Celebration!

Her Daddy called her "Winter Lynn," and that would have suited her just fine I suppose but there was no way that MOM was going to put up with that, so our T celebrates another year on the planet today without a moniker to match the season of her birth.

There is surely nothing wintery about her personality, her heart, her soul. For us, she is the sunshine and the joyful spirit of our family. She is our social director: the one who keeps us "out" in the world, who makes sure that the cards get bought for every occasion, that all the appropriate presents are purchased and wrapped, that we make it out for the occasional "airing," that we see friends and movies, and that we behave as if we lived in a civilized fashion. She keeps us laughing and playing and singing -- literally.

Today, as she reaches what she might regard as a "significant" age, she is once again busy making sure that all goes well for so many other people. No matter how we might try to get her to slow down and take a few bits of time for her own pleasure and for herself, she WILL be who she is, and she will take care of everyone else. She is all heart -- the dearest of hearts.

We are lucky to have her in our lives and in our home and in our family. Happiest of birthdays!!!

swan

Paper Airplanes

When I first came to Cincinnati, Master and T introduced me to L. They told me that he needed a friend, and they wondered if I would be willing to join them and a few others who were friends of his. L, was 60 years old, and he had significant developmental disabilities. He'd spent his whole life in institutions and had only moved to a nursing facility in Cincinnati a few months before I'd arrived. I have to admit I was a little intimidated and skeptical -- I really couldn't imagine what being "friends" with this man would involve, but I agreed to go along.

That's how one of the more remarkable stories of my life started.

As it turned out, being friends with L was like being friends with pretty much anyone else -- we spent time together doing things we both enjoyed. He liked music, and he loved having his back rubbed, and he liked dogs and cats and children and laughing. He loved a party -- in that way, he was different than me (a lot more social), but I soon discovered that, except for that, he and I weren't all that different after all.

One Friday fall afternoon, not long after I'd met him, near the end of a busy school week, I asked my class of 6th grade students if they would like to make some birthday cards for him because I knew I'd be going to visit him that weekend. I told them just a little bit about him, and they were happy to spend a quiet 15 or 20 minutes at the end of the schoolday coloring cards for my friend. A few of them asked if they could make him some paper airplanes, and I told them I thought that would be great. I took their cards and their paper planes and decorated his room at the nursing home -- and took some pictures back to school with me the following week.

The kids were thrilled and intrigued. They immediately wanted to know when they could meet L. I was stunned. It had never occured to me that my 6th graders would want to meet this wizened, old, toothless, Jewish guy with developmental disabilities -- but they did. The school had stairs everywhere and L used a wheelchair for mobility. It seemed impossible. I explained, but they were having none of it. They kept after me -- for months.

Finally, at Valentine's Day, we brought my friend to school for our party. He arrived at recess time, and no rock star ever received such a reception. The children literally flew across the playground to surround his van, shouting his name. We ushered him into the only ground floor space we had, and the kids gathered around him, they sang to him, they laughed with him, they shared juice boxes and ice cream. They all had a grand time. Then, the most amazing thing happened... L, who was, by all reports "non-verbal," and who functioned at the level of about a two-year-old, looked around the circle of kids, and grinned widely and began to count -- "one, two, A WHOLE BUNCH!" The kids whooped, and burst into applause, while we adults all stood open mouthed in absolute wonder! It was simply magical.

From that day on, the kids were his and he was theirs. The story of L and the kids had great power, and they truly changed the world that year. More importantly, they became great friends.

"The Kids" grew and moved on, and L got older. He enriched my life in many ways as the years passed and we spent time together.

Then last summer, L had a stroke. The laughter and the music stopped and the sparkle left his eyes. It has been a difficult few months as L has struggled in and out of the hospital. In the last few weeks, we have known that L would soon no longer have the strength to go on, and that we would have to say our goodbyes.

This morning, at about 12:20, he died. I got word, at school at just a little after 10:00. I was sad, certainly, but not completely surprised, and I knew I could go on, but I wanted to honor his place in my life.

So, I took a deep breath and I told my kids that we could do one of two things: we could have the regular math lesson I'd planned, or I could tell them the story of my good friend who had died early this morning. I told them I was a little sad, but that he was very special and that I thought they might like to know about him, and that I wondered what they would like to do. They chose the story (of course -- duh!). So, I told my NEW kids the story of L, and his life and the paper airplanes and the Valentine's Day party and how really special he'd been in my life. They were sweet and listened and that was that. I used it to (I hoped) tell them to be careful about using hurtful labels (like "retard"), and to be open to friendships however unexpected. And that was that.

Then lunch and recess came around. Today we were not able to go out for recess (long story). When I got back to my room after I'd eaten, I was met by a delegation of kiddos bearing armloads of brightly colored paper airplanes... all decorated with messages for L. They handed them to me saying that they thought that he might like them...

Awwwwww...

One, two, A WHOLE BUNCH -- AND NOW A FEW MORE!

I'm sure he would like them a whole lot!

swan

Place

Mel suggested "Perhaps a post on just the way you understand your place in the life,(your family's dynamic)"

That's a daunting bit of writing, actually. My "place" in the life and our family's dynamic is something that I tend to keep gently held and private to a great degree.

Part of it is that I want to protect myself. I've suffered from perceived judgement before -- here and in other fora. It is hard to not take it personally. Too, I want to protect my family. I know how easy it is for things written here to get misinterpreted, or misread, and then things get said (and sometimes not said) that are hurtful and mean and just plain damaging to the hearts of the folks I love and care about. A larger truth is that there are details about how we are with each other inside our relationships that we don't necessarily share with one another. We take great care to be very, very gentle with each other's sensibilities and feelings, and being "poly" doesn't mean that we don't find it valuable to sometimes interact privately as the "couples" that exist inside our triad.

I also suffer, at some level, from the "Velveteen Rabbit" syndrome -- I am not entirely convinced that I am really real. That is especially true when I put my brand of slavery up against the sometimes "lurid" accounts that fly across my screen day after day after day. It isn't even close. No point in even trying; might as well cash it in and go stand in the "wannabe" line because whatever I'm doing, it doesn't look like the "real" stories that I read.



So, this kind of self-revelation makes my stomach twist.



My place.



I'm His slave. I belong to Him. My mind, my heart, my body, my emotions, my work, my energies, my attention, my life -- all of it belongs to Him. That is a simple statement that encompasses a set of layered realities. In principle, what passes between the two of us, is not about me. He has no obligation at all to act or choose in ways that make me happy or answer to my desires in any particular moment. As a practical matter, He does care for me and love me, so He attends to my health, my emotional state, and my feelings. That doesn't mean that I always get what I want (although that happens more than some might think is appropriate, given my status).



That's kind of a general statement of "theory." Making it REAL for those peering into our lives from outside feels challenging. I think that when I say to people that I am a "slave," most imagine some sort of image that is drawn from the fairy tale realms of harem literature or the even more lurid porn industry fantasies. I know that, when I was living in my long, long, repressive vanilla marriage, harboring my own masturbatory dreams, these were the secret images that fired my imagination -- because, the fact was that I had no reality to dream about or think about. Whatever, I know that beginning with a statement that I am "slave" sets up images for people that my reality doesn't match.


My place is focused on Him. It begins with His life and His needs. The reality of that can be terribly difficult sometimes. Here lately (and "lately" might be loosely defined as the last couple of years or so), His life has felt like it has been lived on a high speed treadmill from which there is no escape. The demands are seemingly endless, and they feel like they are coming from every direction at once. His working situation just keeps getting more and more demanding and slippery and bizzare. His aging parents' needs escalate day by day (and it is often scary). We've got a good friend who is slipping away in hospice care -- today or tomorrow or maybe next week. His adult children have their own things going on, but they are making the transitions into nascent "adult-style" relationships with Him -- a really neat thing, but also time intensive. He has his own health issues, too. Things are better now than they were some months ago, but with each passing month and year, the battle to maintain good health gets tougher. He's powerful. He's strong. He's bright. He is also human and there are limits to what one person can carry on their shoulders. Sometimes He gets tired. Occasionally, He gets downright grumpy. Now and then, He is simply overwhelmed -- to the point of tears. He needs to be held, to be rubbed, to be comforted, to be supported.


Does that mean that I don't have times when I "want?" Not at all. Last weekend, schedules conspired to keep us from being able to have any but the briefest of sexual contact -- and no SM play at all. We were simply running the whole time -- in a half dozen different directions. Even as my own sexual desires begin to come back around and wake back up, life seems to be keeping us from going down that path. It is frustrating to me, certainly, and (I am sure) to Him as well. Those are risky places for a strong willed slave -- keeping track of where your heart and mind and emotions belong in those moments is trickier than it is under less stressful conditions. Earlier this week, I asked Him (partly jokingly) if there might be sometime soon when He could fit me in on His calendar. It was my way of letting Him know that I understand His pressures, and that I don't want to add to that, but that it is important for me to make sure He knows that I am hungry for His touch. Slaving means knowing that it is not about "me." So that hunger will wait. I am confident that, when the time comes around again, He will come back to me in that way.


As for how our "family" works -- we are three. Committed adults, living and loving together. Technically and legally, Master and T are husband and wife. I am "loved" but without legal status. Master's mother, in her occasional lucid moments, worries about the "nice neighbor lady" -- that's how we usually present to the family and the outside world. She muses that I seem nice and not unattractive, so she cannot imagine that I haven't found a man...


T and I are often (almost literally) of one mind, and we work to take care of our Man. Sometimes the connection between the two of us scares Him -- and there are times when I know He feels like we gang up on Him... We joke that "it takes a village" to raise a Dominant. We know that, between the two of us, we can make things happen for Him. I know, too, that my sister-heart loves me, cares for me, worries for me. Having her in my life is a gift that I can never "repay."


The daily stuff, the routines, the patterns, the logistics? Does anyone really care? Do you really want to know who does the dishes, who washes the socks, who shops for the potatoes, who scrubs the toilets? You can ask if you really care. On the next level up from all of that, we manage to pay our bills, find our necessary documents, keep track of our various schedules, make it to all the doctor appointments and stuff. We don't usually feel stepped on or jealous, although we DO have to stay aware and pay attention. We all have feelings and moods and needs. We are sensitive to one another as much as we can be. We try to make spaces for one another and for the pairs that are part of our triad. We've learned to acknowlege that our distinct pairings need things done differently and at different times and in different ways. We work hard to accommodate and respect and value that.


That does not mean that we have achieved poly "nirvana." There are still bumpy places. When life gets intense, when energies get stretched, when the stresses begin to wear on one or all of us, we all find the places where we rub around the edges. We all have our tender places, the things we need and want, and the places where there simply isn't enough to go around. Mostly, we pick up the slack for each other, try to be there for one another, try to give each other room to do whatever is needed when it is needed. We continue to talk about what we have to share or "teach" about doing poly, but honestly, I'm not sure that telling others how to do this is where we are just now -- or that anyone cares.

swan

Stream Of Words

Every now and then, something happens and I look back at the trail that has been left as I've written these entries over the last couple of years -- at what the stream of words that have poured out here record about the journey to this point.


When the command was given to begin writing a blog, I resisted.

I'd been a participant for a long time, at that point, in the listserve world. I'd gotten started on Domestic Discipline lists. DD is a whole different world, but it is where I found my first entry point into BDSM. It is what came up on the screen when I first got a home computer, sat down and timidly typed "spanking" into a search engine. I didn't know much about BDSM when I first got started. I had a lifetime of repressed fantasies, and a belief that there was something terribly wrong about me. I had no idea that there were others like me... In the beginning, I wrote prolifically to both the 1HouseholdDiscipline and 1DomesticDiscipline YahooGroup lists. I was naive. I asked a lot of questions, voiced a lot of opinions, told my story-- as far as I knew it at the time. I made some connections, thought I knew who and what I was. I grew.



In time, I came to feel ostracized as my sense of self became more aligned with the BDSM label. All too frequently, as I began to self-identify as submissive, and as a BDSM practitioner, I found myself under attack by those who found those things that I found interesting and important -- somehow frightening (if not downright BAD). I eventually left those lists (sort of under duress if the truth be told), and created my own Yahoo list. That list, bDDsm, still exists, but is essentially defunct. Only occasionally does a message come through from one of the very few members. I maintained it for a long time until it got to feel like I was talking to myself in an empty room.


We met on those DD lists. We came to know each other there first. He came to understand the need in me for words, for the untangling of my own thinking through the act of writing -- and as, one by one, the listserves stopped being viable outlets for that, He began to push me to write in this format.


I worried that I could not "compete" in this medium. I knew from the outset that I would never be "hot" in the sex blog set. I fully understood that I would not be one of the ones who wrote exciting or scintillating scene reports; never be the slave that others would want to emulate. I worried that I was too old, too shy, too jaded, too serious, too unwilling to play games to ever be part of the interesting and enticing set that pulls the heavy traffic of readers in the blogosphere. I was utterly convinced that there was absolutely no place for me in this environment -- sometimes it is intimidating as hell to be an aging baby boomer in a world that appears to be completely populated with nubile twenty-somethings.



Still, He knew that I WOULD talk to myself in my head; chattering away about all the various things that worried and irritated and troubled me -- until I'd get myself tied into such mental knots that I wouldn't be able to stand the internal noise level. He understood that I would tell myself all kinds of crazy stories unless I could find an outlet for all those words...


So He told me to write. Just write. He insisted that it didn't matter if anyone read it; didn't matter what it was about; didn't matter if it was "hot." All that mattered, He told me, was that it was my truth, my words, my heart. That was the beginning, and that has been the pattern -- through joy and pain and whining and confusion and boredom and anger and growth and change and endurance and friendship and philosophy and sometimes silliness.


If you spend time here, you know this place is mostly me (regardless how we bill it). My words. My wanderings. My moods. My fears. My ups and downs. If I'm in good places, you get my skipping happiness. When I'm hurting, you know my fears and uncertainties -- or you simply hear nothing at all. The links come and go -- mostly at my whim (except for those ones that are His). This place is like poking around in the attic of my mind -- it really is a matter of listening to me talking to myself an awful lot of the time.


I find more and more that I still read a lot around the circle, but that I don't know what to say most of the time -- and so I don't comment much. The way I understand my place in this life feels so different than most, that I am almost always at a loss as to how to interact in helpful ways. What gets "defined" as slavery or submission (generally) is so far from my reality, that I can get shaky about my truth. Ours is just not "like" almost anyone else's dynamic. I have to really pay attention and stay focused and centered if I am going to stay out of the trap of comparing myself to all the other "kids." That way is a path that I cannot afford to walk. Furthermore, I understand full well, that for me to compare my way to others is not just damaging to my emotional well-being; it doesn't serve others in any positive way either. So I read, and then I move on. And I feel lonely. Mostly.


So.


I'll keep writing. Because He was right. I need to put these words out here. For myself, and for Him. To keep from getting myself all tangled up in the knots. Forgive my quiet times; the days when the words don't flow. Forgive me the lack of comment chatter from place to place. I read here and there. I follow many places. I just can't see myself as a preacher, or porn star, or guru, or poet.


I'm here. I'm His. Always and all ways.


swan

Giddy With Relief

It is fibrous breast tissue, probably made tender and swollen by the HRT. When the doctor examined me, she was in agreement with me that it was questionable and "odd." She sent (immediately) for a diagnostic mammogram. The radiology clinic at the nearby hospital fit me in right away, and the films were read and interpreted by a doctor on site. NOTHING. No masses of any kind. Nothing at all to be concerned about.

I also had a (previously scheduled) appointment this afternoon with the sexual health specialist who is prescribing the hormone replacement therapy for me. We discussed the issues and he agreed that perhaps the breast tissue issues may be resulting from the dosages of the hormone therarpy. So, those dosages have been adjusted.

Tonight, our family is feeling relieved, almost to the point of giddiness. We've tried to think positive about this one. Still, it has been hard not to harbor a touch on nagging worry. Thank you, each and every one, for all the good thoughts and energy. You have, once again, been right there when we needed you most.

swan

Family Doings

Sometimes I wonder how it is that I ever survived all those years and years when it was just me and the single spouse trying to keep the family unit running. Work schedules and household chores and child-rearing responsibilities and the responsibilities of basic citizenship and the efforts required to maintain any semblance of a social life can be daunting during the very best of times; if there are even minimal challenges added to that mix, it becomes nearly impossible for the "normal" family unit to juggle it all. I know -- I did it for a really long time with a sometimes less than stellar partner.

Every now and then we dance the "poly" dance in such a fashion that it is illustrative of the awesome benefits of having more hands. Last night was one of those times.

Grandma had a doctor's appointment scheduled for 7:15 PM. That's well past dark in these parts at this time of the year, and Grandpa is not really competent to find his way to the doctor's office in the dark, nor is he capable of wrangling Grandma, in her confused mental state, without considerable assistance. Normally, Master would accompany them, but He had a meeting to attend Himself, so T and I converged on "the home" from our respective after work directions to help get the elders to the docs.

When we got to their apartment, T got hold of Grandpa's car keys, and I took charge of Grandma's wheelchair. We sent Grandpa off to sign us out. By the time I got her wheeled down to the exit where we were going to meet T with the car, she was already totally lost, but still pretty compliant. Then, things began to get a little "iffy." We are finally having a bit of wintery weather here -- temperatures down into the low 30's and Grandma was not just about to put her coat on. Not surprising actally, since they keep the temperature in "the home" somewhere near 85 degrees. She's awfully confused about a lot of things, but like many a stubborn two-year-old, when she makes up her mind to NOT do something, she's NOT GOING TO DO IT! Makes Grampa crazy! We finally got her in the backseat of the olager-buick and got underway.

It really wasn't far (as the crow flies) to the clinic. There was just one problem. Grandpa didn't know where the place was. He didn't know the address. Didn't know what it was called. Didn't have any directions. He did have some vague recollection of how to get there. So... He was in the front with T giving directions: "drive this way; turn left at the light; right at the next intersection; go slowly along here; then right -- no left... Ooops! That's a dead end. Maybe it's back that way. T has the patience of a saint. She never ever gave even the slightest hint of impatience or frustration. Just kept driving and following the completely whimsical directions. It didn't take long for it to become clear that he had no idea where we were going. To make matters even more complex, the neighborhood was more than a little "rough."

Eventually we found our way to a main street where we eventually found an open business with one lone employee. T pulled over, and I hopped out and ran in. I asked the fellow if he could help me -- explained that I was trying to help "my elderly parents" get to a doctor appointment, and that my father did not know how to find the place. Did he, by any chance, know where I might find "__________ Medical Center" which was the name that Grandpa had given us. Bless him, the guy worked really hard to try and find the place for me. He looked through the phone book; he tried to call the city offices and the county offices (both of which were closed at that hour). No luck. There was no such place listed. Finally, between the two of us, we found a family practice medical office with a name that was kind of (remotely) like the one that we'd been hunting for. The address listed was not one that the guy recognized, but he thought we might be able to find the cross street if we went back down the main street.

I went tearing back out to the car and passed on the results of my reconnaisance. We turned around and retraced our steps, and lo and behold -- there it was! Success!

We pulled in and I scooted in to get a wheelchair for Grandma. We got her loaded in and all seemed good. I thought T had her, and T thought I had her. Turns out neither of us had her. Suddenly, she was free wheeling down the driveway, headed for the frozen grass and mud. EEEKKKK! Luckily, we didn't dump her on her head. T retrieved her and we got her in for her appointment. Got things all taken care of. Hooray!

Going home was a whole lot easier. Right. Left. Down the main drag. Back to "the home." A few laughs about some silliness. All ends well. Grandma and Grandpa back home safe and sound.

We all got home late. Dragged off for a bit of dinner at a place close to home. And then home and off to bed. The whole bunch of us worn out, but glad for the blessings of family and enough hands and hearts to take care of all that needs to be done.

swan

It isn't even a thing you can talk about...

I do not have a lump.
More like a swelling tender spot.
And it is not actually IN my breast.
Sort of off in the muscle tissue.
Over my ribs.
On the right side.

I first noticed it on Saturday night; when He was rubbing me there.
It is hard for me to even get my fingers on very well.
I asked Him if he would check if for me and see if He could tell what it was.

In the end, the verdict was that it warrants a look by the doctor.
Maybe it is nothing more than a sore muscle; or some artifact of the HRT, or ...
Still, no sense in guessing, or waiting, or worrying without appropriate information.

When I called the doctor's office with my non-specific, non-descriptive, description, the receptionist was very good. She heard me saying that I wasn't entirely sure I should be concerned, but that I was nonetheless nervous -- and scheduled the appointment. One week from today.

A week to try not to worry. Much.

It isn't even a thing that you can actually talk about clearly.

swan

The Origins of Modern Monogamy (reprise)

Just last week, we had a comment made on a post that was written on October 18, 2005 . Ray Blumenthal, our commenter, was so eloquent and so passionate, that he sent us looking back to that post and also to one on "Modern Monagamy" that he also referenced. It's been a long time since those were written, but the ideas and issues are still pertinent in our lives, and we thought they were worth bringing back from the archives...

This post was originally written by Master in response to an attack levied against a post written on The Swan's Heart by an anonymous "Christian." It did not deal with the usual thematic content of this Blog or that one. If you are here looking for our usual discussions of how our polyamorous family deals with life, or some more lurid descriptions of BDSM practice, or our usual discourse, you may want to not read this but go on to some of our earlier posts or to browse our archives. There is a lot there.This piece was a continuation of a discussion of the definition of polyamory and the attempts by the predominate activist Christian movement in the United States to recreate the United States into a theocratic imperialist state.

"Anonymous" said...It's not just Christians or some modern silliness. Through out time and through out all cultures marriage has always been seen as a union between man and woman. So drop the foul act against Christians. It was the same 2000 years ago in North America, Europe, Africa, Asia, Australia-- practically everywhere, the same 1000 years ago, 500.. and so on. Everywhere you look, all over the world, in most every culture, through out time that is how it has been. "

Response: Factually, Christianity grew out of Judaism. Jewish society, both pre-and post Christ, was polygamous. The great prophets of the Old Testament had dozens and in some cases hundreds of wives not to mention many concubines and slaves whom they "knew."

Christ was born into a polygamous society. He died in a polygamous society. The first five centuries C. E. the early Christians, true to their heritage and teaching, practiced polygamy if they chose to. Generally, polygamy was socially preferred and was certainly economically efficacious.

In 325 A. D. the Roman Emperor Constantine, faced with an empire coming apart at the seams because of infighting between Christian and more traditional believers in the Roman Pagan State religion, convened the Council of Nicea. The Council was tasked to create a new hybrid Roman State religion that would bring the warring factions into one common worship and preserve the Empire. They revised and created the first State sanctioned scripture, creating numerous theological constructs out of political necessity, which lack any basis in history or documented religious teaching. These included the teachings that Jesus was the son of god, that he was born to a virgin, and that he was killed and rose from the dead, and that he considered himself a savior. The Council created the first State operated "Christian" Church. They created the first paid clergy. At the end of their process they codified their new religion in a statement of belief, "The Nicene Creed." All Christians were required to accept this creed. It is passed down to us today verbatim and is chanted each Sunday in nearly every Christian Church with those, who bother to think what its words mean, having no idea that there is no basis for its theological precepts, other than the need to resolve a political crisis in the fourth century Roman Empire.

Those who adopted the Nicene Creed became Christians. Those who refused, wanting to adhere to the teachings of Christ and the disciples, were called "those who chose....choice makers." The Latin for Choice maker is hereticus (plural heretici). They were heretici the first "heretics." Heretics were proclaimed enemies of God and the state. The Romans and the newly reborn Christians then banded together to persecute their formerly Christian brethren with a ferocity that made the persecution of the early Christians by Rome seem benign. Nicene Creed Christians have been true to that "faith" ever since.

The important aspects of history to the Council of Nicea discussion is that a Central Holy Roman Church was created that paralleled the Roman Imperial Government. The new Church had aspirations to gather wealth and power over all the world rivaling the government. It was challenged though. It could not levy taxes. It could not make war. It could not usurp property. It negotiated a dispensation. It was legislated that the assets of anyone who died without heirs would inure to The Church. This could be most helpful but there was a problem. Society was still polygamous. If you had many wives and dozens or even hundreds of offspring there always was an heir standing in line in front of The Church to inherit assets unless very exceptional circumstances occurred.

While The Church could not levy taxes it could define religion. It was decreed by the Holy Roman Church in the fifth Century that marriage could only be between one man and one woman. The Church had no previous theology upon which to base this. It was a step that would create huge intestacy and ergo wealth for the Church. Over the two subsequent centuries it enriched the Church beyond the Roman Empire or any previous political, social, or religious institution.

Monogamy is a much cherished concept within Christianity. It's basis is economic. It has no theologically historical basis in our culture. Additionally review by objective Bible scholars can find no Biblical texts that speak to the number of men and women able to enter into marriage. Neither of course, does the Talmud. Interestingly the Koran does address this but it permits both monogamy and polygamy and counsels the relative merits of each type of marriage.

The statement that, "Throughout time and throughout all cultures marriage has always been seen as a union between one man and one woman," is a lie. It is not the Judeo Christian tradition prior to the 600's and thereafter only to create intestacy to fatten the coffers of the Holy Roman Church. It is not even spoken to in the inherently corrupt post-Nicene Council Christian scripture. It is not the practice of the Moslem world and has not been for thousands of years as well.

Very basic sociological research will easily reveal that adherence to monogamy is a social aberration throughout world culture, not a norm. Anyone looking back upon our society in centuries hence will certainly look upon our "monogamous society and legal system" with over half of all marriages ending in divorce to be followed with one or two or three or four subsequent marriages and statistical trends towards non-married cohabiting households appearing to tend towards likely eclipsing married co-habiting households in the decades ahead, as an exercise in denial and hypocrisy.

So anonymous Christian if you are still about, I've given you a small portion of the basis of debunking the lies you've expressed here, and are too cowardly to even sign. What basis do you have? I agree there are "foul attacks" made on Christianity. I've made none. I've explained historical facts........truths. The most foul attacks on Christianity occur weekly from pulpits, and in legislatures and Congress, and in posts like yours.

Tom

Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you've imagined.

Silly Saturday

Every once in awhile, life just gets silly. When the planets and the stars align in smiley face patterns, you might as well just give it up and laugh because, otherwise, things are just going to keep sliding toward slapstick until you get the hint. This morning was one of those times...

He woke up slowly and reluctantly this morning -- not feeling especially frisky or even very good (if the truth be told). There's nothing at all going to happen with Himself until I get Him unmasked. As long as He's hooked up to the CPAP, it is hard to "connect." So, it was late morning when His eyes finally began to flutter open and focus on the fact that I was there and rubbing and scratching Him.

Just as He began to sort of come around and started to snuggle and do that rub and hump thing that gets Him going, the doorbell rang. WTF? Friends, our doorbell never rings. Never. The possibilities, if the doorbell rings are pretty limited. We hadn't called the plumber, so it wasn't likely that it was that. In the days when Master's parents were more "mobil" we sometimes got the two of them at the front door, but really, getting "mom" out and about anymore isn't a practical reality, so the possibility of them ringing the doorbell at 10:30 seemed unlikely. As sure as we are that what goes on in our increasingly conservative and oppressive government these days is BAD news, we weren't entirely prepared to assume that it was the NSA on our doorstep. So, we were a little baffled.

I climbed my naked butt out of bed, grabbed a bathrobe and shuffled out to the door (wild hair and all), where I scared the living daylights out of a cute little neighborhood girl scout selling the annual installment of girl scout cookines. Grrrrrr... No thank you, we don't want any cookies.

Back to bed. Back to attempting to convince/coerce the somewhat reluctant, grumpy, "I'm not feeling particularly good" penis person to get into it (talk about an esteem challenge)... Finally, we achieved the point of "lift off," and He declared that He was "ready." Hallelujah!

I climbed aboard -- yes, this is the part of our lives where I am always the "top." Don't laugh -- you don't kneel on artificial knees, boys and girls. I get myself situated and start doing the thing I do while He makes "happy, contented Dom" noises. Suddenly, like a sixteen-year-old in the back seat of His dad's Chevy, He remembers His manners (I guess), looks at me with the funniest goofy grin, and says, "I love you." I couldn't help it -- I just lost it laughing. Oh my!

Now, there are many things about poly that people may wonder about; there are even some things that people ask about on a pretty regular basis. The fact is, though, that we've learned that there are patterns in our lives that are just predictable. We really try to be sensitive with each other about some things. We generally are not sexual as the three of us. That is usually something that we make space around for each other and we try to respect those spaces. Still, when you have adults sharing the same living space, with schedules that are shifting, it isn't always easy to know who might be DOING IT when. It does seem that T has an almost uncanny 6th sense that inevitably brings her cruising in just as Master and I get started making love. We joke with each other that there must be flashing lights and alarm bells that go off when we get started. This morning was no different. I'd no sooner recovered from my near hysteria over the "I love you" remark when the door opened and in came my sister-heart, dressed in her bright pink fleecy pj's and her killer rabbit slippers -- she always enters singing "Oh sweet mystery of life; at last I've found you!." She was a vision, and of course, she had to tell us how she'd scared the girl scouts half to death with her killer rabbit slippers...

Ahh well! You gotta laugh. And we did.

She grinned. Shook her head. Turned around and left us to it. Now let me see, where were we? Oh yes, the back seat of the Chevy. Grin.

swan

Words about Slavery

I was out driving somewhere recently. Perhaps I was headed to school or to the grocery; I can't remember exactly what day it was or where I was going. I imagine I was most likely listening to our local National Public Radio station, since that is my option these days now that we've lost our local Air America outlet here in the great conservative armpit of the midwest...

At any rate, I heard some commentary on the nature of slavery. I'd come into it at the very end, and I am quite sure that it had nothing at all to do with OUR sort of lifestyle at all. Most likely, the conversation was some sort of academic discussion -- probably a historical look at slavery in the U.S, or the Caribbean, or (even further back) maybe ancient Rome. Whatever the context, there was a single line that caught my attention: "the defining characteristic of slavery is the lack of the right to one's own self."

That's been echoing around in my mind ever since; banging up against lesson plans and chore lists and fragments of songs and leftover bits of dreams and menu plans and wishing for summer and wondering about the kids and assorted other odds and ends that float through my head on a regular basis.

I don't spend a lot of time thinking about slavery. I live it. It is my life and my identity. Still, I live a lot of my time looking kind of "normal" to most people, and I don't dwell on the slavery part of my life. It has come to be such a part of my life that I don't invest a lot of conscious energy into making it "real." It is real. Every now and then, though, I can get caught by something, or some confluence of things, that sets me off in a different direction in my thinking about it. These last few weeks have been that sort of space for me.

I suppose part of it is that there seems to be a lot of conversation in the places where I read about things like "rules," and "tasks," and "protocols," and "training," and the like. I understand what it all is, and I don't question the validity of any of those approaches in the relationships where they are employed -- and I am aware (sometimes vividly) that we don't do any of that; and really never have.

As I look back at our history together, I remember that our move to the place where we came to see ourselves as Master and slave was very slow and subtle. We met as members of the same listserve. Hardly knew each other at all at first. Eventually made some connection, and gradually hooked up to the point of seeking each other out for further contact. After all, we were living at nearly opposite ends of a very big continent. At first the relating was as friends and for the sake of a mentor/student sort of partnership. We moved into a casual, now and then play partner matchup, and eventually to the level of lovers and then to D/s. For a very long time, we resisted the labels of Master and slave, and all the lurid, fantasy realm implications of that appelation. In time, though, that dynamic grew between us, and the acknowledgement became one that we could not deny. We accepted the truth of what was between us because it WAS; not because we did anything in particular to make it be.


I am His, and I don't ever doubt that for a single minute. T is His as well. We are sisters, and we are different. We see our relationships with Him differently. He sees His relationships with each of us differently. We all define those relationships differently, using different labels. We have and hold different expectations, in some ways, but we are absolutely devoted to one another, and we absolutely understand the expectations within our family and our household. Sometimes, when I read about all the lists of rules and whatnot, I find myself a little bumfuzzled. It isn't so much that I feel judged or judging; it is just that I am a bit amazed. I have a difficult time imagining it in our world, to be honest. Our lives are so full and so busy. Most days, we are up at 5 AM, and there are many, many nights when one or the other (at least) of us is out at a meeting or event until 9 PM or later. Then, there begins the necessary business of dinner and checking in with one another and checking up on the various branches and bits of the extended and far flung family and keeping up with the health stuff and decompressing and politicking and householding and ... It's a whirl.


She and I do it together (like synchronized swimmers), and mostly smoothly, and entirely without rules or protocols or rituals. Goodness! He has no time or patience for such. He'd never stand for anything so demanding of His energies. When He's here, He expects to be able to relax, to enjoy, to be cared for, and attended to in the ways that support His comfort and well-being and happiness. We make that happen, and He most often never knows about a very great deal of it, although He tries to be appreciative of what He does notice. In turn, He can be loving and sweet and concerned and generous and almost boyish when He the mood strikes Him.

Returning to where I began this wandering ramble, that the defining characteristic of slavery is the lack of rights to one's own self; I was reminded of conversations that magdala and I went through oh so long ago about the responsibilities (or at least need) of a Master to somehow take care of that which was "property" if it was to be available for His use. There arises, when that discussion comes up, the ethical question, of whether a "slave" can be compared to an inanimate object like a table or a towel. Does it behoove a Master to consider the wants/needs of the slave, or can such be ignored as the slave simply remains available to be of service when and if that service is required?

My deep suspicion is that it is terribly difficult to remain in the place of a true and centered slave heart in the absence of those tangible things that indicate attentiveness from the Dominant partner -- rules, rituals, protocols, tasks... For a slave to simply do what is needful, appropriate, required, expected -- all without demand or rules or lists, requires incredible internal energy and self-control and discipline. Doing these things without external supports brings no assurance of any sort of reinforcing or rewarding feedback. Slavery carried out without the usual trappings becomes a naked gamble. It is all or nothing. There is no bargaining and no negotiation hidden in the details. It does not have the potential for the unspoken deal: "I will bow and serve IF You will tend to my needs for structure, pain, reassurance, etc..."


Sometimes, many times, as I read from place to place to place, I find myself imagining OUR world configured in the ways that I read about elsewhere. I wonder what it would be like to have those frameworks in place to form touchstones that I could anchor to on some sort of regular basis as I navigate the deep emotional waters of my days. I can feel the responsiveness that comes up in me -- that Rapunzel in the high tower sort of dreaming safeness, and I know that there lives in my heart the wishing for the fairy tale of the far off castle where I would never again have to go out and face down the world's dragons.

And then, I open my eyes, look around, and see my real life. And my real life is very, very good.

swan

Wanderlust?

If one asks to be led, then it is important to remember to follow.

Sometimes the routines of life can lull me into a sense that it has always been this way, and that as far as I can see into the future, it will always be this way.

I can forget that it was His simple command that brought me to Him from 1200 miles away over four years ago. Now, again, it may be that His vision could lead all of us to someplace totally new and far away from here.

I suspect that the current impetus toward movement has roots in the increasingly conservative tenor of things in our nation and here in our city. Too, there is the continuing foreign policy that keeps our nation at war, and so many of our young men and women once again at risk of death and injury in an endless and fruitless war. So, He looks northward toward Canada, and dreams of Nova Scotia.

He spent almost all of the day on Sunday, looking and looking at information about Nova Scotia - the promised land... I do not know what lies ahead, but I know that His vision often becomes reality. Often.

What will this mean? I do't know. I'm not sure, at this point that any of us really know. We are talking a lot. And this summer, perhaps, we will travel north and east to visit and survey the lay of the land and check it out. Who knows? At the very least perhaps the Clan Heron will get the chance to visit some of the local haunts -- this one looks intriguing for the "birds" around our place don't you think?

swan

Edge

We are dancing nearer and nearer to the edge together.

It is good.

It is very scary.

I know that there will be a day when we will take the leap, and I believe that it will be the day when I will finally be assured that I am healed and "back" again.

Still each step nearer to the precipice sends me flying into His arms, buried in His embrace, shaking and terrified, certain that utter destruction awaits me beyond that line that exists (perhaps) only in my imagination.

Before...

We shared the great joy and intimacy of vaginal fisting. It was a gift that He gave to me, early in our relationship, guiding me carefully and with a sure and experienced hand (forgive me the pun) as I learned to "do" it with Him.

Since my surgery, we haven't resumed it. I am, in every medical sense, healed. I have the opinion of the doctor, who sees me at the women's sexual health clinic, assures me that I "should" be able to fist without any problem.

No problem.

Except that in my head, there's a real problem. I'm scared to death -- terrified that He'll punch right through the end of what's left of my vaginal vault. After all, there's no "top" left at the top anymore.

And in physical reality, there's serious uncharted territory to be rediscovered. Our regular sex life does not involve deep penetration. There are places that have been left in unexplored darkness this last year -- places where scar tissue looms tender in my body and HUGE in my imagination.

We are getting better and better. Finding a new place to stand together. One day, very soon, we'll go together to the edge and leap into the darkness.

Wish us well.

swan

A Dangerous Woman

He sleeps with me wrapped up in a big bear hug; tucked in under His chin, all curled into a ball, His top leg thrown over mine, my arms crossed over my chest mummy style, breathing in the warmth of Him. It is, generally, a place of safety and security for me, and we fall into that spot quite naturally and happily most of the time.

The other morning, in the early, pre-dawn darkness, it paid off as I came screaming up out of a nightmare in full on attack mode.

I'd been in some sort of battle / confrontation with the ex-husband, out in some muddy, trash-strewn empty field in the warehouse district of some major city -- the kind of area where one would find rail yards and homeless wanderers and drug dealers and gang bangers and... I'd finally gotten away from the ex and started away from that highly charged scene when I came face to face with "The Scary Man" in the blue stocking cap. I kid you not, he looked just like the guy in the picture. For whatever reason, at that point in the dream, I was suddenly in a wheel chair, unable to move my legs. I tried to maneuver around and away from "The Scary Man," but he blocked all my efforts. I scrambled and I growled and I snarled. No dice...

Finally, the guy lunged at me with obvious malice, and I just went after him. I had every intention of killing the bastard if I could. If I didn't manage to kill him, I was sure as hell going to gouge out his eyeballs and rip his cheek open. I'm tall and I'm strong and I grew up with brothers. I was raised not to start a fight, but my Dear Departed Father always told us that if someone else was going to start it, we better be prepared to finish it. I was definitely going to finish it!

There was only one problem this time. There really wasn't any "Scary Guy." The poor unsuspecting victim of my sudden urge to KILL, was Master -- who up until that moment had been sound asleep. From out of the blue, the quiet, snuggly, warm, peacefully sleeping slave that He'd been hugging to His chest transformed into a wild-eyed, snarling, scratching, clawing, kicking, punching FIEND STRAIGHT FROM HELL!

There was that really weird moment of confusion when "The Scary Guy" disappeared and there was only Master, holding both my wrists, and saying, "Honey! Honey! It's alright! It's me. Calm down! Are you alright?" Are you dreaming?"

I dropped in a heap in His arms, shaking, trying to figure out where I was exactly, soaking up the reality of being safe and held secure, listening to my heart race, wanting only to know that I hadn't actually hurt Him in my panic.

In the end it was almost funny... Almost. Another piece of information. Master sleeps with a dangerous woman.

swan