For the LOVE of Words

When push comes to shove and shove comes to knuckle sandwich and knuckle sandwich comes to a gruesome strangling affair by a seven mile long snake with prism skin… Well… I don’t know what then. But I know that now I am here on the page to sooth myself. I have not slept well in weeks. I think this happens when my spirit is integrating a lot of new information and my poor, dense physical body, bound by time and space struggles to keep up. My spirit is a hardball playing, dragon slaying, fire spraying, business meaning machine. What’s a girl to do? Except step unabashedly onto the page and make strangely textured love to her own insides, letting her word-dripping imagination take her for a ride. So today I dedicate this blog to words that quench me, pleasure me, sooth and amuse me. That said I am suddenly burning to tell you that I sampled a new church last Sunday. I have no interest in recounting the experience, except for one crucial sliver. This was the day following Mykael’s antithesis of a lucrative art show, so we were both feeling ground down by fear in spite of ourselves. We had some kind of abrasive, unsavory exchange in the car before entering the disheveled though spirit saturated sanctuary. A handsome black man with the most soulfully luminous eyes I’ve ever seen in my entire life greeted me. He asked me how I was doing. I said something like not so good, which was all it took to open the flood gates and then in less than the space between sacred syllables, I came hopelessly undone. His eyes bled compassion all over me and he took me in his arms. He spoke in a soft loving voice and told me to let it out. I heaved in waves of surprise attack sobs. He just kept holding me and speaking soft words of reassurance into my ear. I am astounded by the beauty and generosity of his anonymous, unconditional heart. I wish I could arrange a string of words that could come somewhere near the miraculousness of the light that poured from him. I’m gonna try, because you only live once, and what else would I be doing with this razor sharp, explicit holy moment of my existence? Really… The recipe for this stranger’s eyes… in a sky-sized bowl, mix the following ingredients thoroughly~ the soft purrs of an ecstatic cat, the song from a large, deep, resonant wind chime stirred by a warm, lazy tropical breeze, the soul-shivering first kiss shared with one who enchants the pants off you, the feeling of being entirely, rapturously held in the armless embrace of warm, lucid blue tropical water, a stirring piano sonata played in complete darkness and the thick, buttery scent of croissants baking at sunrise. Does that give you some idea of the soulful beauty he poured on tearful me? In a recent-ish blog, I explored the true meaning of Grace. With the help of my readers, we came up with some bitchin’ definitions… but really, it was Grace that splashed from his eyes. It was Grace’s timeless, unconditional generosity that held me while I cried on his shoulder. It was Grace whose tears watered this thirsty desert of human suffering. Grace. She is the space between expectation-stained dreams. Grace. She is the breath that streams through me and you on nights wrapped in yearning and days splayed wide with gaiety and sweetness. Life is like surfing, isn’t it? All these waves of energy… and we must ride them. Skillfully or not, it’s up to each of us. I had a yogurt drink this morning. I blended organic low fat plain yogurt with fresh strawberries, stevia and a generous sprinkle of maca. Why am I telling you this? Because I want to. Because I LOVE sweet, creamy drinks. I love feeling them fill my mouth. I guess it takes me back to being breast fed. It is such primal, soothing pleasure. Moments spent sipping sweet creaminess are some of the most peaceful, profound and complete moments I have ever met. I imagine that when I finally remember God again once and for all, it will be like imbibing in the SWEETEST, CREAMIEST drink in all of creation multiplied infinity times by its own profound deliciousness. Fuck that’s gonna be so awesome! I can’t wait. But I’ll have to… because I haven’t yet been successful in releasing from my fear-stricken, ego-tense rollercoaster riding, ceaseless streaming spew of thoughts. I will keep knocking… and like Rumi says, when I finally open the door, I will realize I have been knocking from the inside this whole ridiculous timeless time. THE JOKE IS ON ME! Shrug. I guess all I can do is LOVE and forgive, love and forgive, love and forgive love and forgive. And BREATHE. Amen.

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Vows of Silence, Earthworms and Orasmic Revelation

Mykael and I are not speaking to one another today.  Seriously.  He proposed that we take a vow of relationship silence on Mondays.  At first I felt intimidated by this, because it was not MY brainchild, which had me feel out of control.  But then I realized that feeling perpetually in control has not been a very prize winning alternative.  In fact it has actually been a straw bale on my over-burdened camel’s poor, humpy back.  A way that I have been pressing myself into the precipice of exiting the relationship altogether.  So I accepted.  I let myself wriggle in the sexy jaws of submission… and it turned out to be a green eggs and ham story all over again! (Meaning the very thing I fought fang and claw was delicious after all!)  It’s way sexier to gesture and flirt and speak with everything besides clunky old words and concepts.  Or maybe I’m just horny.

Speaking of horny, I must confess that I sort of came last week.  Sneaky girl.  I was not going to tell on myself, but what fun is that?  It was an accident.  Suddenly I was having involuntary spasms.  But it was only a half credit orgasm, I swear, because I tried to stop it.  That must be something men do way more often~ That Holy OH SHOOT!  What a buzz kill.  Afterward, I was in denial.  I tried to pretzel twist my way out of the failure.  But when push comes to shove comes to spasm, I failed at my goal.  So the next day I masturbated and came proper.  I was having a weak moment.  A fuck this shit moment.  But soon enough, my strength returned and I recommitted.  A text book case of get right back on the mythological, horned horse syndrome.  (I like calling everything a syndrome, because these days, “the Experts” are classifying many healthy human responses to this frantic world as “syndromes”, as though we are broken and must be fixed and medicated.  WE ARE NOT BROKEN.  We are sensitive.  We are impacted by the imbalance of this world, impacted by the popular fantastical belief in the scarcity of a particular ISness we call LOVE…)

I almost ran over an earthworm on my bike on the way here.  I hope I swerved in time.  I mused on why earthworms give me the creeps… I think it might be because they are ultimately the ones who are going to digest my rotting corpse when I die.  But then, they are so cute.  Mysterious and long and slimy.  It just started raining really hard for a few minutes.  Now a thin layer of water flows down the sidewalk, turning it into a cement river.  I feel some grief imagining that this could be one of the final rainstorms of the season!  No more liquid symphonies dribbling, pounding, skipping down from above. No more mystic, silvered mirrors spontaneously cast upon the pavement, hosting a glimmering play of city lights about its temporal faces.  Ahhh, the fleeting nature of this existence.  All we can do is love it.  No, that’s not true.  We sure can fight it… Speaking of music, I just took a chickletish piece of Dentyne gum from it’s over packaged plastic and foil enslaved chamber and it made so many flirtatious sounds as I freed it.  Next time you indulge, take a good listen.  It’s quite a lovely song.

God there is so much to say.  Getting back to “getting back on the horned horse syndrome~ it would have been so easy to cling to the failure aspect of my cracked commitment.  But I didn’t.  I just dusted off my tremulous, feminine self and swan dove right back into the game.  That style of play is not my habit.  I am much more well versed at reprimanding myself for messing up and then using it as evidence of my quintessential unworthiness… but coming from one who has tried both tactics, I recommend the climb right back up on the unicorn and keep on ridin’ game.  I might not get the gold (this time), but maybe the bronze, or the tin!  And thanks to my willingness to forgive, let go and return to the practice, I have been having some orgasmic experiences that MUST have re-scrambled the eggs of the universe.  (A sparrow is bathing in a gutter puddle!  I feel frigid just watching from inside the café!  But it is epically cute!!!  So fluffy and ecstatic!)

The female body is capable of pleasure that transcends anything that language could hope to touch, stimulate or justify.  Many people have thought me mad for undertaking this endeavor, as if cumming were really the meaning of life or something.  And there have been days when I thought they must have been right.  But those were days I was not invested in my pleasure at all.  The days that I am, and I step courageously toward the VAST, uncharted territory of my own bliss… I’ll tell you what~ I have stumbled into the Holy Land, and it rocks far harder than some momentary quake, no matter how fierce it’s reading on the orgasmic Richter scale.  It’s like comparing the spontaneous realization of Eternity to a handful of skittles.  Now if you chow down on the skittles as one awakened to Eternity, I suppose you have cracked the code and have mastered the holy straddle of the chasm of dualistic infinitude… but that’s not the case for most skittle chompers.  Bottom line?  I found something.  I stumbled on something that some awakened, knowing part of me knew I was seeking, yet could not yet articulate.  It is electric, it is infinite.  It is worth the perhaps clumsy pleasure paradigm shift.  What is the secret?  OPEN.  SURRENDER.  OPEN.  SURRENDER.  OPEN.  SURRENDER.

Today is Monday.  You better believe that I went to my first church research yesterday.  And here’s the miracle~ My dad was in town (from Reno), which in its self is a miracle, since he RARELY visits… But I invited him and his wife and twin eleven year olds to Glide with me and they accepted!!!  So not only did I kick off this triumphant research project, but my dad was present at its conception.  I am thirty years old.  I don’t think he has been to church once in my entire life. (unless his wife managed to get him to her catholic institution when he was still driving under the influence of honeymoon…)  MY DAD WENT TO CHURCH WITH ME.  He asked, “are they going to talk about Jesus?”  And I thought to myself, “oh, fuck, they might… what do I tell him???”  I am so curious what that means to him.  SO WHAT if they talk about Jesus???  How awful is it to sit and listen to the inspiring stories of a man who was truly committed to being a living embodiment of unconditional love and service?  A man who persevered beyond the comfort zone of imagined separation, limitation, preached into existence by a frightened, dillusional, limited mind…

Originally I imagined that Monday’s blog would be dedicated to a full disclosure on the previous day’s church experience, but that ain’t gonna happen.  I think I’ll dabble in the recounting all week.  For now, the pressing thing to say is that I feel like I SHOULD like Glide better than I did.  It is so ALIVE, what’s not to love?  Its foundation is unconditional acceptance of every single human being.  What is more Holy than that?  I can’t think of anything.  Except maybe my non-climactic orgasms of late…

But I don’t really like gospel music.  Sure, their choir is awesome and so charged with spirit…but… The minister, Cecil, kept demanding ANOTHER song, which inevitably meant standing up… a-gain.  Clapping in rhythm.  A-gain.  My favorite recent past time is to knit in church.  To sit quiet and anonymous in my seat and let my hands meditate and produce something useful as I soak up rich and nourishing words that worm their way into lost civilizations of holy knowing, buried in the thick jungles of my heart.  Be forewarned~ Glide is not a knitting church!  Glide is a clapping church.  Furthermore, I can NOT clap and sing, which is SO EMBARRASSING to admit.  The congregation was invited to sing along with This Little Light of Mine, and within the space between heartbeats, I was all tangled up in rhythmless chaos.  Mykael finally whispered permission for me to give up on the clapping aspect and just sing, God bless’im!  My polyrhythmic dimness is one thing that is hard to love and accept about being me.  Even when I’m happily clapping praises in the church of unconditional acceptance.

“Cigarettes and booze can only take you so far.”

I wasn’t sure how to close, but then my prize-winning barista sat down next to me and chowed down on his ham and cheese sandwich on baguette, weaving between ravenous bites and frivolous snippets of gossipish conversation.  And how beautifully he summed it up for us!

Stay tuned for more unfurling Revelation!