The Bitch Is Back

The bitch is back and she is sexy as fuck.  The bitch knows what she wants.  She can feel it, it is visceral.  She knows truth instantaneously.  And guess what folks, it’s not all roses out there.

The bitch is going to call shit like it is.  If it smells like shit: She is going to say something.

There are a few good men out there, backing up this bitch.

I would say, in this day and age, that men of color are more likely to “get it” when it comes to knowing how to support a woman who is knowing her own strength, knowing herself as a bitch.  Not “somebody’s” bitch, her own Bitch – y’all hear what I’m saying, right?

But, you know, it’s just a potential – and I’m partial to where I grew up and live now: the West Coast of the USA.  In so many ways, I speak to my own narrow perspective when I call out men of color as leaders of what might be known as “The Men’s Movement” in this country.  But listen, anyone reading…it’s gotta start somewhere.  It’s gotta start.  The male gender as a whole needs a big Heart Resuscitation.

Lately, I’ve been saddened and shaken by the numbness among men – I see it so starkly in men my own age, late thirties early forties…. Like I can’t even relate to their cynicism.  But, you know, age is just a number, and I’ve seen it revealed in men much older as well.  So clueless!

But – we must ask ourselves – where are the role models for men?

Men.

Like Hitler?

Like Freud?

Like Charles Manson?

Christopher Columbus?

Saddam Hussein?

Napoleon?

So and so’s father who did this and that?

So and so’s husband who beat her?

Why?

Why?

And men, so many men all over the globe,

They feel so unloved, and so isolated

And so completely unsure of themselves

Because

Blockages

Blindness

Unwilling to humble themselves

Before the true self

Unwilling to let their frozen hearts

Thaw

Their minds

Quiet

Their impulses

Hold back

And listen

.              .              .

Will you stop

And listen

Now?

.              .              .

I’m going to tell you

To give everything you can

To this Earth

Ma Gaea

And the women

And the children

Of it

Of this land

La Tierra

And the water

La Vida

.              .              .

I tell you

Men of the Earth

Now is the time

To become the most chivalrous

You have ever imagined a Man to be

.              .              .

Rise up Men

The Women of the Earth

Are calling you

To stand for what is right

.              .              .

.              .              .

And another thing,

If you have “mommy” issues

Or “daddy” issues

Call on the Great Mother

Call on the Earth and her Water

Call on all the Love buried inside you,

Aching to be alive in the world.

Call on the Great Father

All of Space and Time

Call on the Light within,

Your suffering will become your very Guru

In the light of Illumination

In the light of Love.

.               .               .

.               .               .

 

Neural Pathways

I’m following my thoughts, or they are following me.  Paved neural pathways carry me down trails of self-doubt, I don’t even notice.  Thoughts are chasing me into corners, but it’s my own voice speaking, so I am not alarmed.  It happens every day, this predictable demise of self-love.

Sometimes it is the small thoughts that wake me up.  Small, repetitive, tedious thoughts.  Nagging, list-making, flaw-finding thoughts.  Insidious thoughts – they take over and I don’t stop them.  They sound like the voice of reason, driving down these neural pathways that are more like neural ruts.  I am beginning to catch them before hours go by, before my whole day has been shadowed by doubt and dissatisfaction.

More and more, these life-sucking thoughts are being caught by the light of my own inner awareness.  They are becoming more noticeable, like red flags.  More and more, I bring myself to back away from the abyss of self-loathing….for that is exactly where the neural ruts lead me.  They all tell me I am garbage, in so many words.  Even (and sometimes especially) the “self-improvement” thoughts also lead me to that trashy feeling.  These thoughts are tricky, like I said!

They often present as subtle, grating, fear-based reasons for pervasive, fear-based questions.

Like:

“What is wrong with me?”

“Why am I fucked up?”

“Why do I do everything wrong?”

“Why do I suck at ______________?” (parenting, relationships, adulting, etc.)

“Why am I a horrible_______________?” (insert noun)

depression

When I look behind these thoughts – that are actually narrow, self-absorbed and self-loathing fantasies – I see where they are coming from.

I see the scared me.

The exhausted me.

The hurting me.

I see the me that has almost given up, but not quite, and if I could just have a hug and some love and some grounding energy, then maybe I’d be okay.

But I am alone.

It is up to me.

“It’s okay, baby” I say.

I stroke my own arm.

“You’re all good, kid” I whisper, hugging myself.

“This life shit is hard sometimes.  You are human.  You are on a spiritual quest with all the trappings of the body: Pleasure, Pain, Duality.  Joy, Loss, Grief.  Anger, Hate, Jealousy, Despair.  Fear and Desire.  Empathy.  Love.”

And with this quiet reminder, my tears are flowing and my heart is bursting with forgiveness – for this struggle, for the precarious nature of life, for myself, my friends, and for those who would be my enemies.

My neural pathways are being weeded and plowed.  The farmer of my mind is not my thoughts.

The Farmer tills the soil of my very heart.

My mind gives up resistance, in glimpses, here and there.  New neural pathways are explored.

This is more pleasure than I thought possible!  Are you sure this is allowed?

“Yes,” says the Farmer, “It’s your life.”

*

 

 

 

All of me

 

My ex-lover sent me a concerned email when I posted about a “sex class” I went to recently.  My children don’t follow my blog, and they probably never will – but I had been using my real name on Medium, and the ex-lover had a point: “Any of your sons’ boneheaded friends could google your name and this story will pop up.”  He went on to say that I was the “hot mom” among their peers, and that my boys most certainly hated knowing that.  Concerns veiled in compliments, but I felt controlled.

I replied: “Good tip, changing my name on Medium now.”  And I gave myself a new pen name.  Problem solved.

But an anger was stewing, and my mouth wanted to breathe fire.

This energy will not be denied.

I’m claiming my freedom in this space, and a large part of that is connected to my sexuality.  I know this is nothing to be ashamed of.  The type of erotic play I am into is extremely vanilla compared to a lot of the things I read about, but even if it wasn’t — no shame!  I am finding that by exploring the sexual experiences and fantasies of other writers and by slowly sharing my own, I am tapping into incredibly rich creative energy.   I am humbled by these brave and sexy writers who are stirring the pot of erotic energy for those of us who are turned on by the written word.  I am relishing in my own desires without needing a physical partner to fulfill my needs.  And I am learning so much!

I feel protective of my freedom of expression, and unwilling to yield to a status quo version of sex, love or partnership.

And although my ex-lover means well, I also know he wants another chance at “us” – he wants to try some things I have revealed in my writing, things he didn’t know I wanted because I didn’t tell him and he didn’t ask.

His next email to me was titled “Sex” and was basically him coming to terms with his own beastly desires.  Would I wear a collar for him?

Again, I wanted to breathe fire.

Not because I don’t like collars.  I actually don’t know.  But because I am feeling raided….

I’m not here to defend my right to be.

I’m not here to train you to be my perfect lover.

I’m just uncovering the truth of my being.

Things that were dormant are being revealed.  Old wounds have healed enough that now they can be spoken of.  I am learning to be alive in my body.  I am waking up.

It makes some uncomfortable, or sad.

It might turn you on.

It might make you wonder.

And as for the ex-lover,

he doesn’t get to put a collar on me,

not even in my writing.

But the advice has been received,

and thank you for your concern.

*

Side note:

I will always love my ex-lover, he is a beautiful being!

Ending poem:

The heart is in critical condition.

I didn’t tell you,

but I’m breaking all the time.

Little bits of me are falling off – can you see?  That’s my veil cracking.

And if you want to explore this mess with me,

i won’t stop you.

*

 

 

 

 

Holy

There will be some days when you feel more holy than others,

And that is good.

As you bask in the sweetness of your connection to the One who sustains you,

Remember, dear one, you are just like the other.

Reach, reach, reach

For the end of yourself.

Anytime you think you “know” –

Press further.

Press past any idea of being right.

Press into the Mystery.

Trust your gut –

When instinct says:

Get out!

Leave!

I don’t deserve this!

This is not what I want!

Listen.

Protect your precious, precious self.

*

But when Grace hits you like a ton of bricks,

And you can’t stop thinking about

Him

Or Her

Or It —

Please, reach only for that place

Where you dissolve.

Claim nothing.

Take nothing.

Judge nothing.

The Mind is the Ocean,

Cool and vast.

The Heart is on fire,

Erupting with love and yearning for the Thing that binds us.

Fan those flames only, my friend.

Fan those flames only.

*

*

*

Over It

 

I’ve been feeling riled up and at the end of my rope.  I have my list of reasons why my life is challenging right now.  I have my bag of feelings telling me: this is too hard, I need to find a way out, I can’t do this, I’m failing.  I’m keeping struggle and conflict nearby, like they are part of my identity.

I’m tired.  I’m edgy.  I’m “this close” to biting your head off.

Like a wounded animal, I snarl and back into my cave.  Don’t fuck with me.

I can taste the blood in my mouth, the blood of this heart I’ve been carrying around, and I realize that it is MY heart.  The anger and frustration are in vain because they only lead back to self-sabotage.

Bruises are blooming upon the mind that keeps punching itself.  But once you’re in a downward spiral, none of this matters.  You are drunk on this conviction that THIS IS ALL WRONG.

The blood leaks from the corners of my mouth.

*

I don’t know how to put my heart back in my body.

I don’t know how to find stillness in this world that is so very cracked.

I don’t know how to meet the standards it takes to be a “good mother,” a “good woman,” a “good human being.”

The satisfaction is always a step away, an achievement away, a validation away.

“I’m almost there.”

“I’m going to make it.”

“Everything is going to be okay.”

“My kids are going to turn out fine.”

“Someday, I will find love.”

But this is now.

*

Something in me is crying, because it is right here, and it always has been, and I’m so sorry I’ve forgotten again.  I forgot it about you, and him, and her, and me and all of us.

Help me remember.

Help me find my way back when I’m lost like this.

Will you shine your light on the path that leads to the field that Rumi speaks of?

*

I had a dream last night, full of the usual busy-ness and nonsense.  I had a million obligations.  I felt judged.  I was comparing myself to those around me.  I harbored a list of the 5,642 reasons why I suck.

Suddenly, I was drawn to lie down on a hidden patch of grass, dappled in sunlight.

I lay down.

It was the sweetest thing.

That feeling of failure was so strong and I was so tired from it.

I let myself rest.

I was being given a gift, lying here in the sun.  The chaos of the world was three feet away, but I was offered a respite, a moment of inactivity.

I didn’t earn that moment.

That moment didn’t fix me.

I didn’t escape my whereabouts or my looming obligations.

In that moment, as gave up on trying,

I felt loved.

*

And I was that love.

*