on becoming...

I am in the process of deconstructing the structures and patterns of behavior and function that I have built and used through most of my life.  I am returning to the core of my being, returning to the child and her gifts, talents, and joys, to the truth of who I was, and who I am. 

The process is painful and, without the tools that I have used for decades, panic and depression are more difficult to keep at bay.  The new skills that I am learning are less familiar.  They require practice to remember and to use and, I have not yet developed grace.

I have a vision of who I wish to become but, the path to becoming is a mystery to me still.

So I continue to consciously reject the old patterns of behavior, I continue to learn new skills and to practice them.  I continue to remember who I am in truth.  I continue to remember the vision of who I hope to become.  

May my Gods, my Ancestors and my Allies bless me in this work.   So Mote It Be.

on safety, strength, loving and being loved.

I have never in my life felt completely safe with those I loved, with those who loved me.  I have felt that longing, that lacking, for as long as I can remember.  I had not been able to put a word to that feeling until I went to see Monika Lonely Coyote for shamanic healing this past summer.  When she was working on my heart, she gave the word “safe” to the thing I have needed and never had. 

I have been revisiting that need recently.  I have begun working with the Lady Freyja-Vanadis, the Vanir Goddess of Love, Sexuality, War and Death.  It seems that the Lady wishes me to revisit ALL of the memories that I have willfully forgotten in order to resolve them.  The moments when someone whom I loved, someone who loved me, valued someone or something more than they valued me.  The betrayals that I have chosen to forget in order to avoid the conflict of feeling betrayed.  My version of loyalty and unconditional love. 

I have always known that each person I loved, who loved me, valued something or someone more, would always choose that thing or that person before me, that I would always be second to whatever, or whoever that was.  And I have not been wrong. 

The thing about never feeling safe in that way is that, while you can choose to love someone knowing that to be true, trusting them becomes a choice to accept that you will never feel safe.  You will always have to love them from strength that you can never put down.  And that strength becomes very thin, and very heavy, all at the same time. 

The insecurity of that place eventually wears down the strength that you have until you either stop loving and close off or, you become dependent and incapable of loving, only of needing.

The Lady does not seem to find either of those options acceptable, and so I must learn to Love from a place of Trust and Strength, and that requires that I must learn to feel safe.  And so we are revisiting all of the moments that have taught me that I am not safe, in order to resolve them, and to try to learn how to let go of them somehow. 

I have recently come to know …and love…someone who is a catalyst for me in this work.  This person has challenged my belief that I cannot ever feel safe in another’s love.  Like me, this person has other lovers, and like me, they do not struggle with jealousy, but they have shown me love in a way that I have never experienced before.  They protect and care for me in moments of weakness and vulnerability, they accept me and love me unconditionally, they have shown me their loyalty and that they value me.  And they have accepted my care and protection, my loyalty and love, my support and respect.  They have shown me what it is to feel safe.

In that place of Safety, Trust is real, and Strength is real.  Because I can feel safe I can truly feel strong and I can truly love others, for Loving others comes from Strength, from the place of knowing that I can serve them, that because of my ability to trust, and to feel safe, I can return to a place of strength and do what needs to be done, to provide what strength, safety, support and loyalty is needed.   I can put the needs of those I love before my own because, my own needs are met, and I am safe.

Pluto's child

The voice in the dark that has been talking the loudest lately is one I have been hearing for what seems like my entire life.  And truth be told, while it is not the first voice that I can remember hearing, I have been hearing it since I was a child.  A friend called tonight because they knew that I was having a very dark time and when I spoke the thoughts that I have been hearing for the past week or so, they asked me which one of my selves was saying those things. 

I did not know the answer, and so my friend had me ask each of the members of the committee if they were the one speaking…none of them were.  So my friend had me ask them who was speaking and they all looked behind them at a shadow standing behind them all. 

I could not make out the features of the shadow at first but then I could, and it was a child.  That child is the strongest of my shadows.  She is the one who believes the things that children do, the way that children do.  She is not rational; she is afraid, angry, ashamed, confused and persistent.   I thought that I had resolved those feelings and beliefs that “Pluto’s child” held but, she is still a part of me.  She will always be a part of me, she will never be a grown woman, she will never not be shadow and she will never die. 

I still have work to do with her, I understand that now.  If I am aware of her, and her beliefs, and her feelings, I can remember that she is just a child and that her irrational beliefs are not truth, just the feelings of a child.  I am not a child; I have more tools, more knowledge, more understanding, more voices.  I have an entire committee, as well as beloveds with whom I am safe. 

The shadow child needs to speak too.  She needs to be allowed into the light to voice things that we have been silent about for far too long.  Expressing her anger, and her fears, and her irrational beliefs is necessary.  Children do not heal in the dark and the silence.  

Instinct of Home

Instinct of Home...the things we say while fucking…

When you were fucking me,

and I was begging you to cum,

you asked me “why?” 

I remember you asking,

I remember having no language to answer.

All I could do was beg.

In that moment,

I needed you buried deep,

I needed the gift of your potential,

Even though it could never take root as a child,

I needed you to plant your seed inside me.

I needed the energy of your release,

Like a crust of bread to a starving beggar,

Like air to a drowning man,

In that moment,

I needed to please you.

I needed to be owned by you,

I needed to be your bitch.

You said later that I referred to my body as Home,

and again you asked me “why?” 

I have been trying to find a way to reconcile 

the desperate need I felt and

the language I found to answer.

As the Earth is our Home and the body of our Mother

Home is an instinct beyond the language I have.

Home is where life is,

where needs are met, 

where sustenance is provided,

Shelter and comfort 

warmth and light,

strength and stability 

from which to go forth,

A haven when rest and sleep and healing are needed,

a place of safety and belonging and pleasure,

Home is a place you own and possess by inhabiting it.

A place that is not home,

is empty space 

without life,

or warmth 

or light

abandoned 

un-owned,

without purpose.

Even a grave has purpose,

to the dead who own it.

That instinct is older than my language.

It is primitive knowing from lifetimes ago,

encoded into my body’s  DNA,

that my body exists to please another,

that it has no purpose

that survival is not assured

that it is not completely justified

without a child in my womb

or a cock in my cunt.

but, I am a woman of my time, 

and  you should never take too seriously

the things we say while fucking ...

Judgments

The thought crossed my mind today that I wish I had not learned these things about myself. 

I am having difficulty accepting and reconciling the conflict between these desires and most especially with the judgments that I make about them. It feels as though these desires belong to separate people who do not understand or trust each other.  And who judge each other harshly.

I considered pretending that they are not real, not truly a part of me but, I have too many memories from too many decades that prove to me that they are true and that they are profoundly important. I have too many memories from too many decades that warn me that pretending that they are not real will fail and that would be dangerous to my well being.

I fear that the part of me that enjoys inflicting pain and controlling others is too chaotic, too destructive, too angry, too dangerous.  I fear that given the freedom to express itself, it will hurt someone because it does not give a damn.  That it is devoid of both compassion and conscience.  That it is incapable of self-control or compromise.

That part of me is so angry because I have denied its existence and its right to exist and to express itself since I was a little girl.  And it judges me, and the part of me that enjoys pain and submission as weak, and deluded, and a coward, and a liar and a whore. 

Some of these judgments may be based in truth.  I have been a liar in denying certain truths, or in pretending to be other than I am.  I have been deluded in thinking that pretending can make it so.  I have been a coward in not speaking because I was afraid.  I have been a whore in betraying my own integrity and honor.

But I am not weak, and I am striving to overcome years of habit in behaving otherwise.  And if I give that angry part of me the chance to express and to live, it may learn to do so in a way that will not be as destructive or out of control as it has been in the past.

So I will put aside the judgments and try for reconciliation and understanding.  I will give each of these conflicting parts of me a gift.  I will give them both the chance to dress up and dance to music that expresses those desires.  I will give them both a book of their own to write from their own point of view. 

That is what I do, I communicate.  Maybe through acknowledging and honoring both as equal parts of myself, as equally deserving of existence and life, and giving each the space to express those desires, to create art and poetry and stories about who I am, I will be able to integrate them into a happy and whole person that is me.

While I may find this knowledge confusing and disturbing, I am committed to understanding all of who I am, and to learning to live as a whole person.  I suspect that the process of integrating these aspects of my identity and of mastering the power that they hold for me will be uneasy, perhaps uncomfortable, and possibly painful.  I know that the prospect is terrifying. 

But fear and pain are not reason enough to turn back, even if I could.  I have paid too high a price to fail.  People I love have sacrificed so that I might finally live.  I will not betray them, I will not betray myself.  I will do whatever is necessary to fulfill the vows that I have made.

So Mote It Be.

touching my face...

There are very few moments in my life that I can remember anyone ever touching my face.  (Very small children will do so but, after a certain age we just stop touching other’s faces, except for the faces of small children.)

I remember even my mother only ever slapped my face on those rare occasions that I truly offended her with my mouth.  Swearing did not even earn that particular punishment, only the very worst offence of “talking back”.  

I like touching the faces of those I love.  I touch the faces of the babies in my family instinctively.  I sometimes touch the faces of my grown children, though I will admit I do so very seldom, sometimes I cannot help myself.  And I enjoy touching the faces of my beloveds, of my lovers and my very dearest ones.

I remember one or two lovers who have touched my face in a moment of intimacy, but it was an extremely rare occurrence.  As if it was too personal, too intimate, as soon as they realized that they had done so, they looked away and withdrew their hand.

 

My friend touches my face sometimes.  He will put his fingers into my mouth to silence me or he will turn my face in the direction he wants me to look.  He even touches my tears and plays with them after I am done sobbing. He has never slapped my face.  I asked him about it and he said that was something that one only does to property or to humiliate another. (Neither of us is interested in humiliation nor the dynamic of ownership, and even if we were, it would not be with each other). 

There have been moments when he has touched my face and in those moments, I am torn open in extreme disproportion to the act itself.  In those moments, I am seen.  In those moments he touches something so deep inside me that I cannot ignore it.  It is an experience and a response that I wish to explore further.

time travel and the laws of physics...

Photo by Helen Jarvis-Reynolds

In the sunlight, 

the tail occasionally strikes, 

kissing my arm, my leg, my belly, 

the side of my neck once.  

We are just playing  but,

the bite of the tail, slight as it is, 

brings a flush to my skin, a rise in my heart-rate 

and a slight release of neuro-transmitters in my brain, 

I still understand the science, for now.

Later, we sit in the summer evening.  

I recall moments from long ago; 

the sound of rain on the roof of a car, 

the smell of South Carolina soil, 

the taste of strawberry wine,

another face, another name,

and the structure of time begins to shift.  

My memories from a lifetime ago are closer than they appear.  

the day to day, of life as it is now, fades to a distant past.

Later still, I sit on my bed in soft cotton, 

drinking wine and listening to music from that life long gone; 

you say my voice changed somewhere during the third song... 

The occasional touch of your claws playing lightly on my arm 

causes another release of the magick potion in my brain, 

I am less conscious of the science now.

I got up to get something, 

from the kitchen I think, more wine maybe? 

I am not sure now, 

you were standing behind me, 

your claws tracing symbols across my skin.

“You may turn around now…” 

your voice, a whisper from a half-remembered dream.

Moments skip forward; 

Minutes? Seconds? Days? Hours? Years?

The structure of time has lost cohesion.

bent over the bed, my hands behind my back,

"Do not move"...

the universe collapses into my skin... 

there is no spoon, no room, no clock on the wall, no walls…

only your claws on my back, your growl in my ears, 

your hand gripping my hair, 

pulling my head back, exposing my throat.

The magick in my brain has taken effect; your spell has cast me into power...

The laws of physics have been replaced by a warm russet fog 

that smells like sex and tastes of your skin; 

gravity no longer applies. 

Your forearm pressing against my neck makes it difficult to breathe, 

your grip on my hair tightens, 

both pull me back against you, 

“Don’t make a sound” 

and when you have finished fucking me again... 

“That, was for me."

Your voice penetrates the fog that fills my body and my brain, 

causing the temperature to increase by a magnitude...

Later, after you have restored the clock 

along with the walls and spoons and things, 

and I am once again a woman of my age 

and not a time-traveler, containing the entire universe within my skin, 

you ask me about the things I said when you asked me "why?"…

There are no bruises this time, but for a shadow on my belly from your teeth, 

and answers that I do not remember giving...