Nah, nothing different with me nowadays, except I’m busier than hell with outside projects.  If anyone were to ask me if I was dreaming or living my dreams – I’d say that the latter is most true.  Because, seriously, things are actually getting done toward my personal, professional, and spiritual goals.

What I find interesting is that with the theatrical work, the homeschooling group, the meditations, the sexual explorations, and the Dharma group…….I sometimes find myself waking up in the morning wondering if I’m actually dreaming – like a DREAM dream, not just some fantasy.  There are times when I feel like I’m in such a surrealistic potpourri of happenings.  Despite our finances not being outrageously huge (which I never really cared for), things are happening.  And that’s surprisingly weird.

Not that I’m complaining, mind you.  I think this is awesome.  But it’s just like any play or musical or scholarship that you attain.  Once you get it, you discover that THIS is when the work begins.  It’s liberating, and terrifying, and authentic, and naked, and oh-so-wild.  There isn’t anything tame about this experience.  As far as I’m concerned, this is reality with a capital “R”.

I used to find myself daydreaming every now and then about what life would be like “if….” and then describe a particular wish that I’d have floating around in my head.  I rarely daydream now.  Why?  I don’t have time – life is too damn short, and once I had the first step toward these fantasies, there was no turning back to the little box again.  I had looked out from the precipice, saw the void, and I’ve already jumped out into it.  My feelings now fluctuate between flying and falling.  And there’s no safety net underneath me to catch me.

How utterly strange.  Honestly.  I had assumed that living your dreams would make you feel more secure.  Nothing can be further from the truth.  Liberation doesn’t have boundaries.  Once you tear down the walls, throw down your guard, pull out all the stops, and go at 200 mph, you really have no choice but to live in the moment.  You also can’t be unaware of your surroundings…….even if you TRIED,  you couldn’t be unaware of everything around you and within you.

Well, at least, that’s where *I* stand.  I’ll kiss you on the cheek if you manage to find security in blasting off into space to explore.  Personally, I can’t find any security.

But – honestly – I wouldn’t have it any other way.  What an adventure!

I nice heated debate has exploded on a discussion forum that I frequent.  The topic in question is direct, but rather loaded:  Does a husband have a right to sex, regardless of his wife’s wishes?  In other words, does a wife have an obligation to perform “Wifely Duties?”

There are two very passionate sides to this debate.  On the one hand, we have a few women who have seen the abuse firsthand what the cultural expectations are of wives who are considered some form of property of the husband.  They have lived it, tasted it, felt the pain personally.  These are female friends who understand that it isn’t just the random asshole who wanted to have it whenever he wanted it – they understand that there is a general attitude of appeasing the male sex drive as the prime directive of the sexual aspect of marriage.

On the other hand, we have a few men who understand that abuse does exist in marriages, but feel attacked for suggesting that men ought to  be considered for their sexual needs.  As much as I understand and empathize with them, this is very much a red herring.  Of course, consideration is part and parcel of a healthy marriage, and being sensitive to each other’s sexual needs is a must if both are considered equal partners.  But this in no way belongs under the argument of whether a man has a “right” to his wife’s body.  And because of this very irrelevent introduction of the red herring, there has been loads of confusion, anger, and accusations flying from both sides.  I find this amazingly depressing.

To be truthful,  it’s annoying that many times when a woman is fighting for her autonomy, we are bombarded with attempts to guilt, shame, or harass us as “reminders” that we should never forget about standing by her man.  Honestly?  That’s a load of crap.  Our autonomy allows us to give MORE and more FREELY of our love, compassion, and understanding.  Take out the “wifely duties”, and you will know for sure that your wife is giving her body and her heart to you because she wants to, not because she has to.  There’s a BIG difference there.

Now, again I ask, when do we women stop being considered property?  And when can our intentions for sexual independence be given the benefit of the doubt?

I realize that whenever I tell this story, my mother revisits her anxiety.  So, my apologies go out to my mother for bringing her grief.  As a mother, I too understand.

My family went on a vacation up to the Wisconsin Dells (which I don’t remember too much of except it was very lush and green).  I was 8 years old or so,  and watching my older brothers begin to enjoy the preteen years and newfound autonomy gave me something to look forward to.  My oldest brother had even watched over me and our other brother while our parents went out on a date on this same vacation.  Honestly, it only seemed right for me to run away from my family willingly for the first time.

One day during our stay, we decided to take a small hike along one of the many trails that are available out there.  Mom and Dad were walking together, but we kids were enjoying games of Hide and Seek along the trail we were on.  My oldest brother had found that parts of the trail would split off into small tangents and join up again with the main paved trail.  He used that to his advantage when it was his turn to hide and I was “It.”  One time, when it was my turn, I saw another split, and so I took it to hide from my brother.

I ran down the trail as fast as I could, so that I could be as difficult as possible to find.  There’s something to be said about the feistyness of youngest siblings when trying to establish themselves as competent next to their older siblings, and I was no different.  I wanted to be just as savvy and as proficient a player that he was at Hide and Seek, and so I went as far as possible down the new trail in order to make my brothers wonder.  Besides, the other trails joined up with the main one, so it stands to reason that the one that I was on would eventually join up with the main one, too.

At one point, I stopped to listen.  I heard nothing.  Silence.  I crept a little closer to where the trails forked, and then I heard my brothers start calling for me.  At that moment, I made a decision.  Part childlike naivete, part rebellion, part seeker…….I ran away instead of heeding my brothers’ call.  If I was going to win at this game, I was REALLY going to win.  ;-D

And again, to reiterate, I wasn’t worried at all about the trail meeting again with the main trail.  So, I ran without a care in the world, free at last as a growing girl ready to seek adventure like Lucy in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.

After a while, it dawned on me that I was not going to be joining up with the main trail.  The realization was slow and organic – and not comforting in any way, but strangely liberating.    This wasn’t a game anymore.  I was lost,  but I also saw this as an opportunity to explore.  So, do I retrace my steps back to my family?  Or do I carry on the way I was going to see where it would lead?

My decision to continue on gave me new life and adrenaline.  I didn’t want to retreat – that was for babies.  I wanted to be on my own and to call my own shots for once (I thought).  And so on I went, and the trail narrowed as the forest around me became thicker and thicker swallowing me whole as I trekked forward.  Yet, instead of feeling claustrophobic, I felt more at one with the forest.  It’s critters, bugs, shrubs, and trees all around me became my adopted family during that time. 

This grand playground provided the kinds of sights and sounds that I could only dream about in our backyard.  We had a small wooded area behind our home that my mother would allow me to explore every now and then, but only to a certain point, and I had to wear my hat all the time in the woods to keep the ticks off my head (although they seemed to get there anyway).  But HERE……..there was no home or mother or backyard that kept me tethered to it.  I felt completely free and alive and happy. 

Then, suddenly, the trail came to a dead end.  There was nothing in front of me except a stream of water cascading over rocky terrain, and thick brush beyond that.  I stood there staring at what seemed to be the end of my adventure, and it didn’t look fun anymore.   I looked up past the trees, and saw that the sun was beginning to go down.  I had been walking and running and playing for almost two hours without my family around me, and I knew that it would take at least that long to get back to the main trail, not to mention assuming additional time would be spent trying to find my family afterward.  I began to think that I had made a very grave mistake.

And for the first time, I was scared.  I stood still and began to sob quietly.  The adopted family forest didn’t comfort me, nor soothe my fears, nor offer any solace for my anxiety.  The growing darkness began to turn this dream into a nightmare, and I was worried about packs of wolves coming to hunt for 8-year-old girls.

Some more time had passed while I shed my tears, and after a while, feelings of hunger and thirst overcame me that shocked me out of my grief.  While I stood in silence trying to cope with the human instinct of survival, and wondering how I was going to find something to eat and drink, I heard a noise…….

I thought to myself…….I KNOW that sound……..

The noise grew louder and louder as it closed in to my proximity……..

………it was a car.

My head bolted in the direction of the car, and I became aware of where I was.  I realized I was very close to the road that we drove on to get to the head of the trail.  I burst across the thick brush, scraping my legs to get to the road.  I crossed the rail that separated civilization from the wild, and I felt back in the realm of humanity again, walking on the road and recognizing one bend in the road here, the sign saying “Falling Rocks” there……I knew I was going in the direction where people were likely to be.  And I knew I was going to be passing by the park ranger’s office, too, and so I decided that that was where I was going to get something to eat and drink and to ask for help finding my family.

The sun was starting to touch the horizon when I reached the office.  One van stood alone in the parking lot, so I knew somebody was there.  A man walked out of the office, saw me coming, and asked -

“Are you Thalia?”

I remembering nodding my head,  and I then saw him open the van door, pick up a CB radio, and watched him say into it:

“I found her.  She’s here.  She just walked up.”

He asked me to come and sit in the van, and then brought me a Pepsi to drink.  It didn’t take long until I saw one of my brothers walk up to the van and yell:

“WHERE WERE YOU?!?!? We couldn’t find you ANYWHERE!”

I didn’t answer.  I just drank my Pepsi, but I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.

I’d like to focus a bit on Rachel Felix – performer extraordinaire.  And around my height too at 4′11″.  WHOOT! 

Rachel was known mostly by her first name only, but she was brilliant as an actress in works of tragedy.  Back in her day in theatre in the early 19th century, most theatrical works were overloaded with stylistic sweeping arm gestures and body swayings and grand posture changes.  Rachel revolutionized this style by keeping her movement kiniesphere to a minimalist standard, all the while broadening the depth in her acting in her voice.  For the patrons, this shook them to their core, and Charlotte Bronte was quoted as saying that she “shuddered to the marrow of her bones.”

That’s some pretty heady stuff.  And that’s only how she affected people while she was ON the stage.

Her personal life was much more interesting and passionate.  Rachel took on many lovers, and never married in her short life.  Born in 1821, she grew up quite the gypsy, singing in public for money at 9 years old.  She was taken off the streets by a stranger to the Ecole de Musique Sacre to train as a performance artist.  Once there, she flourished, albeit with some stories of her trouble-making as a growing feisty young woman.

She dared to call her own shots while still in her primary education years.  And by the time she was 17, after being transferred from school to school, she was mentored heavily by Svengali, and she debuted in the show Horace.  She was an instant hit in Paris.

She shortly became involved heavily with Dr. Louis Vernon, but she was never monogamous.  Dr. Vernon was entranced with her, and cared little of her infidelity with other men.  This was never meant to be out of disrespect for her lovers, but more of a commitment to her autonomy and independence.  She has been quoted as saying, “I am free…and mean to remain free. I will have renters, but not owners.”

After many trips around Europe and a final trip to America and Broadway (where her wild sex-capades were discovered by the Victorians, and demonized her at every whim), Rachel lost her long battle to tuberculosis and died at 36.  In spite of her long illness, she never once stopped ravishing and seducing the world.

Wiki has a good entry of Rachel Felix  -  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rachel_(actress)

R.I.P., girlfriend.

I’m sitting here so proud of my daughter, my youngest born, my fellow sisterfriend-to-be…..not because she just performed in The Nutcracker for the first time, but that she did it all with a 102 degree fever, and that she insisted on it.

I realize this looks rather suspiscious.  We have a mother here who dances professionally, who is deeply involved in her daughter’s life (most with homeschooling her), and who doesn’t mince words with anyone.  At first glance, I look much like the Type-A Stage Moms that you see who fuss over their daughters’ costumes and hair, and tell them to stop their whining and crying and to go out and win.  But I’ll go ahead and tell my story and leave it up to you to decide whether or not I fit the mold.

A few weeks ago, I got a phone call from my colleague that I work with at our local ballet conservatory.  She and I develop dance programs together on site as well as out of district.  For the last couple of years, we’ve been in close contact with each other, and we’ve developed a very good mentor/protege relationship.  I’ve learned a lot from her about show business, and locally, she is THE person to go to when it comes to dance.  This year marks the 25th year that her conservatory has staged The Nutcracker along with the local philharmonic orchestra, and we’ve also welcomed members of New York’s ABT to perform in various roles (like the Sugar Plum Fairy, for instance).

All this time, my daughter has known that I’ve danced, taught, choreographed, and directed shows professionally.  She’s shown a little interest in dancing, but mostly her talents and interests have been more with the graphic and visual arts, more so than performance.  Hence the reason for my desire to homeschool her.  I’ve wished for her to fully explore her talent in sculpting, sketching, and painting.  So far so good.

Segue back to the phone call I receive from my colleague.  She needs a dancer ASAP to fill in for the role of the Teddy Bear in Clara’s dream sequence, and she asks me if my daughter would be willing to do it.  I, of course, love the idea, but I wanted to see if the kiddo would be willing to go on stage in front of hundreds of people.  I ask her if she would like to, and surprisingly, she jumped at it. 

Personally, I thought it was only because she’d be the cute little Teddy Bear.  She eventually proved me wrong.

So, she went to rehearsals at the studio with her new leotard and pink tights on and her hair pinned back like a proper ballerina should.  And for the first time in my entire life, I was sitting outside of the studio reading a book with the other parents.  I wasn’t teaching.  I wasn’t dancing.  No…….I was the chauffeur, and that was it.

Now, granted, my child has always been rather a go-getter.  She’s taken cooking classes, painting classes, gymnastics, etc.  But always, she’s liked getting my attention when she can to show off or to find some way to connect, but this time was different.  She wanted me to be much more distant from her, and that spoke volumes to me.  I would sit there reading my book, and thinking to myself, “I think my little girl is finally coming into her own now.”  Part proud, part nostalgic of when she’d nurse at my breast……..it was a little hard for me to concentrate on my book in front of me.  LOL

When it came time for me to drop her off at the theatre this past weekend for the final dress rehearsal with the orchestra, she went off without so much a goodbye. And I was ready for it.  But when I came to pick her up for the couple of hours before she’d have her call at 6:00 for hair and make-up and warm-ups……she’d mentioned that she felt a little sick.  I thought it was just nerves, and I mentioned to her that every performer worth her salt is going to feel the butterflies before a show.  I brought her home to get her something to eat, get her freshened up, and drove her back to drop her off at the stage door.

A few hours later, I picked her up, with me all smiles and feeling proud of her getting through her first official ballet, and she approached me with flushed cheeks and dark circles under her eyes.

“Mom, I’m sick.”

I took her home, got her out of her dance clothes, and discovered she had a temperature of 102 degrees (F).  I gave her some medicine so that she could get some sleep, and really felt for the poor kiddo then.  I should know – I’ve performed sick as a dog, with sprained ankles, with a concussion, with toenails ripped off and bleeding everywhere (allright, that’s another story that we can save for later). 

Later on that night, very early in the morning, I woke up to hear her vomiting in the bathroom.  I came to her when she was crawling back to bed – no tears, no fretting – and I sat down with a washrag to her cheek and temple.  Our conversation then is something I don’t think I’ll ever forget:

Me:  Are you OK?

Her:  Mom, is my fever going to go away by tomorrow?

Me:  I don’t know, sweetheart.  Do you still want to perform?

Her:  Yes.  I’m not going to miss it.

(pauses)

Me:  Are you sure?  You’re not obligated in any way.  There’s no contract, there’s no money in this.  And there’ll be other performances if you want to just relax and get better.

Her:  (exasperated) Mom!  I’m doing this tomorrow, both performances.  I do NOT want to miss this.

And with that, she rolled over and turned away from me. 

She woke up the next morning, still feverish.  The dark circles hadn’t gone away, but that never deterred her.  She still asked me to help her with her hair.  She still asked me how to put on eyeliner and mascara.  She joked that she didn’t need blush since her cheeks were so flushed.  This was not a needy little girl.  This was a young woman on a mission, and I could hardly believe my eyes just how quickly it happened.

I dropped her off, wished her luck (she doesn’t like it when people say “Break a leg”, but she’ll understand some day), and went to meet my mother and grandmother at our house.  All of us were going to see the show together, and upon hearing the news that I’d allowed their granddaughter to perform with a fever, I got the third degree (LOL).  It’s understandable, though, only I saw the young woman’s determination in her eyes.  Perhaps they’ll see it too on stage, but I was wondering how she’d fare.

The lights went down, and the sounds of Tchaikovsy filled the theatre.  Soon enough, Clara went to sleep, and the dream sequence began.  Our little girl was about to make her entrance.  My heart began to race…….did I do the right thing?  Did I push her in any way?  Was I too permissive?  I sat there clutching the bouquet of flowers in my lap with a worried smile, ready to jump through the crowds and onto the stage if my little girl would faint or fall over from her sickness.

Instead, we all saw her make her entrance, and she looked amazing!  She twirled and leaped and stayed together with the trio of dancers that joined her.  She had a tiny duet with Clara, and then she ran off the stage without a hitch.  The three of us in the audience oohed and aaahed, and we all said that she looked like she felt a lot better.  I thought that maybe it was going to be OK after all.

It was a brilliant ballet, even though I’d seen it many times before.  I love this show.  We went to the lobby afterwards eager to see my daughter before she’d go on to do the final performance.

She appeared looking ragged, tired, with those same dark circles again.  My heart dropped.  All I wanted to do was to rush over to her and to pick her up in my arms.  I walked over to her, and she smiled at the flowers.  I kissed her forehead, and she was burning up.  At that moment, all I could do was ask, “Are you OK?”

She replied, “I’ll be all right.  I’m going to get a short nap on the couches in the green room.”

I paused.

“Don’t worry, mommy.”

And with that, she went over to the grandparents, who were doting all over her, fussing over her, telling her how they coudn’t believe she was sick, and that she really needs to be at home in bed.  I was suddenly given back the flowers, and I was requested to put them in some water, and the next thing I knew, my daughter went back to the green room to ready herself for the finale.

We all went back home.  My mind was quiet, calm, and actually very serene.  I’ve seen our other children see the dawn of adulthood before, but this was different.  This was my baby girl.  And I felt a kinship with my own mother that I’d never felt before, after hearing her exclaim the same things whenever I came through with a certain feistyness or an accomplishment that made her heart sing with pride.

That night, I went to pick her up at the stage door.  She came out, and she looked centered, poised, confident.  She climbed into the car without a word, and I asked her if she was up to getting a treat.  She said that she was too sick to go out for sweets, and that she just wanted to get home and go to sleep.  So we drove in silence the rest of the way, with her head resting on the cool window next to her.  Her breathing was still shallow, but she was happy.

The next morning, her fever was gone, and her color was back again.  Monday was a day where I saw the little girl pop out as usual, jumping around in her room, singing to herself, and playing with her dolls.  And yet, I felt like the luckiest woman alive.

I’ve rarely felt this proud.

Lest you think that Sacred Whores are limited to the beauty sirens that we see or hear about with the way they work their bodies, I heartily commend all the Sacred Whores in history that knew (and know today) how to bedevil the masses with their minds as well.

To list just a few:  Veronica Franco, Ninon de Lenclos, Emilie du Chatelet, and Germaine du Stael…….not to mention Marie Curie, the only person ever to win TWO Nobel prizes (in Physics and in Chemistry).

I dare anyone to challenge the notion that a man can truly be intimidated by a woman of immense intelligence.  In fact, I think what we saw is the reaction of being awestruck by women who aren’t afraid of exploring new dimensions in the sciences and technology.  Personally, I think the world craves more women who speak up and act out.  The woman’s mind is in too many regions of the world an  untapped resource of ideas and solutions.

For an amazing transformative experience…….I encourage anyone to download the Sanghata Sutra and to listen to it anytime, anywhere. 

See here:  http://www.sanghatasutra.net/index.html

Wonderful, wonderful stuff.

I realize that if my friends were to read this right now, they’re upchucking a little bit in their mouths.  Most of the folks I talk to know my harsh criticism of her and her policies, but I am offering her a kind of leniency that I think she deserves.  As much as I believe her to be a theocratic fascist, I believe the court of public opinion against her has been focusing on all the wrong issues.  If we don’t, we may very well see a backlash against the media that could result in a Sarah Palin Presidential administration in January 2013. 

I disagree with her notion that her stance in government will be more hands-off, and that she sides with Joe Six Pack more often than not.  From what I have seen, she sides with Joe Pro-Life Evangelistic Christian more often than not, and it is precisely why I find her position so reprehensible.  In her mind, and unfortunately in quite a few minds around the country, Joe Pro-Life Evangelistic Christian IS the norm, the guy next door, the small business owner on Main Street.  Palin panders to this mindset.  She fails to show that she considers representing the rights and liberties of anyone else who does not fit this mold.  I see it in her rhetoric and in her policies. 

I just don’t see her wardrobe as having this much relevence.  And it annoys me to see so many of her critics pounce on the Nieman Marcus bill and salivating the whole time.  I personally feel compelled to play the gender card here, suggesting that if Palin were a man, that we wouldn’t be discussing this as much.  But I assume that we’d be talking about something else instead……….(and I just remembered the $400 haircut that John Edwards got that the neo-cons jumped all over).

I think the RNC screwed up in it’s handling of Palin.  Of course she hadn’t been properly vetted, and this blunder continues to show it’s effect on the public view of the Republican party.   So, a part of me wishes to point the finger at her and suggest that she could have declined the nomination if she had any inclination that she could drag the McCain ticket down.  Another part of me wishes to point the finger equally at the RNC for screwing up another chance to solidify their conservative base.  As it is, we are now seeing the attrition rate skyrocket in conservatives away from McCain and toward Obama.  And, generally speaking, the criticism falls squarely on Palin’s shoulders.

Ugh.  OK, fine.  She’s not my type.  But come ON……there is a kind of disgust and spittle that is created whenever a new story appears about her and her ineptness in government and in the public eye.  Personally, it’s not worth it.  I can appreciate the media’s confrontation and wanting to get a story published to the American public, and the public deserves to know the information concerning our candidates.  What I don’t like is how these stories are stirring the pot of vitriol and hate.  We’ve seen this before from the other side, too, by hearing phrases like “pallin’ around with terrorists.”  And all this does is distract all of us from the central issues of her campaign and how her rhetoric does not add up, and especially how her platform will not offer the U.S. a government that actually works.  We recognized the hate immediately when the McCain campaign stirred a shitstorm against Obama and his association with Ayers.  Let’s not commit the same crime on a larger scale against Palin.

Obama saw a bump as a backlash against the hate machine from that time.  I don’t want to see a backlash of larger proportions against a larger hate machine from a larger demographic of the public.  Maintain the coverage to the issues – the ethics violations, the fact that she is against gay marriage,  wants ID taught alongside evolution in public school science classes (WTF?),  her stance on abortion, and her gross exaggerated assumption that she has foreign policy experience because of her state’s geographical location.  That obviously means that George W. Bush as governor was brilliant at foreign policy because of Texas and it’s close proximity to Mexico.  No?

So, lighten up, y’all.  She’s a poor choice.  We got that.  The RNC fucked up in vetting her before introducing her at their convention a couple months ago.  But let’s keep the anti-Palin rhetoric at a minimum when it comes to what is actually quite immaterial like her 17-year-old pregnant daughter, her choice to work so shortly after having a baby with Down Syndrome, and yes, even her wardrobe shopping spree.

I am much more concerned about the fact that she considers the war in Iraq a “task that is from God.”  This is much more sobering than spending $150,000 at Saks and possibly looking a little hypocritical.   Hmmmm, shall I bitch about a pair of shoes?  Or an end-times believer ready and willing to send the world into nuclear annihilation if Iran or North Korea starts acting uppity?

So today I turned 36.  I’m not ambivalent to announce my age, as it’s just being honest. 

However, I think it’s so important to meditate on how precious my human birth has been, how I’ve been so fortunate to have lived for this amount of time, how many humans have not lived this long, and how I’ve been so fortunate to have the mental and physical capacity to benefit others.  There are commentaries out there for how being born a human is like winning the ultimate cosmic lottery in Tibetan Buddhist cosmology, something along the lines that it is just as likely to be reborn a human as it is for a turtle to peek it’s head through a small ring in an entire ocean.  Personally, I think that analogy plays upon the delusional mind to think that we can forget about past karma……..I am reminded of how karma – good karma – ripens to allow us to benefit others. 

The gods in the heavenly realms are too indulged with perfect health and are given everything they have ever wished for.  The beings in the hell-realms are too frought with suffering and pain to have the peace of mind to benefit others.  Being born a HUMAN is what allows us to do good, to have opportunities in our minds to experience both sides of the spectrum of suffering and blissful happiness.   And to have a human rebirth where one has the clear opportunity to practice a moral and ethical life, and especially to have resources at one’s disposal to help others find happiness…….this is just so precious.

So, my feeling right now is such gratitude that I’m here, I’m alive, and I’m healthy enough to give - offer comforting words, reach my arms out to hug another, have money in my wallet to give to those in need, and a skill at stage performance to help others find their own personal aesthetic.  This is so, so, so precious.  This moment in time and in my spiritual walk.

Here’s to many more years of feeling this thankful and of maintaining an attitude of cherishing others and of service.

Dear Husband is on vacation.  Beware, y’all……we’re doing more de-cluttering.

And that is cool in an of itself.  I abhor clutter, and if it were up to me, I’d have a very simple stash of stuff, and only splurge on books.  I do go through my books every now and then and give what I don’t read anymore away.  But, when it comes to old clutter that we don’t need anymore, I’d rather sniff dog farts than find reasons to keep it all.

So right now, Dear Husband is thoroughly going through the laundry room where a good portion of our clutter lies.  He has let me direct him what to do with what things, and I am currently happily obliging by giving him his “honey-do” list. 

*sighs*  Thalia is quite pleased right now.  Methinks Dear Husband is getting some tonight.

With the U.S. election looming ever closer, I’d like any candidate to please consider laying out a plan on how to implement education reform.  Because, the last time I checked, our country is full of a bunch of dumbed-down minimalists who only want to score high on a test – and that high score is giving our kids a chance to squander student loans, grants, itty bitty scholarships, and his or her parents life savings into a free-for-all party at the dorm.  We have basic math being taught at at UNIVERSITY level?  WTF?

This is an alarming symptom of what our children are walking in – and it’s a pile of muck and shit that has increasingly grown from the ankles and up to our necks.  We are wallowing in the realization that one generation is going to  be less educated than it’s parent generation.  While we still have some well-established programs at our universities, more and more we see young adults from foreign lands enjoy higher education and less and less of our own American students making par with the pre-requisites for such programs.  As it stands, we are not investing wisely in our education of our future leaders, and it’s starting to look pretty grim at the moment.

So, for now, I’m hearing some talk of putting more money into an outdated and failed system, or it’s vouchers here and competition there, or it’s the rise of homeschooling by not only religious families but secular families as well.  My pointed question is, what are we doing NOW that will help to ensure that this generation of kids is not being fucked over any longer.  Because, essentially, that’s what we continue to do – we are not giving our kids the opportunity to receive a competitive education. 

Let’s look into how children can actually learn academics rather than learning how to be sheep and mindless worker bees.  For now, I will give this thought a rest, but I certainly wish that the candidates would lay out a serious plan – no matter what the state of the economy.  Lead the country out of this fiscal crisis, yes Mr. President-to-be, but please lead the country out of this education crisis as well.

Thank you.

Every now and then I am reminded of how samsara continues to mess with our heads – whether it’s from delusions of grandeur, of craving, and in this case how the U.S. can maintain discriminating against an entire demographic because of a fear of losing “traditional” values.  It’s a major sticking point with me and the upcoming elections.  I can expect the mindless diatribe from the McCain-Palin ticket that must include the phrase one-man-one-woman – but I am even more annoyed at the Obama-Biden ticket for the double-talk surrounding “civil unions.”  Sure, let’s give those nice folks in the GLBTQ community a bone and some scraps from the table of protections and benefits……..but please do NOT let those miscreants take OUR sacred term of “marriage” away from us.

I call bullshit.  We’ve been through this “separate but equal” party several times before in our nation’s short history, and it has never worked.  We had anti-miscengenation laws where specific races were banned from marrying whites until as recently as 1967 with Loving vs. Virginia.  We had laws where women were banned from voting or owning property or couldn’t get court protection from their own husbands in cases of domestic violence or marital rape.

Back then, “traditional” values were brought up as a smokescreen again and again, in the hopes that the public at large would be frightened enough to listen to this “separate but equal” crap.  At a certain point, people stood up for the rights of the disenfranchised, and had the courage to say enough is enough.  Women and minorities were never treated equally under the eyes of the government as long as the state maintained that it can define who gets what rights so as not to shake up the sensibilities of the status quo.  I am telling the government to back the hell off the GLBTQ community, and to open the doors to marriage rights and protections to every adult couple that so desires. 

One thing that I’ve mentioned before and that I still feel, is that as a practicing Buddhist, I see marriage as a social construct,  like defining a “race”, like educational philosophies and methods…..and it is not a sacrament.  While I respect the ecclesiastical courts their right to disagree with me, I do not respect their insistence that the government defines my marriage by their sacrament.  It is what this really boils down to, isn’t it?  Terms like “sacred” or “traditional” are thrown around in order to strike fear into people’s hearts that if you somehow redefine marriage to include those that aren’t mentioned by God as acceptable, then society will be ripped apart at the seams, and we’ll all go to hell in a handbasket.

Yah, I call bullshit again. 

Marriage HAS been redefined throughout history by the government again and again.  Think about issues surrounding polygamy, interracial marriages, defining the age of consent to prevent children from marrying,  women’s ability to own property within a marriage, common-law marriages, allowing “no-fault” divorces………..criminy, the list goes on and on.  And samsara continues to blind us with ignorance by attempting to paint gays and lesbians as people who aren’t us but something other.

Obama wishes to grant civil unions to gay and lesbian couples?  But doesn’t want to grant them the title of being “married”?  BOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!  I guess his rhetoric of attacking the trickle-down economics by saying that those without health insurance are “on their own” applies to gay and lesbian couples with a civil union.  Say they want to fill out tax forms or a census without risk of fraud, or to move their family to another state that doesn’t honor civil union contracts, or wish to dissolve their civil union but can’t……..according to Obama, gays and lesbians are unfortunately “on their own.”

We still have a long road to travel before the American public is more accepting of the GLBTQ community, and who will see through the insidious discrimination that is mandated by our government.  Atheists can get married in a civil court.  In Colorado, people only have to live together for a bit, wear wedding bands for a bit, call each other a husband and wife for a bit, and file a joint tax return to enjoy the benefits that come with a common-law marriage (which, by the way, is honored in all 50 states if this couple moves).  A couple can also petition the courts to dissolve their marriage in a “no-fault” divorce, and the court will honor that. 

I don’t see the public up in arms about this reality like they are about the term gay marriage.  I don’t see the public railing against divorce because marriage is so darn sacred.  I don’t see the public upset that two folks can co-habitate for a bit and fornicate their little hearts out because marriage is so darn sacred.  And YIKES……..atheists getting married?  But isn’t marriage sacred?

This isn’t about defining what is sacred and what isn’t.  That’s not the government’s job, and it doesn’t matter what I think or you think or what Joe Six Pack thinks.  We currently have a Buddha Bar in New York City, but how many of the religious are lobbying Congress to pass a Defense of Buddha Act in order to protect the sacredness of one of the Refuges?  The government must act in a secular tone in order to ensure the rights and liberties of all free citizens despite personal feelings or religious leanings.  Christians can still receive the sacrament of marriage in their church and call it sacred even if homosexuals are allowed to marry in a civil court.

It’s insane.  It’s maddening.  And the discrimination must stop now.

For now, I’m wanting to add a bit more to the problem young girls face when they become more aware of their adolescent bodies and their own sexuality.  Soon enough, I’d like to see how boys are given their due as well in the mass media since they are affected by images of the bulging pecs, the washboard abs, the broad shoulders, yadda yadda yadda.  But at this moment, this article last year on cnn.com reminded us why we still need to talk about it:

  http://www.cnn.com/2007/HEALTH/03/15/BK.girls.body.image/index.html

What I found refreshing was the idea to provide an antidote to our young girls’ delusions on what is sexy and what isn’t……and the antidote provided in the article was to have a strong father or male role model that recognizes the girls strengths that had nothing to do with how she looked in a swimsuit.  What I didn’t like was that girls will notice that yet another adult is ignoring her body and how it looks, and that the girl will continue to look for beauty standards somewhere else.

Moms are very guilty of this, too.  It’s something I’ve noticed in the mindsets of how to deal with the problem of teenaged girls and body image – and it amounts to swinging the pendulum wildly in the opposite direction where the body is never even discussed, and if it is, a girl is inundated with platitudes of how Hollywood stars and Barbie dolls are ruining body image every day.  This does nothing but leave body image in the abstract, and a young girl is still trying to discover exactly how she is beautiful. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a strong proponent of pointing out a girl’s strength in her mind, in her spirit, and in her goals and achievements.  However, we simply can’t brush aside letting her know how beautiful she looks because we are afraid of pressuring her into worrying about her looks.  Trust me, the girl is already worried about her looks.  She’s also worried about how smart she is, how if she has friends to have fun with and who like her, how her parents get along, and on and on.  Yes, we parents are totally neurotic with how we appear either too harsh or too overprotective…..but the answer isn’t to “refocus” our rhetoric into giving our daughters recognition in one area and not another.

She will read into it well, and realize that she’s STILL not considered a whole person in the eyes of her mentors.  She’s a brain and an achiever, but she’s not beautiful.  And that potentially can be just as devastating.

My daughter is turning 10 in less than a week, and she is starting to see how her hormones are leading her into the dawn of womanhood.  Right now, we’re just seeing the twilight just before the sun begins to peek through, but she has recently become a little modest about her body.  A few months ago, after helping her shop for her first bra, she was walking around the house with her arms wrapped around her chest.  I asked her why she was doing that, and she said that she didn’t want anybody looking at her breasts.  I didn’t panic, but said what came naturally to me as a Sacred Whore:

“I don’t know why, sweetheart.  I think they’re beautiful.  And they’re just as beautiful as everything else about you – your elbows, your eyes, and that really smart brain you have.  So go ahead and be proud of them.”

Her tension was gone after I said that, and she was in a better mood.  I haven’t seen her worry about her breasts since.  But I guess we’ll see if in 10 years she’s sitting on a therapists couch relaying how I ruined her life with a comment that made her feel pressured to have beautiful breasts.  LOL

You know - it’s just as silly trying to categorize a woman and a girl by a singular component in her brain as it is in a singular body part.  Nice rack?  Nice ass?  Nice teeth?  Or nice career?  Works with a team well?  Scores high on aptitude tests?  Jeez………when can we just say that she is beautiful – simply because she is confident and true to herself?

In my mind, there is nothing more attractive than a strong, confident woman who flaunts her stuff AND speaks her mind.  Not either/or….but both.  She mesmerizes with her eyes AND doesn’t shy away from giving her opinion.  This is what I want to introduce to young girls, and that is beauty is definitely in the eye of the beholder, and that it first comes from her own discerning eye.  I want to introduce to young girls and teens to pay NO attention to what others say – her peers, TV ads, or test scores.  Look in the mirror and decide how you’re physically beautiful and a bombshell, then show it without hesitation.  Look in the mirror and decide how you’re amazingly intelligent, and then show it without hesitation.  Look in the mirror and decide how you’re gifted and skilled, and then show it without hesitation.  Truthfully, I’d prefer to say that there is no time like the present to give a young girl the opportunity to discover every single part of her that is magnificent – and on her own terms and nobody else’s.

To this day, one of my favorite quotes is by Marianne Williamson, and I’ll let her do the talking from here on out today:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn’t serve the world. There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We are born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us, it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

And more Sacred Whores from history.

Jane Elizabeth Digby (1807-1881) was an adventurer first and a promiscuous fireball second.  Her explorations took her from her noble upbringing as a Digby in 19th century England to Munich to Sicily to Greece to Albania and finally to Syria.  Her adventures in the bedroom shocked the Victorian senses out of everyone when it was revealed that she had divorced a total of three husbands:  Edward Law, the Governor General of India;  the Bavarian Baron Karl von Venningen;  and the Greek count Spyridon Theotokis.  She had numerous affairs between and during her marriages, and Jane also gave birth to four children in her lifetime, tragically losing three of her children while infants or as a young child.

Her fourth husband was a Bedouin sheikh by the name of Abdul Midjuel el Mezrab, and she was 17 years older than him at the time of their marriage.  In her lifetime she explored the lands of mountains and caves, raced thoroughbreds with her husband Midjuel in the desert, loved passionately with whomever she pleased, and shunned political correctness and proper female etiquette.  She has been quoted as saying: “This was freedom!  This was life!”  She died of a heart attack in Damascus at the age of 74.  Odette Lind in 1999 spoke of this fearless Lady Jane Digby:

Jane Digby had everything: beauty, aristocratic connections, money, and as revealed in her letters, poetry, and intimate diaries, a highly original mind……..She was an intrepid traveler and finally found she [sic] happiness in Arabia, where she married a sheik and divided her time between the oasis of Damascus and the hard life of Bedouin Nomads. 

She was a remarkable woman.

Her life was a she [sic] desired.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lady_Jane_Digby

R.I.P. girlfriend

We call it three-dimensional breathing in my dance classes that I teach.  Take a moment and give this a try.

When laying down on the floor, or any flat surface for that matter, place your hands on your navel and concentrate on your lower abdomen bulging and hollowing up and down, toward the ceiling and the floor and back in toward the spine.   You shouldn’t have to utilize voluntary muscle activity for this to happen, so let your abdominal cavity relax and let your diaphragm work for you.  Bulge and hollow, bulge and hollow, and concentrate on that dimension.

Now place your hands on either side of your ribs, and focus on the rib cage widening and narrowing like an accordion.  This, in Pilates-based exercise physiology is called “diaphragmatic breathing”, and frees up the abdominal muscles to do core strengthening while you’re utilizing deep breathing.  But for now, just relax flat on your back and feel the sides of your body – the second bodily dimension referenced here – widen and narrow.  Widen and narrow.  Widen and narrow.

And now, place your hands on the cervical part of your spine right behind your neck, and focus on the internal and extremely subtle movement of the body on your inhalations and exhalations by feeling the spine lengthen and shorten.  This movement is likely not to be felt physically, but sensed through visualization.  So, there isn’t really a benchmark for how one should experience this third bodily dimension.  So, inhale and exhale, lengthen and shorten.  Lengthen and shorten.

And finally, place your hands on either side of your body palms up in the Corpse Posture asana in yoga, and utilize all three dimensional movements in your deep breathing.  Bulge and hollow the abdominal cavity, widen and narrow the rib cage, and lengthen and shorten the vertebrae all up and down the spinal column from the cervical spine down through the sacroiliac joint and to the tailbone.  Inhale and exhale, and feel all three dimensions allow the lungs to fill to their full capacity and to oxygenate the blood and your bodily tissues. 

When you feel more at ease with this sensation, feel free to incorporate three-dimensional breathing into your meditations.  Counting your breaths, allow three dimensional breathing to become habitual, therefore training the focus less and less on physical and material, and more and more on thoughts, concepts, and the more subtle realms of samsara.

Happy breathing, my friends.  And happy sitting!

Isn’t a goat supposed to bear the sins of the Israelites on the Day of Atonement and to be ushered off into the wilderness?  From what I remember, yeah……that’s a scapegoat.  Or, in more modern terms, a patsy or the fall guy.

Let’s take a moment and consider the scapegoating women have been expected to take for thousands of years under the thumb of patriarchy.  Women are expected to be more humble, more compassionate, more generous, and more patient than our male counterparts – but when it comes to who is more worthy in patriarchy’s eyes for who makes better decision-making, it’s men.

Women are expected to be more chaste as well as more modest in dress and speech, but when it comes to sexuality and the definition of sexual boundaries, men have held the priviledged position of having the say-so.

Women are expected to put family over career, marriage over children, and husband over herself, but despite all this experience in selflessness and service, men are not expected to be held to the same standard.

And when it comes to defending the rights of the unborn – which I feel compelled to defend to based on my spiritual beliefs and practices – it’s very easy to wear the banner of “pro-life” when the human being carrying the fetus in her womb is still subconsciously considered little more than chattel or a “helper”.

Personally, this is why I prefer to focus more on defending the rights and dignity of women everywhere.  If we are considered the bearers of this responsibility of service, humility, compassion, wisdom, childbearing and raising – then give me a reasonable explanation why women are not bearers of decision-making as social, fiscal, and familial authority.  Not that I’m advocating matriarchy……..that imo would be just as disaterous as patriarchy.  But if women are to offer their bodies for 9 months with child while men are saddled with a simple monthly child support payment;  if women are to take the blame for rape, domestic violence, or their own murder  because of how she dressed or spoke while men are around the world are given amnesty for following the will of God or to save face with his own male buddies; I say that women, with this ridiculous assumption that we are more capable than men are of these spiritual attributes, ought to be the HBIC (Head Bitch in Charge).

But we aren’t.  Women are expected to be the most pious out of all, but our piety isn’t ours in the end.  Credit and authority and power is given to men.  It’s a crazy system, and men are not to blame because eseentially they lose out, too.  Men are just as capable as women are of compassion, selflessness, service, patience, wisdom, and generosity, and to suggest that they are not as capable as women is the other side of the coin of sexism – and it is squarely against men.  For the record, this is just as disheartening and disgusting.

I say that it’s time to abolish the system and to call the goat back home from the wilderness.  We all need to bear our sins on our own hearts equally and without shame, and we all need to open up to our own potential for selflessness to others.  By taking individual responsibility, instead of being more burdened, we become more empowered and liberated, and we realize there is no need to utilize  the scapegoat.  There is no need to place our frailties and our weaknesses on someone else.  Doing so only demeans them and ourselves.

What does it possibly take to outlaw marital rape? 

I’ll ask this again:  what does it possibly TAKE to outlaw marital rape?

And then the question remains once marital rape is outlawed – can governments around the world please live up to their promise? 

Upon reading the recent upheavals due to the Russia-Georgia military conflict,  I couldn’t help but notice that Georgia as a country (among many other countries), have had a long history of remaining silent while women of all ages have had to endure decades of their lives to husbands who physically and sexually abuse them.  The government there are by far not the only fuckwits in this world who don’t see this as an atrocity that needs to be erased from the world….we have stonings that still go on in Iran of women who are merely accused of adultery.  Papua, New Guinea along with countries in the southern region of Africa see women who are not able to receive HIV treatment from doctors for fear that their husbands will beat them or kill them. 

The list goes on and on – “Comfort women” in WWII Japan who were forced to be made available to Japanese military troops, Hungarian women who are raped in their homes,  rapes of women who already are devastated in the Darfur region, Mexican women who still see their justice system ignore their pleads for help because of still-pervasive marital rape in their homes, the sex-trafficking in Paraguay…..

And we’re still as a whole more concerned about rising gas prices and wondering if that fresh tomato at the store is OK to eat? 

When you have sexual and physical violence against women from the direct or indirect action (or inaction) of governments around the world, and if this violence is still largely ignored despite the fact that women make up half of the world’s population, you have a large frickin’ problem.   It’s already bad enough that a woman might feel afraid because she went outside by herself to the market and dared to show the smooth skin of her forearm.  It’s shockingly unconscionable to have a woman who cannot feel safe anywhere – a police station, a doctor’s office, and especially in her own home.

Misogyny is a rampant and silent disease that continues to kill women all around the world.  It’s a fear and hatred of a person entirely because of her gender and because of her unique female characteristics and contributions.  Because of this deluded fear and hatred, “woman” must be made a property and treated as such…..of course, for her own good, right?  *rolls eyes*

So, yeah – if you didn’t hear me before……FUCK YOU, MISOGYNY!!

Oh, what a tangled web we weave when it comes to some well-meaning, but seriously fucked up, folks when contemplating the concept of desire from a Buddhist POV.  The problem with this strange way of approaching desire is that it can not only result in someone who swings the pendulum all the way to the one side of the pendulum into a desperate hedonism, but all the way to the other side of dysfunction into neurotic austerity.  Despite the fact that renunciation is part of the Six Perfections in Mahayana Buddhism, it isn’t renunciating desire.  Let’s explore this….

I personally like to bring up a metaphor of desire in a Buddhist sense that visualizes “desire” (in whatever form) as a butterfly.  Imagine yourself sitting in your lotus position, happily escaping all that’s around you for the moment and focusing entirely on the thoughts and feelings that pass through the mind, and all of a sudden this butterfly (i.e. your “desire”) interrupts your happy moment of isolation.  What to do?  What to do?  What to do?

Well, there are few ways you can approach the butterfly.  One way is to grab on to it, try to claim it as yours, and hold it as tightly as possible in your fist.  You may keep it, but alas, that poor butterfly is squished and dead and, to be perfectly honest, a mess in your hand.

Another way is to swat at it, curse it, run away from it, and do whatever you could to avoid it at all cost.  What good is that going to do except break your meditation and make you flail around like an idiot?  You’d probably also wind up not escaping the butterfly anyway……you ever seen how nimble they are?

The third way is the way I like to approach the butterfly/desire…..by letting it land on my open palm and enjoying it while it’s there, and giving it the freedom to fly away when it wants to.   Desire is something that all of us deal with, like pain, pleasure, suffering, joy – they’re all experiences within this human samsaric realm that does not need to be detested or grasped onto for dear life.  The attachment that causes the undue suffering comes from grasping onto the conditions or the result of the desire.  It would be like if my  happiness depended on the butterfly staying on my palm, or if the butterfly was a certain species and not another, or if the butterfly only came while I was thinking about the butterfly or when I wasn’t being bombarded by ants……the point is that desire comes and goes, just like everything else.

So, enjoy it, then let it go.  That’s all.

The genocide in Darfur shocks me.  The goverment mandated discrimination in the United States against gays and lesbians angers me.  The treatment of prisoners at Abu Ghraib shames me.  But nothing to this day affects me and my sensibilities as much as the prevalence of Female Genital Mutilation.

I think Oprah highlighted the issue once or twice on her show a couple of years ago, but we continue to turn a blind eye to the fact that young girls between birth and 10 years old are held down, gagged, legs forced open, and their precious female genitalia are mutilated for the purpose of having them eligible for marriage.  The girl may grow to be accepted in her family and her community, but I maintain that her womanly spirit has been marred and spoiled unless she has the courage to get out of her community for good.

http://www.amnestyusa.org/stop-violence-against-women-svaw/female-genital-mutilation/page.do?id=1108226&n1=3&n2=39&n3=1101

I do not have the words to describe what I feel…..I am sickened by how tragic the situation is for all together too many women on the planet.  FGM is an insidious crime against womanhood and feminine influence and empowerment.  How dare they fear and despise a woman’s sexuality, and how dare we to ignore it and gloss over it.

Quoted from the website:

An estimated 135 million girls and women have undergone genital mutilation, and two million girls a year are at risk – approximately 6,000 per day. Although it is predominantly practiced in twenty-eight North African countries, FGM is not inherent to any nation or religion.

Can someone please pass me a bucket?  I think I need to throw up……

I have been fortunate to have given birth twice in this lifetime.  As many mothers can attest, multiple pregnancies offer multiple and varied stories and experiences.  This chapter in my life has been no different, even considering the context with sacred whoredom.  Since then, I have been blessed twice more with children that I did not introduce into the world from my womb, but I embrace them as my own.  Their stories have their own place in my heart, just as my two  natural children have their own place, and as my two contrasting birth experiences have their own places, I welcome them all.

I am recounting to you my second birth where I brought my daughter into this world.  It was surprisingly enjoyable, earthy, powerful, and dare I say orgasmic….

Not to say that the back labor I experienced with my first childbirth offered it’s own opportunities for growth and perspective.  The pain was excruciating. I became physically ill from the pressure. I felt the staff was incompetent except for the Certified Nurse Midwife who was doing everything she could to guide me through my first adventure into motherhood.  It was also the first tangible occasion where I could offer my ego complete self-sacrifice for the sake of another human being.  It was liberating in a way where I got over myself in the most horrific way possible.  In the end, I had my baby boy in my arms, and I was grateful.

Since I was familiar with what I believed to be labor pains, when I was closing in on my due date for my second pregnancy, I was rather surprised to find what I thought were Braxton-Hicks contractions was actually the real thing.  I had woken up seeing the early October weather outside giving me sunshine and a crisp breeze through our cracked living room window.  My husband at the time had gone to work, and I was home with our 15-month-old son,  enjoying the morning and watching another viewing of Gymboree with the kiddo.  There was nothing painful about the seemingly regular and odd contractions I felt…more like little hugs around my soul….and therefore I didn’t pay much attention until I began timing them.  They were several minutes apart and didn’t subside.  I called my husband and asked him to come home to take me to the doctor since I had a feeling it was time.

Of course, he scoffed, and it was understandable.  When it was “time” to go the last go-around, I was crying, vomiting, and having a panic attack.  There was nothing calm in my demeanor then, so why should we consider this seriously now?  But, I continued to nag, and he eventually agreed to take me – perhaps it was just to shut me up, but I’m glad he did it anyway.

When my mother showed up (after my phone call, which she immediately understood), I made my walk out to the car.  Another signal to me saying that my child was ready to show her face to the world appeared when I couldn’t walk faster than a snail’s pace.  No pain, no agony, no fear, just a respite from any rush, rush, rush that most of us are used to.  It was my body’s natural instinct forcing me to slow down and to enjoy one infinite moment after another.  The late morning was beautiful.  My unborn child was continuing to hug me, and I was perceiving it as thanking me for carrying her to term.  I couldn’t be happier and more joyful.

When my husband and I arrived at the doctor’s office, I rolled onto the examination table (yes, rolled, I was the size of a whale), and heard the news that I needed to get to the hospital ASAP.  “Why?”  I asked.  Of course, this question offers proof that I’m not always that smart.  I was told that my cervix was dilated between 4-5 centimeters, and that I was well into labor.

I thanked him, heard him say that he’d be there for the delivery, and I went into the bathroom to relieve myself and catch my thoughts.  A part of me couldn’t quite believe this was happening.   Where were the tears?  Where was the agony?  How could I be seen as the martyr I once was if I’m actually enjoying this labor?

My husband, despite his shock at the news as well, managed to get me to the hospital where I was checked in to a lovely private birthing room.  Couldn’t manage to get a water birth scheduled, but the interior design was peaceful enough to where I didn’t mind.  The nurse staff had their usual difficulty in finding a vein to connect the IV to, and I was used to it, so I wound up comforting them and cheering them on while I was poked with the needle 6-7 times before success was finally made.   And then, my one and only dissatisfaction with the entire day came when I was told that I needed an enema.

I preferred not to, of course.  I’d rather be in the moment with the contractions and my baby, not focusing on holding in salt water in my colon long enough before expelling any foul matter that might appear on the delivery table.  It was annoying and, I felt, highly unnecessary, but it didn’t sway me too much.  So, I relaxed and continued experiencing the “hugs” as they were becoming stronger and more profound.

As I lay on my side, breathing through the emotions of gratitude and amazement, feeling the nurse check my status every now and then and informing me that I was edging closer and closer to full dilation…..there I was at 6, 7, between 7-8 centimeters, and still no pain…..I began tearing up wondering where this circumstance was taking me.  My breaths began turning into sighs that became more audible as the minutes passed.  My sighs turned into moans when I realized that beyond 8 centimeters, I would not be able to receive anesthetic and I was on my own after that.  But, there was no time to dwell – my baby was coming.

I admittedly don’t remember much between 8 and 10 centimeters, yet I can say that finally the “pain” hit me.  It wasn’t excruciating or frightening, however, but more like the kind of burn you feel when you’re physically hitting a “wall” in running or dancing at full effort for an hour straight.  My body felt heavy and laden, and I didn’t know how I was doing it, but I was managing to actually move my arms to reach for my husband’s hand.  The labor was in full thrust at this point, and it was like swimming fast laying on a surfboard, timing the wave just right, and focusing on every single sensation to ensure a balanced jump on the board with the goal of riding the wave.  Every tissue of my being attended to this moment.

 Suddenly, while on my left side, my knee instinctively shot up to my shoulder, and I yelled out, “Oh my God, she’s coming!”  The nurse walked in with a suspiscious look on her face and assured me that she wasn’t…..the last time she checked was only a few minutes ago, and I wasn’t fully dilated.  I told her to please check again, because there was no doubt in my mind that she was coming.  I felt her begin to move downward, and with no drugs dulling any sensations, I experienced all the pressure this baby was giving me while she and my uterus where working in tandem for her entrance into the world and her exit from my body.   A quick check led to a confirmation, a call was made, and a small respite was experienced by my husband in the form of ironic laughter when it was discovered that the previous enema didn’t help at all, and I still wound up crapping on the delivery table.

The endorphins had been released, and I was rejuvenated, electrified, and I was sweating more profusely than I ever did before.  I felt like flying, and a part of me swore I could even put Superman to shame.  I could fly, lift skyscrapers, and see through doors.  The sweat dripping off my drenched hair brought me back from my mystical visions and into the phenomenal world with the realization that this moment was the climax of the day’s story.  The doctor appeared, everyone had their face masks on and looking sterile and robotic, and I was screaming in ecstasy.  I must have looked insane with my hands gripping the bars tightly, the tears streaming down my face without any sign of suffering, and literally exhibiting the image of a woman having the most intense orgasm of her life.

With four pushes, my baby was born and finally her own person.  I was the first to hold her, of course, while the umbilical cord was cut ceremoniously by her father.   But there I was at that moment, smiling down at my daughter, acknowledging her own innate feminine power.  I had enough time to embrace the day for all it had given me as a woman, and to whisper to her before they whisked her away:

“May you always discover your own blessings.  I have today.”