, going to the farmer’s market alone, cooking alone…

I wonder if disappointment is in my blood… inevitable, inescapable… Would I experience it with ANY man?  Am I just condemned to searing myself in the pain of perpetually seeing what is missing?  Gulp.  I hope not.  But for now it doesn’t matter, because I am single.  And just for the record, I am committed to being single for a whole YEAR.  A whole epic, bleeding, heroic year.  Sigh.

Does that mean no sex?  I wonder… I’m not sure.  For now it does.  This terrified me at first… Because my sexuality, I have come to realize, is not something that I fully trust.  Lemme tell you what I mean by that…

My sexual, sensual self has been of the late blooming variety.  (Like the rest of me, I guess…)  I was always a very sensual being.  But it’s not a topic that my mom ever addressed with me.  (No hard feelings, mom, I promise.)  I imagine that’s because HER mom was never open with her.  It was a topic that always felt SECRETIVE and shameful on some level.  But I was always very curious. (In fact DIG THIS~ two of my childhood friends had The Joy of Sex on their parents’ book shelf at home.  And I convinced *both* of them to sneak and read it when we were home alone… AND BOTH TIMES we were caught in the act and then the forbidden text not so mysteriously disappeared off the shelf and I was cast back into sexual darkness and ignorance.  Can you believe THAT?!?!?) Oh, and throw into the mix that as a teenager, I had horrible acne and a proclivity to binge on food.  My body was NOT a heavenly oasis.  It was a source of pain and shame.  Needless to say, I let way too many men into my Secret Garden who did not disserve to be there.  And I was frustratingly numb and unfulfilled.

(I know this is intimate information… but you know WHAT?!  Fuck secrecy.  I am a REAL woman and this is the path I have walked.  And there is strength and power in the truth.  This is why I share myself.  Because we all have stories, journeys, evolutions.  And sharing them illuminates the Whole.  May you find a piece of your blessed self in my vulnerable sharing.  There is no use hiding out in the shadowy swamps of shame.  Or is there?  Should I just slink back into my groaning, smelly corner before it’s too late?  Oh, Love, I think the clock struck too late long ago… So speak on, Sister Divine…)

I certainly didn’t feel like an embodiment of the Goddess as I stumbled clumsily through my twenties.  No, I felt more imprisoned, condemned by the cruel trap of embodiment.  I slept with a lot of men… searching for something.  Something beautiful and good and real.  Then along came Eric when I was twenty three.  I found *much* that was beautiful and good and real in him, in our USness… but not my sexually awakened self… which is one of the reasons I left him.  I was terrified to get married to someone that didn’t bone me immaculate.  Did that mean I would NEVER get boned immaculate in my whole ass dragging life???  No thank you.

I left Eric for Mykael when I was twenty eight.  And blessed BE, we had a good share of hot, satisfying love making… and I found part of the Something that I was yearning for.  Part of it… But something I noticed during my time with Mykael… is that I was afraid of not having sex for more than a few days.  Afraid that my turn-on would just pick up and fly far away when I had my head turned.  This precious, fledgling facet of my womanhood.  I did not know how to trust it…After all, it had been gone for so long.  When I am turned on, I feel powerful.  I feel ALIVE.  I feel God.  I feel dangerous and beautiful.  I don’t want that to go away.
But nor do I want to be ruled by it.  I thought that if I was turned on, it meant that I HAD to have sex!  Quick!  Hurry!  Before it goes away again…  Not so healthy.  It doesn’t leave much room for my partner’s desires and needs to exist… Now, as a single woman… I am embarking on a new leg of my sexual journey.  It involves surrender.  Surrender to the cycles of my desire.  Surrender to my turn-on and my yearning.  It is time to practice just being with what is… without a need to DO anything.  Frown.  Sounds boring.  Hahahah.  I just laughed out loud!  What a welcome relief to this heavy-hearted goddess.  But it kinda does sound boring.  I’ll at least abstain for a couple of months… and then petition the universe for a tantric research partner.  Oh, that Athena Grace, LMNOP!  She’s a woman with a PLAN.  Wish me luck.

Wow.  I feel naked right now.  Eeeeek.  So vulnerable.  But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Amen.

Let’s Talk About Breasts Baby, Let’s Talk About You and Me

I didn’t know how I was gonna pay my rent this month. But I have been listening to a course in miracles “thirty day miracles” program on financial abundance. (Check it out at http://www.miraclesone.org) It has been invaluable in its capacity to sooth my anxious mind and help me keep an expansive divine perspective. A couple of days ago, I found this picture of the Hindu goddess, Lakshmi. She looked kinda sad and neglected, so I found a regal, silver frame that I happened to have lying around (Sounds silly, but I really did.) I dressed her in it. I surrounded her with a couple of Ben Franklins, an assortment of crystals, some pretty moss, a single candle and a stick of incense… She looked exceedingly pleased in her new queendom. The next two days, I got calls from especially fantastic clients, who both ended up extending their sessions by a half an hour! Wonder Woman! (I was gonna say, “man”, but I thought what does “man” have to do with anything I’m saying? So I substituted “Wonder Woman” instead. It is meant as an enthusiastic exclamation.) I know, it sounds too good to be true, but prayer and magic are real, after all. I’m stoked. Jai Maha Lakshmi!

I’m at Mykael’s café today. This guy is sitting at my favorite table, the window table. He has this big, killer notebook. He writes in it with a simple bic ballpoint pen. He looks really absorbed. He has a nose ring. He just flipped through the pages and I saw all these quickie sketches intermingled with writings. God, I would LOVE to have a browse through the interior of his externalized mind. Not because he’s gut wrenchingly captivating… but because he’s alive and he’s investing himself in exploring the place where his interior and exterior worlds converge in one special notebook, and that’s just fucking interesting, period.

My latte foam was extra profound today! Just a footnote~ if you looked at the pictures on my camera phone, you would see that mostly I only photograph three things. The third most photographed thing is ROSES. The second most? MYKAEL. And the first= the foam on my cappuccinos and lattes. I HAD to photograph my drink today because it was a rabbit, rising up out of a lotus flower with angel wings! I have had this

Errrrrrtttttt. That’s the sound of brakes screeching to a halt, because I just thought of something much more important to say. You’ll have to wait to hear about my latte foam brain child, okay?

I want to talk about breasts. And body image. I have two resplendent friends, Mr. and Mrs. X. Last night, they told the best story I’d ever heard, literally, figuratively and biblically. Fasten your seatbelts, folks. Goes a little some’m like this: Mr. X went to a “snuggle party” (actually I think they said “cuddle party”, but I much prefer the word snuggle to cuddle. Can you dig it?) He asked Mrs. X what her boundaries were in terms of him “playing” with miscellaneous foxy ladies. She said, “If you start to get a hard-on, that means it’s time to redirect yourself.” (Those were my words, BTW, based on their recount) He concurred. Later, he came home and proudly reported that he had sat in the hot tub with a hot woman on his lap and he had blissfully fondled her breasts, all without getting a hard on! (Can’t you just see him… beaming like a little boy who’d just caught his first fish?) Mrs. X was neither amused nor inspired by this news. In fact, she was hurt and pissed off. She felt that he had covertly crossed a boundary.

Just in the mere recounting of the story, Mrs. X’s feelings resurfaced, and since the Xs are incredibly generous, courageous and transparent people, they gave Mykael and I the honor of witnessing them as they revisited this intimate space of ouch and yuck. Mr. X said his “hot tub ho” had “amazing” breasts. This stung Mrs. X, because in her experience, her mister never gushed with that kind of enthusiasm over HER breasts. Uh-oh. Trouble, right?

Breasts. Earlier in the very same day (yesterday), I happened to have been hanging out topless with a different girlfriend and a guy. He complimented her breasts (which are indeed sumptuous jewels) and immediately she responded with, “I’ve always wished they were smaller and that the areolas were darker and smaller.” He said that in his experience, women are never completely satisfied with their breasts. In that moment, I yearned to fully accept mine. Mostly, I dig ‘em. Sometimes I wish they were just a teense bigger. But fuck… what a waste of time. (I’ve also put on a slight coating of squish in the last few months… Nothing profound… just enough. And I actually really love it. I am a woman, for fuck’s sake. Women are supposed to be squishalicious. And I’d way rather focus on feeling strong and healthy and connected with myself from the inside. You know, feel my energetic flow, baby! I still have that insane program subtly running me that women’s bodies are supposed to look like emaciated teenage boys. Crazy. Plus, most of the women that Mykael is attracted to are the bony ones, so I do feel like even if I love my modest, womanly squish, he won’t. Now, intellectually, I know that my body is MINE and nothing is more important than self love and self acceptance… But…

That’s what I was wishing for Mrs. X, too. She was wanting Mr. X to express his appreciation of HER breasts in that oh-so-tense moment… But she was not getting what she wanted, which is no surprise, because generally, throwing around your pain and wrath is not the most prize-winning way to get what you want in life… But she was doing her best, considering that when a
(Ahhhh, I see myself in everyone. No wonder I feel crazy sometimes… that’s a vast notion of self… sheesh.) when a vortex of insecurity and pain (and hormones?) sucks one in… it can be debilitating. Trust me, I’m an expert.

But strange that I had two breast inadequacy incidences in one day, right? All I can think of is that God wanted me to blog about it. God wants me to reveal to you, the only REAL commandment She intended to decree~ Thou shalt love thine breasts exactly as they are and aren’t.

I didn’t say anything as Mr. and Mrs. X frolicked hand in hand through their personal field of emotional landmines. But inside, I just kept wishing that Mrs. X would love and accept her body completely without needing validation from her man. I wish that for all women. In fact, I think if a genie exploded out of a bottle right now, and granted me a wish, that’s what it would be. Another facet of my experience during the “uncomfortable breast incident”, was that I was feeling really grateful that I didn’t have “mainstream stereotypically amazing breasts”, because if I did, I would have felt guilty and ashamed of them in the face of my friends’ uncomfortable exchange. I guess I have felt guilty and uncomfortable about having a sweet body before… when I’m in the company of a friend who is overweight.

It’s tricky… as a woman… Women who let their light shine blindingly, the way it was meant to… must have to face the uncomfortable feelings of inadequacy, jealousy and comparison that their success and radiance must often solicit in women who don’t feel as amazing about themselves. I guess it could be like that for men, too… but I am addressing the wounded feminine right now. Also, the feminine is so empathic… so what a full time occupation it must be, to feel other women’s inadequacy and illusory brokenness and continue to stand tall and shine, and see that same empowered reflection in her sisters, even when they are not feeling it. God, I’m excited for our collective healing to carry us ALL to an empowered, self loving place! From now on, I’m gonna throw caution to the angel’s breath and dinosaur bones and love my breasts and my body just as they are! After all, at the end of the day, they are JUST BREASTS. And at the end of some day in the future, they will just be worm food and stardust again.

Sex Confessions Live From the Cracker Barrel

Meet Saint Theresa, my holy inspiration!

Another day on planet earth.  Please consider that it is weird here.  It always boggles my mind that my fellow humans are not constantly trippin balls about the bizarre nature of… ALL THIS… Life is a cracker barrel… so now what?  I think I spent all my enthusiasm in one place yesterday.  Next time, remind me to restrain myself so that I’ll have something to say the next day.  I guess I have plenty to say… but I miss that unbridled ecstasy feeling that lit down upon innocent Missus Me yesterday.  Today I am all bridles and bits and reigns.  I think I’ll just sit here in this less than comfortable chair and suck on my little ginger mints, waiting for the right thing to say to plunk down from the heavens into my scull.

I have plenty to say… I just feel kinda lethargic.  At least I have this pretty tin full of spicy sugar discs.  Count your blessings, ladies and gentlemen!  I guess I’ll tell you that my month is up tomorrow.  Tomorrow I can cum my brains out if I fancy. (I guess I could today too, but that would entail raining on my own commitment parade built for one…) Honestly, I am not even that excited about it.  I actually prefer not cuming.  Because then LIFE its self turns to one big blushing, revelatory orgasm.  Truth be told, what I am most excited about is my predatorial womb slurping up Mykael’s cum!  It feels edgy to share this with you… But I’m gonna do it anyway, because there is nothing wrong with talking about sex.  It’s just that organized religion would have us believe that.

When Mykael comes in me, I love to practice totally letting go.  I used to try to cum at the same time he did… but then I one time I simply received his energy and it was wholely holy.  It was like a seed of secret bliss being planted somewhere deep inside me… and then feeling that seed slowly sprout and grow and rise up through my body, flooding me with wave after wave of orgasmic bliss.  Through each chakra, starting of course at my root and eventually blasting through my heart so that I become a sea of involuntary scream and ecstasy.  I don’t think the wave has ever made it all the way out the top of my head and back out into the cosmos from whence it sprung.  That’s what I’ll shoot for tomorrow.  I’m not gonna be the one shooting, but you dig what I mean, right?  Surrender for president.  I always imagine Saint Theresa being stabbed by the angel’s divine arrow of Rapture as I am being penetrated.  To me, she is the epitome of divine surrender. (I’m gonna try to attach my favorite image of her to this post)

The other day I wrote about my experience of becoming a woman.  I want to add to that… that a huge piece of my becoming has been exploring, healing and savoring my sexuality.  Somehow, my experience of my sexuality seems to be directly linked to my power.  Getting comfortable feeling so deeply… running so much energy through my body.  Inviting this potent healing energy up… up into my heart, and even all the way through my crown… I’m not an expert at this, but I do know that a little intention goes a long way.  It would make sense then that “the powers that be”, (you know, the ones who for what ever reason want to maintain control of our collective consciousness) would be invested in suppressing the sexuality of women.  I still don’t even have a clear picture of what it looks like, feels like to live in a world where women are fully empowered.  It seems to me like we are slowly waking up and shimmeying free of the lopsided patriarchal paradigm…

BUT… yes, there is still a big butt… But until we are ALL inhabiting our bodies in peace, joy, ecstasy and sisterhood… UNTIL we all remember that there is ENOUGH love, enough room for each of us to shine in the glorious truth of our innate radiance… Come on, women~ don’t tell me that you have not felt that pang of envy upon witnessing a sister who is thriving.  We are so programmed to believe that one woman’s success and happiness is somehow a threat to our own havingness.  Sure, that is a generalization… there ARE a few well adjusted among us, shining like beacons, leading the way for the rest of us.(I’m pretty sure that our arrival in this place of truth is inevitable) But for the most part we are still under the thick, intoxicating spell of scarcity and competition.  God, I want us all to be free of that.  Dear All Pervading Light, please help the women of this world remember and embody the truth of the abundance of love.  Amen.

That reminds me of the lesson in A Course In Miracles from a few days ago.  It said that what we call “gifts” are not truly gifts, because when a true gift is given, it does not take anything away from any other.  In the giving of a true gift, the gift is made available to the giver as well as the receiver, because the only things that can be given are that which are Eternal and of Love.  Peace, Joy, Blessings… Generosity, Kindness…  Sumptuous stuff like that…  It makes sense to me.  The act of giving a true gift is an affirmation of divine abundance.  And in affirming that, we also receive access to that which we affirm thru giving it away.

So WOMEN~ Remember this:  Everything that we see in our sisters also belongs to us.  It is who we are.  Period.  We are worthy, whole and wildly gifted.  What about men?  This probably applies to you too.  Grrrrr… I don’t feel as articulate on this topic as I want to be.  Because I feel passionate about it.  It feels crucial and I want to be heard.  I want these words to burrow through the layers of your very bedrock and into the core of the heart of the soul of you because I want to live in a world where we are free.  I want to live in a world where we are all awake to the truth of Love’s boundlessness.  Why?  Just to see what it’s like, I guess…

But for now, I’ll just jump back to the topic of sex.  I am a MUCH HAPPIER, more well adjusted woman when I am being fucked well.  Period.  God I am so full of periods today.  But really, Mykael was making love to me last night and I realized that our sexual compatibility is a huge factor in why I keep choosing him.  It’s really awesome to have someone in the next bedroom (yes, we have separate bedrooms…Connected by a bathroom.  Isn’t that cute?) who you know can bone you immaculate.  Boned Immaculate.  Far superior to being stoned immaculate in my opinion.  Though being stone and boned immaculate at the same time is pretty awesome!  Someone who not only do I want to invite as deep into my body as possible, but also my heart, my soul, my everything.  (I haven’t been consistently feeling that during our recent tumult… but when I do… I REALLY DO, and that’s what counts.)  After he fucks me so well, every cell of me reverberates with awakened yearning and tremulous ecstasy and for hours (or sometimes even days) afterward, which causes me to shudder and gasp and explode just being near him.

That is the pro side of the coin.  Have you heard the news?  The news that all men are retarded assholes and all women are crazy bitches… (According to David Deida) When I heard this, I felt immense relief.  Like, “Oh!  So I didn’t take a wrong turn somewhere.  I need not search any further for the man who is NOT a retarded asshole.  You are ALL a fellowship, a vast brat pack of retarded assholes.  The only question is WHICH RETARDED ASSHOLE DO I CHOOSE TO BIND MY LIFE TO?  To surrender to and share LIFE with…  And not only that, but I am not broken for being a crazy bitch, after all!  Yeah, I’m in FANTASTIC company as it turns out (yes, I’m referring to YOU!).  But Mykael’s particular strain of retarded asshole sure does get on my nerves.  I think there might be a direct correlation between a man’s masculinity, sex appeal and his retarded assholeness.  I am very attracted to the MAN that Mykael is… but the shadow of that is his intrinsic ass-holy retardation.  Sigh… if life was all sweet and no bitter, I’d’ve gotten bored to tears a long time ago, I suppose.  I think that’s why I’m taking my sweet time, dreamily shuffling along the path on my quest to find God’s luminous peace inside me.

No One Told Me It Would Be Like This

What is it about a freshly blossoming female?  She is neither girl nor woman, but a sumptuous entity all her own.  I think it is okay for me to broach this subject…as a woman… if a man were to describe his fascination with the pubescent girl he sees regularly at the climbing gym, he would surely be condemned as a pervert.  But me?  I’m a woman.  A good, honest, God thumping citizen, who has even paid taxes once or twice!  So I for some reason have a little more permission to say that this girl makes herself into quite an enticing little morsel.  (If I were her parent, I imagine I’d feel into some jagged edges around setting my little baby free to express herself versus not wanting to set her free on the streets looking like a freshly hatched sexual invitation…)

She is tiny.  No trace of woman curves.  Except she has these darling new born boobies that rock!  Seriously.  She wears bras that push them up into little understated mounds of ivory cleavage.  Over that, she wears a very minimal, low cut tank top. (usually a red one)  On the bottom, she wears skin tight jeans with a hole in the knee.  Her hair is long and blond and a little tangly.  Around her wide, child’s eyes, she wears a tasteful rim of black.  I bet she’s thirteen.  Whenever she is in my vicinity, I find myself studying her.  Honestly, I can see why men would be involuntarily, biologically excited by a little girl like this.  Sheesh, even I am.  She is a strange cocktail of freshness and danger, innocence and wildness.  She’s so small, but with such promise of impending fullness.  Beholding her is looking at a masterfully crafted poem.

Thanks to this modestly spicy little creature, I can almost understand why my step dad freaked out when I painted my fingernails a bold, mauvy-pink color for the first time.  I was either thirteen or fourteen.  I sat down at the dinner table and he exclaimed that it was a color that a prostitute would wear.  I had been so thrilled to take a preliminary dive into the pool of sensual, feminine play, and in an instant I was thrown on the defense and wondering somewhere inside, if I had done something quintessentially wrong.  Did I really look like a prostitute with my shiny, pink nails?  I had only meant to be beautiful and express myself.  But I suppose it is an odd thing for a man to suddenly perceive his daughter as attractive.

This brings me to another topic… Becoming a woman.  In my experience, it was a journey as arduous and lonely as inventing the wheel.  Nobody told me it would take thirty years.  And neither did anyone tell me that once I was a woman, I would still feel like the same child inside.  Seriously, I look out my eyes, I feel through my heart, and it is the same ageless, being of perpetual innocence, wonder and heavy wisdom that has always taken up residency here.  The only thing that has changed is that I have more responsibility.  I can’t just hang out at my best friend’s desk drawing cartoons of older boy next door, who simultaneously grossed me out and turned me on.  I suppose I could do that after the bills have been paid and the children fed… Grin.

I wonder if it is like that for all women… I suppose if my mom was more open and communicative about all topics woman, it could have been different.  But she didn’t say much to me on the subject.  Slowly, over much time, I just found myself inhabiting a woman’s body.  No, scratch that, I was far from inhabiting my “woman’s body”.  I think that’s really what becoming a woman has meant for me, is learning to actually INHABIT my body.  I didn’t begin to feel glimmers of hope in that arena until I was twenty seven or twenty eight years old.  Before that?  My body did NOT feel like a comfortable, safe or inspiring place to hang out.  Remember, I had an eating disorder (over eating) in my late teens and early twenties, which meant that my body was a place of S-H-A-M-E, hiding, repulsion… and my mind was perpetually fixated on what I would eat next… until I ate and felt repulsed and then I would scheme my plot for impending starvation.  Man, talk about prison.  Talk about hell.  And it was all in staunch secrecy.  When I say that shame is an emotion meant to guard the fortress of imagined separation, I am not kidding.  What an ingenious mechanism to perpetuate the campaign for separation!  It was impossible for me to just be with others, with myself, with the moment.  Then, add to that chronic constipation, scoliosis, shoulder pain, difficulty drawing a full breath.  Yeah, there was no way I was gonna drop down and feel all the unwieldy sensations and emotions that were festering in my tortured human form.

What shifted?  Years of yoga practice, healing (and self discipline) around my relationship to food, a commitment to exploring and unfolding my sexuality, and a willingness to feel my belly.  A willingness to feel my belly.  Seriously, I think that might be the key to the Queendom.

When Mykael and I were at dinner the other night, (remember, the “date night” from hell?) we were seated at the community table, which I wanted to report actually saved our lives, because we ended up making friends with the women next to us, and that diffused some of the immense pressure we had built up between us… (the moral of that story is that we need to get out and socialize more.)  Before we officially invited our brooding selves into the sunshine party next door, I overheard the woman next to me talking about dieting.  So many women incessantly diet, don’t we?  I forget that sometimes, because many of my friends are not dieters… that I know of.  So mostly the topic is off my radar.  (My neurosis around food these days are more in the vein of “is eating this going to make me constipated or exhausted?”)

But you know what?  Fuck dieting.  Dieting is an obsession.  Once the diet is over, then what?  Then you whiplash to the other end of the spectrum as a natural function of depriving yourself for so long.  I used to be terrified that I’d inevitably be fat one day.  But somewhere along the line, that fear vanished.  Now I just focus on eating nourishing, balanced meals, and actually feeling my body as I do so.  I exercise regularly, not because I “SHOULD”, but because my mind and body function with more lucidity and vitality when I do.  Many times a day, I remember to release my awareness down into my belly and I realize that I have been holding it in.  Sometimes letting go feels like work… Something in me is so habituated to holding on.  I remember when I wore my first bikini. I think it was around the same time that I painted my nails like a prostitute.  I was a little bit squishy around the middle, and when I wore it in front of my step dad’s family, one of his sisters poked at my squish and told me to suck it in.  That was a pivotal moment in losing my innocence, a moment I became painfully aware of how I looked.  Not that I didn’t have any body issues before that moment… I did.  But that was the beginning of a committed practice of shamefully sucking my belly in.

As women, we are trained to do this.  It makes perfect sense.  When I just let myself FEEL my belly, there is so much energy in there.  I feel alive, turned on, creative, powerful, intuitive.  It’s been a popular topic to discuss the return of the Divine Feminine these days.  Collectively, we are aware of the nearing of the end of this destructive, imbalanced cycle of patriarchy…you know what I’m talking about… all the recent Goddess buzz… The domination of the patriarchy never would have gotten away with it if women were at home in our bodies.  Our bodies are sanctuaries of wisdom, temples of boundless pleasure and intuitive magic.  And if we all knew this, the world would be quite a different place.  Not to say that we DON’T know… Slowly, we are waking up.  But I wonder how quickly dieting would become obsolete if we all just let go of our bellies and made ourselves at Home, from the INSIDE out.

Give Me Cookies Or Give Me Peace

I’d much rather be stuffing my menstrual face full of chocolate chip cookies than sitting here trying to figure out which words to commit to this blank slate.  Will these words alter the course of the entire cosmos?  Maybe.  I have a hunch that every single thought and action does, whether we know it or not.  Whether we believe it or not.  And I also believe that a cut deeper is that it doesn’t even matter, since this whole world we dream is but a grandiose, self-important illusion.

Chocolate chip cookies…  Did you know that I used to be a compulsive eater?  I might as well talk about this, since I can’t think of anything else to say…  And best case scenario, my sharing could be of service to someone else “out there”.  (Strange… you seem to be “out there” to me, and yet to you, you are just “here”.  It’s kinda like we’re all self contained space cadets traveling through the deep reaches of outer space [inner space?], occasionally colliding with other travelers, sometimes with body, sometimes mind, heart… or another automobile…)

Cookies.  Lemme back up.  Sugar.  I believe there are demons inside me who thirst for sugar the way predators thirst for blood.  I try really hard not to feed these little demons, because one taste and they become suddenly activated and unrelenting, wanting more and more and more and more and… And I do not enjoy being their bitch.  When I was seventeen, I would eat myself sick.  Don’t ask me why.  It was compulsive.  God only knows what kind of pain I was masking.  But “at the end of the day” (one of my favourite expressions lately), pain is pain.  And at the end of the day, too, rain rhymes with pain and at the end of the beginning of this now moment, it is raining and my pain is at bay.   How auspicious is this collision of converging words speaking of deeper reaches that can only be reached by those willing to get DIRTY.

What was I saying?

Pain is pain.

And I try to abstain

From sugar.

But I was about to bleed and I ate some Mexican chocolate ice cream at dinner with Dan on Monday.  Which greatly excited the demons.  Then on Tuesday, I remembered that Mykael and I had been given a phat stash of cookies which were hibernating in the freezer.  (Mykael’s parents’ friends, the Spinellos have a gay son who is in the cookie business with his partner and they give plenty of the “run-off” to mom and dad)  And then crème brule on Wednesday.  Ooops.  And then… yesterday, again I was perpetually haunted by the slumbering, frozen cookies.  I woke up from my nap with a primal yearning for sugar, butter and hard chocolatey lumps.  Fine.  Athena, you can have HALF a cookie.  YESSSSS!!!!  Lucky me!  So I chomped upon the false promise of hollow heaven.  And for that moment, my body sang siren songs of ecstasy.  Consuming sugar truly can be an experience of symphonic rapture.  (Just so you know, I am on the verge of crying right now, because life is strange and my friend Dan said I would make a great minister, and when I think about praising God all day, for a living, all I can do is cry.  I will cry as I deliver my sermons, because my heart yearns and begs to break in an infinitude of pieces, one for each lost space cadet who exploded from God’s mind in that first holy combustion)

Where was I?  Cookies.  So I ate that half and then I had that old, terrifying feeling of perpetual insatiability.  I felt the whisper of weakness inside, and the cellular memory of the days when I was bored, aching and confused beyond belief and all I could do was make ONE MORE trip the refrigerator, all the while, loathing my body, not wanting to feel it, and my mind chattering up a noisy storm about how tomorrow I would diet, exercise, regain some semblance of control.  All the while feeling disgusted, so alone and A-S-H-A-M-E-D.  Shame is so fascinating to me.  I must’ve written about this before, but I just have to comment on how shame was so intelligently fashioned to perpetuate it’s own survival, because it insists that one mustn’t expose or reveal it because it is UTTERLY repulsive and unlovable, so the afflicted party must invest in concealing it, and like a fungus, it runs rampant in dark, moist areas of the psyche.

So yesterday after I ate my half cookie I thirsted with everything that I am for MORE.  And I argued loudly with myself in my head for a few searing eternities before convincing myself to break off another SMALLISH hunk.  It was weird to feel the juxtaposition of where I have been and where I am now, with a will that can kick some serious impulse booty.  My will wears steel toe boots and uses her big, sexy brains to decimate shadowy impulses with insight and intelligence.  My will refuses to lose control.  How on earth do I manage to have good orgasms?*!??*$^$#()&%  I’ll tell you how~ HARD WORK.  I laugh out loud as I write that, because it is true and if I didn’t laugh, I’d probably be criticizing myself for that truth.  But honestly, when I’m having sex, I am mostly coaching myself on how to most optimally “enjoy” the experience.  Hey, at least the incessant chatter is trying it’s best to be of service.

So I broke off another modest chunk of cookie and thrust the bag back in the dark recesses of the freezer as though it was the predator and I was the prey… Then I devoured the meager, sweet, false promise of salvation in the space between breathing moments, only to find myself feeling just as empty and voracious as I was before I consumed it.  And yes, I felt some shame wash through me, telling me that I’d be best off hiding myself from others, and best off beating myself up a bit for slipping even a little toe’s distance into the repulsive pit of addictive behavior.  All of this over not even a SINGLE lousy cookie!

Now, we all have our own custom fashioned relationship to food, sugar, addiction, self control, impulse… But I share this with you to poke so much fun at my own particular combination, because if I didn’t, the mechanism of fear and shame would do everything in its power to convince me that I am ALONE in these wormy little habits and that they are utterly unlovable.  I used to believe it.  Sometimes I still do.  But mostly I find it amusing.  Mostly I want to illuminate shadows that we might share, so that YOU can feel more human, and therefore, you, WE can be FREE.