Yesterday we learned that a dear friend had died. No warning. He is just gone. He was a 38 yr old dad of 2 who loved his family and his work. He was our banker and our friend.
He was diagnosed with Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis, an Interstitial Lung Disease, a few years ago and was nearing the time of needing a lung transplant. He never smoked or worked in a place that would do lung damage. He didn't talk about it. He thought everyone else was more interesting than himself. And now he is gone.
Apparently he went into the hospital a week ago, his family flew in from Turkey and he passed Friday.
This has hit me particularly hard. My Mom has an Interstitial Lung Disease. When Tom told him about Mom, he replied, "That is what I have, you know..." and shook his head. I have held onto the fact that he looked so well and functioned normally. Clung to it, in fact. If he could do so well..... well, Mom should weather it just fine, too. And today we memorialized him and I know that Mom is not invulnerable.
His wife clung to each and every person who came to honor his life. We were all his friends. The room was overflowing with friends and family, young and old, all mourning the loss of a wonderful man who died too soon.
It is a sad day in Heron-land.
Rest well my friend.
T
5/31/2010
Troubador
Last night, we had an absolutely delightful and wonderful time. We traveled north to Columbus to take part in the "local" version of the James Taylor and Carole King Troubador Reunion Tour. Starting at about 7:45 in the evening, the two gave a mind-blowing, nearly three hour long performance that, for people our age, was some sort of magical concoction of nostalgia, music history, and just plain old fashioned classic rock and roll party. What a great, great evening it was!
We had seats that were WAAAAYYYYYYY up in the top of the arena, but for this show - with its theater in the round stage, and giant screen displays, that distance was really no issue -- and the music was spectacular. There is something truly magical when these two get together to make music, and the clear and apparent affection they have for one another only enhances the experience. Backed by three of the original band from their first Troubador performance, and a variety of backup singers with long histories of performing with one or the other of the two. Amazing!
James is now 62 and Carole is 68. I'd have defied anyone to guess their ages based on their antics in concert. Carole dances and rocks the place in her high, spiked heels, and never seems to miss a beat. Taylor still seems almost shy as he weaves his music into the story of his life -- every bit the poet, even after all these years...
Figuring our longish drive home after our very full evening, and a bit of time, once we got here to settle down and decompress..., and we were late; no LATE, by the time we got to bed. Today, predictably, we are tired and mostly trying to recover. I can only imagine how tired the two of them must be.
swan
We had seats that were WAAAAYYYYYYY up in the top of the arena, but for this show - with its theater in the round stage, and giant screen displays, that distance was really no issue -- and the music was spectacular. There is something truly magical when these two get together to make music, and the clear and apparent affection they have for one another only enhances the experience. Backed by three of the original band from their first Troubador performance, and a variety of backup singers with long histories of performing with one or the other of the two. Amazing!
James is now 62 and Carole is 68. I'd have defied anyone to guess their ages based on their antics in concert. Carole dances and rocks the place in her high, spiked heels, and never seems to miss a beat. Taylor still seems almost shy as he weaves his music into the story of his life -- every bit the poet, even after all these years...
Figuring our longish drive home after our very full evening, and a bit of time, once we got here to settle down and decompress..., and we were late; no LATE, by the time we got to bed. Today, predictably, we are tired and mostly trying to recover. I can only imagine how tired the two of them must be.
swan
We played yesterday afternoon.
I had a hard time settling into it. Even as He started off slowly with lots of light and low-intensity implements, and lots of stroking, I was crunched down in some dark corner of my mind trying to prepare myself for a repeat of Tuesday night. It took me awhile to catch on to the reality that we weren't just going to paddle and paddle and paddle and paddle. Then, I had to somehow navigate a sense of guilt that I "made Him do it this way instead of that way..." and round and round and round, until I finally quieted all the ornery voices and just came into the moment with Him.
That's when I noticed His hand; planted gently in the center of my back. He wasn't really holding me down or in position so much as He was just maintaining a steady contact with me and my skin. I became completely entranced by the weight of it, lying there so steadily -- and then I began to circle around the warmth that was emanating from His hand into my body and into my being.
It's an old and well-known massage technique -- maintain contact with your subject; never lift your hand off until you've made contact with your other hand; stay in touch. I learned it long ago when I practiced massage with my infant children. I'm not sure that He's ever heard of that practice, or been taught it by anyone, and yet when I asked Him why He kept His hand on me, He told me it was because I'd said I needed Him to do that.
Really? I don't remember telling Him that, although it feels true inside of me. That warm, steady pressure kept me focused, and as He ratcheted up the intensity of what He was doing, I was able to stay in touch with Him and be there and not be afraid.
There is so much to personal power that we don't completely understand. That ability to settle my wayward mind and prickly heart with just a touch, is just one more piece of the picture.
swan
I had a hard time settling into it. Even as He started off slowly with lots of light and low-intensity implements, and lots of stroking, I was crunched down in some dark corner of my mind trying to prepare myself for a repeat of Tuesday night. It took me awhile to catch on to the reality that we weren't just going to paddle and paddle and paddle and paddle. Then, I had to somehow navigate a sense of guilt that I "made Him do it this way instead of that way..." and round and round and round, until I finally quieted all the ornery voices and just came into the moment with Him.
That's when I noticed His hand; planted gently in the center of my back. He wasn't really holding me down or in position so much as He was just maintaining a steady contact with me and my skin. I became completely entranced by the weight of it, lying there so steadily -- and then I began to circle around the warmth that was emanating from His hand into my body and into my being.
It's an old and well-known massage technique -- maintain contact with your subject; never lift your hand off until you've made contact with your other hand; stay in touch. I learned it long ago when I practiced massage with my infant children. I'm not sure that He's ever heard of that practice, or been taught it by anyone, and yet when I asked Him why He kept His hand on me, He told me it was because I'd said I needed Him to do that.
Really? I don't remember telling Him that, although it feels true inside of me. That warm, steady pressure kept me focused, and as He ratcheted up the intensity of what He was doing, I was able to stay in touch with Him and be there and not be afraid.
There is so much to personal power that we don't completely understand. That ability to settle my wayward mind and prickly heart with just a touch, is just one more piece of the picture.
swan
5/30/2010
Friend
I am not a "believer." I have no formal religious belief or affiliation, and while I live in this predominantly Christian culture, I do not subscribe to the mythologies that underlie many of the tenets of that practice.
That is not to say that there is nothing at all that stirs me spiritually. I have, through a lifetime, come face to face with active demonstrations of a lively and distinctive spirit world that regularly comes into contact with this one.
One such instance happened years ago, when He and I traveled to my favorite clothing-optional resort, Valley View Hotsprings. I had a very difficult last morning there when it fell to me to attempt to get us checked out before the deadline. We'd awakened later than we should have, and with characteristically Dominant certainty that everything would work out, He went right on about His morning routines, leaving me to play a frustrating game of beat the clock. I flew around packing and gathering and frantically stuffing things into the car, growing more upset and more frustrated with each passing minute. Finally, with just minutes to spare and in a fury, I stomped off down the dusty road, pulling my clothes on as I went -- intent on getting us technically checked out before the deadline. Spitting and hissing and fuming to myself, I rounded the bend in the road and came smack up against a lovely little doe standing calmly in the road. She didn't run. Didn't startle. She simply stood there, looking at this crazy, frantic human, and I could almost hear her in my mind -- "What is the matter with you? Stop for a minute and look around you. Isn't this the most glorious moment ever?" I felt the tension and craziness melt out of me in that moment, and when I arrived at the office (a few hundred feet further down the road), I discovered that our watches were an hour fast, and we were not late at all -- in fact we had plenty of time. I've always held that moment of contact with the deer as a high-relief instant of contact with the spirit world.
There's no theology to that, and very little elaborate philosophy or belief system. It is.
So, it was that last week, as I barreled through a very complex and taxing and difficult week, I found myself reaching out to the spirit world and my dear friend, caitlin. All last week, beginning Sunday morning, I felt myself acutely aware of her loss and the deep sense of missing her. Then Thursday, as I was fighting my way down the highway to a very important and difficult board meeting, I began to talk to her, out loud, in the privacy of my car. I told her that I knew she was there, and I told her I needed her. I told her that she remained my friend and that I knew she understood what I was feeling and needing. I asked her to help me be strong and calm and wise. I asked her to stand with me and help me to do what I needed to do. And she was there -- a deep sense of peace and quiet and lightness flowed through me and the slow, rush-hour crawl seemed less annoying.
I arrived at the meeting, and walked in feeling settled and ready to take on whatever was to come. It was a very hard and very tough meeting, but I never felt frustrated or threatened or angry. My friend was there. I am sure of it.
Growing up, my father, always insisted that we understand the difference between friends and acquaintances. There would be many of the latter, he assured me, and very, very few of the former. I came to this place, because Master insisted, partly to try and connect to some who might become friends. With caitlin, that surely became the reality. I am very glad to know that she is still there, and that all I need to do is listen for her voice.
swan
That is not to say that there is nothing at all that stirs me spiritually. I have, through a lifetime, come face to face with active demonstrations of a lively and distinctive spirit world that regularly comes into contact with this one.
There's no theology to that, and very little elaborate philosophy or belief system. It is.
So, it was that last week, as I barreled through a very complex and taxing and difficult week, I found myself reaching out to the spirit world and my dear friend, caitlin. All last week, beginning Sunday morning, I felt myself acutely aware of her loss and the deep sense of missing her. Then Thursday, as I was fighting my way down the highway to a very important and difficult board meeting, I began to talk to her, out loud, in the privacy of my car. I told her that I knew she was there, and I told her I needed her. I told her that she remained my friend and that I knew she understood what I was feeling and needing. I asked her to help me be strong and calm and wise. I asked her to stand with me and help me to do what I needed to do. And she was there -- a deep sense of peace and quiet and lightness flowed through me and the slow, rush-hour crawl seemed less annoying.
I arrived at the meeting, and walked in feeling settled and ready to take on whatever was to come. It was a very hard and very tough meeting, but I never felt frustrated or threatened or angry. My friend was there. I am sure of it.
Growing up, my father, always insisted that we understand the difference between friends and acquaintances. There would be many of the latter, he assured me, and very, very few of the former. I came to this place, because Master insisted, partly to try and connect to some who might become friends. With caitlin, that surely became the reality. I am very glad to know that she is still there, and that all I need to do is listen for her voice.
swan
5/29/2010
Acrylic Paddle
He has two new paddles -- one made of acrylic and the other fashioned from hickory. He also has a new knife.
We have an interesting dance going on between us; one for which I don't feel like I know all the steps.
There is the recent "re-discovering" of the potential for me to get into and get off on SM play that begins more slowly and brings me along. It turns out that, if I'm into it, I can take more and last longer, and that seems like a good thing on the face of it.
On the other hand, He is still the sadist, and there is something in Him that just balks at what He calls "patty cake" sessions. He gets caught, intellectually and emotionally, between His sincere longing to have me experience some pleasure in our SM interactions, and His almost visceral reaction to anything that even remotely resembles "service topping." Almost always, when this dichotomy comes up, He reverts to sessions that begin with no warmup and no build up; that begin (from my perspective) in the middle -- at the peak intensity, and then go on and on and on.
That was the way of it earlier in the week (Tuesday), when He decided that He wanted to paddle me with the new acrylic paddle -- just the new acrylic paddle. After all, He tells me it does such a great job of turning my butt a nice even red. Except that, for whatever reason, when we played this time, it didn't create the coloring that He was looking for. He paddled and paddled and paddled and paddled. I held on for dear life. T came in at one point, bringing a load of laundry to hang up, and He stopped to talk with her while I just laid there over His lap. When she left, He started over. A few minutes later, she was back with yet more laundry, and again He stopped to chat -- and then started over. I can only assume that there was some "ideal" number of strokes that He had in mind, and wanted to deliver in an unbroken series. And, of course, there was that elusive shade of red that He was looking to create.
I don't know if He ever got the red shade He was after. I do know that I was all the way to hopeless by the time He was done. There is no point in yelling or hollaring or struggling, He will do what He will do, but I was convinced that it was never going to end, and that the acrylic paddle would surely outlast me. Finished, we headed into bed, and He quickly fell asleep. I remained awake most of the night, unable to lie on my back or to cool the burning that grew and grew in intensity as the night wore on. By morning, my butt looked pretty good, but felt hot swollen with a sensation that the skin was tight and stretched. I had the distinct impression that if I turned or moved the wrong way, the skin would split leaving open wounds that would bleed or ooze. I wasn't convinced that it really would happen that way, but the physical sensation was at war with my logical mind. We are now to the weekend, after a very long and difficult week, and I am pretty well healed. All week long, He's been telling me that He just wants to paddle me again, so I imagine that we'll be back at it later today.
I need to find my "yes, Sir." Anyone seen one of those laying around anyplace?
swan
We have an interesting dance going on between us; one for which I don't feel like I know all the steps.
There is the recent "re-discovering" of the potential for me to get into and get off on SM play that begins more slowly and brings me along. It turns out that, if I'm into it, I can take more and last longer, and that seems like a good thing on the face of it.
On the other hand, He is still the sadist, and there is something in Him that just balks at what He calls "patty cake" sessions. He gets caught, intellectually and emotionally, between His sincere longing to have me experience some pleasure in our SM interactions, and His almost visceral reaction to anything that even remotely resembles "service topping." Almost always, when this dichotomy comes up, He reverts to sessions that begin with no warmup and no build up; that begin (from my perspective) in the middle -- at the peak intensity, and then go on and on and on.
I don't know if He ever got the red shade He was after. I do know that I was all the way to hopeless by the time He was done. There is no point in yelling or hollaring or struggling, He will do what He will do, but I was convinced that it was never going to end, and that the acrylic paddle would surely outlast me. Finished, we headed into bed, and He quickly fell asleep. I remained awake most of the night, unable to lie on my back or to cool the burning that grew and grew in intensity as the night wore on. By morning, my butt looked pretty good, but felt hot swollen with a sensation that the skin was tight and stretched. I had the distinct impression that if I turned or moved the wrong way, the skin would split leaving open wounds that would bleed or ooze. I wasn't convinced that it really would happen that way, but the physical sensation was at war with my logical mind. We are now to the weekend, after a very long and difficult week, and I am pretty well healed. All week long, He's been telling me that He just wants to paddle me again, so I imagine that we'll be back at it later today.
I need to find my "yes, Sir." Anyone seen one of those laying around anyplace?
swan
5/28/2010
I've Had a Really Good Year
“If ever there is tomorrow when we're not together... there is something you must always remember: you are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think, but the most important thing is, even if we're apart... I'll always be with you.” ~~Winnie the Pooh~~My school year is drawing to a close. One week from today will be the last day of this 2009-2010 school year. My children are busily tending to the official counting of "get ups."
The year has flown, and I have had so much fun with this group of young people. They have come each day, ready and eager to take whatever I could give them. Even now, as we approach the end, they are still diligently taking notes; still asking dozens of questions; still entering into spirited discussions about environmental protection and the relationships between Christian and Muslim Americans; still curious about how we might use algebra tiles to model equations and so understand ways to find the solutions to things like 3x - 19 = 5. They volunteer to help, run errands with joy, laugh at my silly antics, and assure me that they will come back to visit next year when they are "big 7th graders."
Today, I had the whole gang (52 of them) tucked into my swelteringly hot classroom watching a movie while I puttered around with report cards and permanent record cards and packing the book shelves and... As I was flying around, intent on my business, one of the boys who'd been out to the drinking fountain, pulled me off to one side and said, "I just want to tell you that I've had a really good year this year, Ms. D." It stopped me in my tracks. Sixth graders just don't get that direct most of the time.
Honestly, that breaks my heart. This is the group of children that I was warned about last spring. Their 5th grade teachers had an absolutely terrible time with them, and they were just glad to be rid of them by the time the year was ending. That has been the story for my kids throughout their educational careers. They have been consistently labeled and treated as if they are incorrigible, bad, impossible, uneducable mosters. I spent a good amount of time, last summer, wondering how I would manage and handle this rotten bunch of problem children. Then, they arrived in my classroom, and turned out to be just children -- charming, funny, sweet children. I've seldom had the good luck to work with a group of students who gave so much back for the effort that I put into them. Ours has been a positive and fulfilling partnership all year.
They are counting get ups, and they have had a good year. I've had a good year, too, and I cannot bring myself to count get ups, because I almost cannot bear the thought of letting them go. I will. I must, but oh my, I will miss them dearly.
swan
5/25/2010
Our Family at the Beach
We enjoyed our travels this weekend. It was just good to get away, even as it was emotionally difficult under the circumstances. Still, there was ocean, and it was awesome and lovely. On Sunday evening, after a very nice dinner, we walked down to the beach together... Here are some of the pictures we took there...
swan
swan
5/24/2010
Obey
“Yesterday we obeyed kings and bent our necks before emperors. But today we kneel only to truth, follow only beauty, and obey only love.” ~~Kalhil Gibran~~
I have been aware, in these last months, of just how far I've come from the ideal of obedience which feels like the core of submission for me. On more than one occasion, I've found myself disputing with Him, just because I felt that I could. He'd ask me (or tell me) to do something, and I'd put Him off with a "I'll just finish this, and then I'll do whatever it is that You want..." I've fussed about things that were not mine to fuss about, and attempted to negotiate in places where I never should have thought that was my right.
I've also noticed, in just the last few days or weeks, that where I can find myself in a place of simple acceptance and love, I fare much better in our SM play. Anger, frustration, and resentment don't serve Him or me well. That seems like that should be obvious, and I'm sure I knew that early on. Somewhere in the last few years, I've lost track of how to get to that place, and I've forgotten why I ever felt it was appropriate or good for me to forget to obey.
There is hardly a word in all the vastness of the Internet about obedience in the context of a loving intimate relationship. There's lots of information and opinion about the practice of obedience in a religious context, and there is plenty of material about obedience within a child/parent dynamic. And, of course, there's a wealth of information about obedience training for dogs. But for those of us who live in power dynamics; who seek to obey as an expression of our sexuality and our love for our partners -- not a word anywhere. This kind of learning, I guess, must be acquired by us, for us, with very few guides or models.
I am looking forward to summer. I am looking forward to time. I am looking forward to quiet and calm and some space to re-assess and re-learn my place. I want to learn how to obey again. How to find myself in the place where my love for Him evokes my "yes." That is, for me, a way to feeling safe, feeling gentle, feeling soft and secure and special.
100
Master loves numbers and number patterns and accumulations of things that can be counted -- like paddle strokes. He regularly tallies up the number of hits we show from day to day and week to week and month to month here and at our other blogs. He counts and averages and gauges how far we are from various milestones. The numbers interest and intrigue and thrill Him.
So, on Sunday, when I logged on and noted that our 100th follower was showing in our list, it was worth noting. It is arbitrary, I know, but that 100th follower seems significant. That is 10x10. That is 10 more than 90. A century's worth of people...
I've never really understood the whole FOLLOWER feature of Blogger. To me, it is simply a relatively easy way to link our blog to other blogs, and I am sure that most of our followers have similar motivations. However, the growing list of people who have visited here and are now, in some sense, following along with our adventures seem like part of some sort of extended family related to our little place. It is an indicator of a level of participation.
Cruising around a bit, I found that there are blogs and twitterers who give prizes for the 100th follower, and I have nothing at all to offer, unless of course, said follower wants to stop by -- I am sure Himself could offer 100 strokes with something :-)
swan
I've never really understood the whole FOLLOWER feature of Blogger. To me, it is simply a relatively easy way to link our blog to other blogs, and I am sure that most of our followers have similar motivations. However, the growing list of people who have visited here and are now, in some sense, following along with our adventures seem like part of some sort of extended family related to our little place. It is an indicator of a level of participation.
Cruising around a bit, I found that there are blogs and twitterers who give prizes for the 100th follower, and I have nothing at all to offer, unless of course, said follower wants to stop by -- I am sure Himself could offer 100 strokes with something :-)
swan
5/23/2010
Hello? Housekeeping...
Sometimes, life is just strange, and perhaps a bit amusing...
This morning, as we awakened here in our little beach hideaway, we got ready to play. T woke up before we did, around 7 AM, and was off to reconnoiter and shop for some skim milk. The place was quiet, and the ocean breezes were blowing softly through our window. We were alone, and expected that we would be alone for a bit... our little apartment is not supposed to have any housekeeping, although we can go exchange our soiled towels and linen for fresh anytime during the day.
He started off with the kangaroo hide cat, and I found myself intrigued and fascinated by its falls across my skin. The cat is a sharp implement, but not at all heavy, and beginning with that seemed to give me a "way into" the play that didn't send me into a full on panic in the first minutes. He'd moved on to stroking with a knife when we heard some quiet knocking at the front door. At first, we wondered if it really was OUR door, and then I think we both assumed it must be T returned from shopping.
He grabbed His pants and was just pulling them on when the door opened, and a youngish woman of some sort of Latin background walked through our front door. She was surprised, to put it mildly -- as were we. She made a quick exit, and by the time He got out to the front porch, she had vanished. He locked the front door, through the deadbolt, and put the chain on. We milled around a bit, settling ourselves from the jarring interruption, and then we went back to it, beginning again.
It turned out to be a very good session. He has two new paddles, and both were brought out to play -- one is acryllic and the other is hickory. He used a quirt, leaving some hot, red welts. I flew off into that dreamy, distant, floaty place. He wailed away, happily, and I think was glad to have me gone.
I think vacationing is good for us.
swan
This morning, as we awakened here in our little beach hideaway, we got ready to play. T woke up before we did, around 7 AM, and was off to reconnoiter and shop for some skim milk. The place was quiet, and the ocean breezes were blowing softly through our window. We were alone, and expected that we would be alone for a bit... our little apartment is not supposed to have any housekeeping, although we can go exchange our soiled towels and linen for fresh anytime during the day.
He started off with the kangaroo hide cat, and I found myself intrigued and fascinated by its falls across my skin. The cat is a sharp implement, but not at all heavy, and beginning with that seemed to give me a "way into" the play that didn't send me into a full on panic in the first minutes. He'd moved on to stroking with a knife when we heard some quiet knocking at the front door. At first, we wondered if it really was OUR door, and then I think we both assumed it must be T returned from shopping.
It turned out to be a very good session. He has two new paddles, and both were brought out to play -- one is acryllic and the other is hickory. He used a quirt, leaving some hot, red welts. I flew off into that dreamy, distant, floaty place. He wailed away, happily, and I think was glad to have me gone.
I think vacationing is good for us.
swan
Travels and Adventures
We are here ...
"Here" is Cape Hatteras in the Outer Banks off the coast of North Carolina. We've drove just about 15 hours, and tucked in to a cute little apartment in a tiny little town called Buxton late on Saturday evening. We found the only place within driving distance that was open after 9 PM and had a nice dinner. Today, we are looking forward to exploring the area and walking the beach together.
We will not be attending Master's eldest child's wedding. We have been disinvited. His plan to wear His kilt created a huge uproar -- she even threatened to "out all of us and this blog" to our various employers. Even as Master made it clear that, a simple "please don't wear the kilt" would have sufficed to make that the reality, things escalated to full on nastiness, replayed adolescent rebellion and angst, and a clear articulation that our unacceptable and disgusting family was not welcome at the event, and having us present would ruin "her perfect day." Interestingly, our various wedding gifts do not seem to cause her any distress, and she does not seem to feel that there is any sort of integrity issue in keeping those.
The whole business has been disturbing. I think we've all been a bit stunned, and uncertain how to respond to such vitriol and hatred. We were unable to cancel our reservations at such short notice, and so we are here. It is an interesting and very different environment than what we are used to. We will take the time for ourselves and enjoy the break from our intense and demanding routines. There are beaches to be explored, and a lighthouse, and a unique local culture. Next weekend, when we would have been obliged to attend the wedding reception nearer to home, we are now free to attend what promises to be a fabulous concert featuring James Taylor and Carole King. We will make our lives just as we have until now -- good and full and rich and loving. And today, as the hour for the scheduled wedding approaches, we will ask the universe to rain down all that is good on the angry young woman who will be the focus of the festivities.
swan
"Here" is Cape Hatteras in the Outer Banks off the coast of North Carolina. We've drove just about 15 hours, and tucked in to a cute little apartment in a tiny little town called Buxton late on Saturday evening. We found the only place within driving distance that was open after 9 PM and had a nice dinner. Today, we are looking forward to exploring the area and walking the beach together.
We will not be attending Master's eldest child's wedding. We have been disinvited. His plan to wear His kilt created a huge uproar -- she even threatened to "out all of us and this blog" to our various employers. Even as Master made it clear that, a simple "please don't wear the kilt" would have sufficed to make that the reality, things escalated to full on nastiness, replayed adolescent rebellion and angst, and a clear articulation that our unacceptable and disgusting family was not welcome at the event, and having us present would ruin "her perfect day." Interestingly, our various wedding gifts do not seem to cause her any distress, and she does not seem to feel that there is any sort of integrity issue in keeping those.
The whole business has been disturbing. I think we've all been a bit stunned, and uncertain how to respond to such vitriol and hatred. We were unable to cancel our reservations at such short notice, and so we are here. It is an interesting and very different environment than what we are used to. We will take the time for ourselves and enjoy the break from our intense and demanding routines. There are beaches to be explored, and a lighthouse, and a unique local culture. Next weekend, when we would have been obliged to attend the wedding reception nearer to home, we are now free to attend what promises to be a fabulous concert featuring James Taylor and Carole King. We will make our lives just as we have until now -- good and full and rich and loving. And today, as the hour for the scheduled wedding approaches, we will ask the universe to rain down all that is good on the angry young woman who will be the focus of the festivities.
swan
5/20/2010
3:30 AM
Except that we were hungry. So we got some dinner. Then, as often happens after we eat, He felt uncomfortable and queasy, and so we settled in to allow His little, bitty stomach to settle. And then, T came home from visiting with her mom, and we sat for awhile and visited with her. By then, it was late, and He was feeling very tired and very sleepy -- and so we went off to bed.
I was disappointed. I was. I'd been anxious about the paddling, but still, the idea of a paddling had wrapped itself up in my mind, and when it didn't happen... There are some things that simply cannot be quickly and abruptly switched off. But, I snuggled in next to Him, and eventually drifted off to sleep.
He woke up at about 3:30AM. I don't know if that is a function of aging, or some hormonal shift resulting from the weight loss He's experienced, but He is often wide awake at that hour. Most often, when He wakes up like that, He'll pull me in, tuck me under His chin, and hump away on my leg until He's ready to make love. Depending on what's been going on with me, and how insistent He is, I am perfectly capable of rocking away in His embrace without ever really waking up.
But, on Wednesday morning, I whispered into His chest -- "could we do that spanking now?"
I cannot even remember that last time I asked for a spanking. It has been a very long time.
He was happy to oblige. Of course. Always.
I got the pillow and got myself over it, and we were off and running. He paddled away, and went and got the cane and gave me a sound caning. I was there. Really there. No anger, no frustration, no voice in my head whispering the thousand things that can make me feel crazy and disconnected. It was just me and Master and the steady rhythm of the paddle smacks. Somewhere in the middle of it all, I began to feel myself riding along with the energy, feeling the thrill of sexual power pulsing through me -- and instead of suffering through every stroke, I surfed the rising waves, surging through the sensations until I landed safely in His arms in the dark.
It was just as I remembered it. Perhaps not as intense as I once was able to endure, but I came through it believing that I could have gone further, taken more, and even enjoyed it some. He and I were together in that session -- I was not alone with the pain. It was purely a joy and a delight.
swan
5/16/2010
X3
I've said it before, so long-time readers will remember that when Master and I first fell in love, and when we all began to think about creating a life together, He told me that He was unable to engage in "normal" sexual activity that involved vaginal penetration. He assumed, and I believed Him, that it was a result of His diabetes, and so we made up our minds that we'd find ways to be intimate with one another -- without that element.
In those early days, He was usually only able to achieve orgasm by humping away for hours on end on an old down blanket that we came to refer to, affectionately, as "the fluffy. Eventually, He and I found our way to something resembling regular penis-in-vagina sex, but it still was a marathon endeavor. Most often He and I would finish one of those Herculean fucking sessions drenched in sweat and gasping for breath -- with every muscle screaming from shear exertion.
That was our reality, and it is important to understand that history so that today's story can be really appreciated.
Because. This morning. Awakening at about 7:15. Feeling horny. He and I made love, not once, but twice. Then. We got up. Had breakfast. Spanked. And then made love again. He, aged 61 -- and me, aged 55.
This man, who once was bereft of normal sexual responses, would likely put most 16 year olds to shame. It surprises and delights us both, especially when it becomes so undeniably remarkable -- like today.
swan
In those early days, He was usually only able to achieve orgasm by humping away for hours on end on an old down blanket that we came to refer to, affectionately, as "the fluffy. Eventually, He and I found our way to something resembling regular penis-in-vagina sex, but it still was a marathon endeavor. Most often He and I would finish one of those Herculean fucking sessions drenched in sweat and gasping for breath -- with every muscle screaming from shear exertion.
That was our reality, and it is important to understand that history so that today's story can be really appreciated.
Because. This morning. Awakening at about 7:15. Feeling horny. He and I made love, not once, but twice. Then. We got up. Had breakfast. Spanked. And then made love again. He, aged 61 -- and me, aged 55.
This man, who once was bereft of normal sexual responses, would likely put most 16 year olds to shame. It surprises and delights us both, especially when it becomes so undeniably remarkable -- like today.
swan
A Small Difference
Our session last week featured a variation from our normal routine -- at least it felt like a "feature" to me.
We started out with me over His lap, and there was some hand spanking and paddling -- fairly light and in the "warm up" range. I was teary and emotional and all over the place in terms of my reactions and my worries and my responses.
Part way through, He told me to get up and turn over onto my back. My back? That sort of direction seems simple enough, but it is so rare in my experience that it might as well be spoken in Mandarin Chinese. I needed a chance to get a tissue and blow my nose -- all the earlier crying had me a mess, and so asked for and received permission to attend to that issue. Then I got myself positioned, a bit awkwardly, over His lap on my back. There's enough of an arching to that move that I was left feeling very open and very vulnerable.
He grabbed my nipples and began pinching and twisting them. I've been experiencing an odd, random, almost burning sensation in my nipples -- usually as an accompaniment to hot flashes. It isn't particularly painful, but it is disconcerting and unpleasant. The pain He was creating in my nipples with His attentions seemed to fire that reaction up and I was caught between the two in a very intense and almost tidal wave-ish wash of sensation. Are other people wired with their nipples attached directly to their pussies? Stimulating one goes straight to the other for me, and it wasn't long before I was feeling that remembered clutching and pulsing in my cunt. And then He began to smack me between my legs. It wasn't extreme, but enough to elicit grunts and yelps, and every smack drove the heat in my guts higher and higher.
It didn't last long. At least, I don't think it did, but I am perhaps no great judge of time under those circumstances. Soon enough, He was directing me to turn back over, and the session continued. For me though, the difference was remarkable. The end of the session was not one that I just fought my way through. I wasn't left, at the end, with a sense of surviving; with a feeling of frustration and despair. Instead, I came through it all with a very sore bottom AND a sense of deep physical and personal well-being and sexiness.
swan
We started out with me over His lap, and there was some hand spanking and paddling -- fairly light and in the "warm up" range. I was teary and emotional and all over the place in terms of my reactions and my worries and my responses.
Part way through, He told me to get up and turn over onto my back. My back? That sort of direction seems simple enough, but it is so rare in my experience that it might as well be spoken in Mandarin Chinese. I needed a chance to get a tissue and blow my nose -- all the earlier crying had me a mess, and so asked for and received permission to attend to that issue. Then I got myself positioned, a bit awkwardly, over His lap on my back. There's enough of an arching to that move that I was left feeling very open and very vulnerable.
It didn't last long. At least, I don't think it did, but I am perhaps no great judge of time under those circumstances. Soon enough, He was directing me to turn back over, and the session continued. For me though, the difference was remarkable. The end of the session was not one that I just fought my way through. I wasn't left, at the end, with a sense of surviving; with a feeling of frustration and despair. Instead, I came through it all with a very sore bottom AND a sense of deep physical and personal well-being and sexiness.
swan
5/15/2010
Weird, Weird Dreams
One of the casualties of my long sojourn in the realm of surgically created menopause has been my once rich fantasy life. As I've felt deprived of my femaleness, it seems my mind has obliged me and simply stopped queuing up those sexy imaginings that were such reliable companions before...
Awake or dreaming, the stockpile of sexy stories playing across the screen in my mind has dwindled to a pitiful few... I miss those freewheeling and sometimes surprising and even funny apparitions from the depths of my psyche.
As a result, when I do encounter a sexy dream or an erotic fantasy, I am both thrilled and fascinated. Earlier in this week, I had the oddest dream, and it seemed to be on rewind and repeat, because each time I'd wake up and then fall asleep again, it would start all over again. There were surely erotic overtones to my dream, and just a hint of a spanking subtext. But odd... Oh yes, that. Strange, indecipherable, weird justapositions:
I am typing something in some sort of old-styled office setting. Except. Except that the device I am trying to use is made of egg yolks all floating in an aquarium style tank. Each egg yolk is a letter -- a key on the "typewriter." Oh yeah. Weird. Typing on egg yolks is challenging, to put it mildly, and as I struggle with it, I am aware that if I make a mistake, I will be punished. Which is scary. The boss is Master. I recognize Him. He is standing just behind me, and off to the side a bit. I know it is Him. I can feel Him there staring at me. the only really bizarre twist to it is that when I turn around and look at Him, He LOOKS LIKE Antonio Banderas. OMG!
Dreams are such weird and unpredictable things. In some dream interpretation schemes, typing indicates that you are having trouble verbally expressing yourself. That has been a very real factor in my recent emotional upheaval. Those egg yolks may symbolize vulnerability, but may also point to a time of breaking out of a shell and becoming more comfortable with yourself. As for that Antonio Banderas transformation -- does that really need any interpretation? Really?
swan
Awake or dreaming, the stockpile of sexy stories playing across the screen in my mind has dwindled to a pitiful few... I miss those freewheeling and sometimes surprising and even funny apparitions from the depths of my psyche.
As a result, when I do encounter a sexy dream or an erotic fantasy, I am both thrilled and fascinated. Earlier in this week, I had the oddest dream, and it seemed to be on rewind and repeat, because each time I'd wake up and then fall asleep again, it would start all over again. There were surely erotic overtones to my dream, and just a hint of a spanking subtext. But odd... Oh yes, that. Strange, indecipherable, weird justapositions:
I am typing something in some sort of old-styled office setting. Except. Except that the device I am trying to use is made of egg yolks all floating in an aquarium style tank. Each egg yolk is a letter -- a key on the "typewriter." Oh yeah. Weird. Typing on egg yolks is challenging, to put it mildly, and as I struggle with it, I am aware that if I make a mistake, I will be punished. Which is scary. The boss is Master. I recognize Him. He is standing just behind me, and off to the side a bit. I know it is Him. I can feel Him there staring at me. the only really bizarre twist to it is that when I turn around and look at Him, He LOOKS LIKE Antonio Banderas. OMG!
swan
5/14/2010
Back in the Day...
A comment on the Beast post, has been lodged in my mind all week:
I was trying to remember if I read you back in your masochistic days... But I am wondering if you go there ...now..... maybe you will be able to step off the ledge into the abyss and know you are safe and find your peace???
Ouch! There it is -- the definitive judgement of a long-time reader that, while I might have been a masochist back in the day, clearly I am not a masochist any longer. Somewhere in the last few years, I've let my membership in that elite club lapse.
Beyond the fact that I feel pretty tender about that evaluation; beyond my almost overwhelming urge to defend myself against that verdict; believing that my commenting friend was intending to be understanding, sympathetinc, supportive, and helpful -- I wonder what, if anything, there might be for me to say about the state of my (once and former) masochism?
There is wide variability in the definitions that I found on line for the word "masochistic." This seemed to be the most inclusive/broadest of the ones that I found --
Neither am I aligned at all with the sort of masochism in definition #3. I am not prone to self-harm. I can fall prey to melodrama and contemplate the possibilities of self-destructive behaviors -- wondering whether there might be some relief to emotional pain in cutting. My curiosity, however, is purely intellectual. Even in the depths of my Tallulah Bankhead inspired dramatic musings, I never find any actual impetus to really DO anything.
I am really much more some combination of masochist type #2 and masochist type #4. I do tend to find pleasure and some almost mystical satisfaction and fulfillment in self-denial and submissiveness. Probably, it is part of what Master is inclined to label as "some kind of perverse Catholic thing..." I can, with relative ease, find my way into a sort of moving meditation that allows me to iron shirts and pack lunches and scrub floors with a deep and peaceful sense of calm. I do derive some sort of gratification from our SM play and the pain that He inflicts on me. In spite of the difficult passage through the actual event, I can come out the other side feeling sure and powerful and expanded in terms of my awareness. I revel in being controlled -- in being left without any choice about what will and will not occur.
None of that is really any different for me today than it was 8 or 9 years ago. Surely, I have a significantly reduced pain tolerance these days. I am much more likely to dissolve in tears and panic than I ever was in the very early days of our relating. I know, intellectually, that we are not playing at the same levels that we once did -- and I am still convinced that I hurt more; hurt worse; hurt more inconsolably now than I ever did "back in the day." The visceral experience belies what I think I know.
I could speculate about what has precipitated the change. I could theorize about why I struggle so much more at the age of 55 than I did at the age of 45. I could blame my present reality on a whole host of circumstances and realities. The fact is that none of it matters. There is no way to go back and reclaim those former years; no way to undo the choices and mistakes and missteps; no way to clear away the wispy veils of the years and see that masochist clearly enough to use what she knew to make today any easier.
I think that, as He and I go forward, I may find my way to some sort of peace. I believe that, as and if He wants me to step off and fly, it will happen. I believe that if I can find some sort of solid belief in my own self, in the choices I've made, I'll also recover my sense of power and joy in my own masochism. I believe that if I can reconnect with Him, and through Him reconnect with the part of me that was a "sexy" and "sexual" woman, I'll be able to use that energy to power me into and through the kind of play we used to enjoy.
A masochist is a complicated critter. There is no one way to be a masochist; no one way to experience the emotions and intricate pleasures of that path. I am not, as my commenter friend pointed out, the same as I was back in the day, but I am far from done. I am still learning and still growing, and still determined to meet His needs, fulfill His demands, thrill Him and thrill myself in the doing.
swan
I was trying to remember if I read you back in your masochistic days... But I am wondering if you go there ...now..... maybe you will be able to step off the ledge into the abyss and know you are safe and find your peace???
Ouch! There it is -- the definitive judgement of a long-time reader that, while I might have been a masochist back in the day, clearly I am not a masochist any longer. Somewhere in the last few years, I've let my membership in that elite club lapse.
Beyond the fact that I feel pretty tender about that evaluation; beyond my almost overwhelming urge to defend myself against that verdict; believing that my commenting friend was intending to be understanding, sympathetinc, supportive, and helpful -- I wonder what, if anything, there might be for me to say about the state of my (once and former) masochism?
There is wide variability in the definitions that I found on line for the word "masochistic." This seemed to be the most inclusive/broadest of the ones that I found --
1.Psychiatry. the condition in which sexual gratification depends on suffering, physical pain, and humiliation.I have never been the sort of masochist described by definition #1. I know those kind of masochists. I've always envied them. Master often refers back to a long-ago play partner that would come at the sound of Him pulling the zipper on His toybag... That ability to transmute pain directly and reliably into erotic pleasure just seems almost magical to me. But then, I think that the fact that salmon return each year to spawn in the same waters where they were born is pretty amazing too. I can't tell left from right, and some fish with a brain the size of a walnut can out navigate me by pure, simple, untutored instinct.
2.gratification gained from pain, deprivation, degradation, etc., inflicted or imposed on oneself, either as a result of one's own actions or the actions of others, esp. the tendency to seek this form of gratification.
3.the act of turning one's destructive tendencies inward or upon oneself.
4.the tendency to find pleasure in self-denial, submissiveness, etc.
Neither am I aligned at all with the sort of masochism in definition #3. I am not prone to self-harm. I can fall prey to melodrama and contemplate the possibilities of self-destructive behaviors -- wondering whether there might be some relief to emotional pain in cutting. My curiosity, however, is purely intellectual. Even in the depths of my Tallulah Bankhead inspired dramatic musings, I never find any actual impetus to really DO anything.
I am really much more some combination of masochist type #2 and masochist type #4. I do tend to find pleasure and some almost mystical satisfaction and fulfillment in self-denial and submissiveness. Probably, it is part of what Master is inclined to label as "some kind of perverse Catholic thing..." I can, with relative ease, find my way into a sort of moving meditation that allows me to iron shirts and pack lunches and scrub floors with a deep and peaceful sense of calm. I do derive some sort of gratification from our SM play and the pain that He inflicts on me. In spite of the difficult passage through the actual event, I can come out the other side feeling sure and powerful and expanded in terms of my awareness. I revel in being controlled -- in being left without any choice about what will and will not occur.
None of that is really any different for me today than it was 8 or 9 years ago. Surely, I have a significantly reduced pain tolerance these days. I am much more likely to dissolve in tears and panic than I ever was in the very early days of our relating. I know, intellectually, that we are not playing at the same levels that we once did -- and I am still convinced that I hurt more; hurt worse; hurt more inconsolably now than I ever did "back in the day." The visceral experience belies what I think I know.
I could speculate about what has precipitated the change. I could theorize about why I struggle so much more at the age of 55 than I did at the age of 45. I could blame my present reality on a whole host of circumstances and realities. The fact is that none of it matters. There is no way to go back and reclaim those former years; no way to undo the choices and mistakes and missteps; no way to clear away the wispy veils of the years and see that masochist clearly enough to use what she knew to make today any easier.
I think that, as He and I go forward, I may find my way to some sort of peace. I believe that, as and if He wants me to step off and fly, it will happen. I believe that if I can find some sort of solid belief in my own self, in the choices I've made, I'll also recover my sense of power and joy in my own masochism. I believe that if I can reconnect with Him, and through Him reconnect with the part of me that was a "sexy" and "sexual" woman, I'll be able to use that energy to power me into and through the kind of play we used to enjoy.
A masochist is a complicated critter. There is no one way to be a masochist; no one way to experience the emotions and intricate pleasures of that path. I am not, as my commenter friend pointed out, the same as I was back in the day, but I am far from done. I am still learning and still growing, and still determined to meet His needs, fulfill His demands, thrill Him and thrill myself in the doing.
swan
5/13/2010
Power Exchange and Balance
We most commonly refer to our primary lifestyle choice as BDSM -- the acronym standing for the various broad practices Bondage, Discipline, Dominance, Submission, Sadism, Masochism. However, there are those who choose, sometimes very deliberately, to call this particular lifestyle Leathersex. That nomenclature comes down to us directly from the post World War II gay leather phenomenon, and is, unlike the increasingly mainstreamed BDSM, a bit more in your face about the sex part of our lifestyle. In writing about leathersex, well known leatherman, Joseph Bean writes:
Fundamental to most definitions of leathersex is power exchange. The idea that some player ... is on 'top' or dominant and some other is in a 'bottom' or submissive role...Power exchange can happen in many ways...A skilled and caring top invariably must be able to read the bottom well, and usually a bottom who's really having a good time simply exudes feedback ...SM scenes without power exchange tend to look ... regimented. Scenes with power exchange feel well 'powerful'...Leathersex today is quite vibrant and widely pansexual.
I want to talk about that notion of power exchange. It is, I think, a phrase that has fallen out of favor to some degree. These days, people seem much more inclined to name these kinds of relationships Owner/property or TPE or Daddy/little or HOH and wife or..., and the notion that there is some sort of de facto transaction being carried out in those relationships is often downplayed.
I think that if we do not talk about power exchange within the context of our relationships, then we miss out on an essential truth. Power exchange is a deliberate and conscious manipulation of the energies that exist and are generated between two people in an intimate context. Entering into such a relationship requires that both parties bring their own very real power to the table, and make it available within the context of the relationship. Whoever takes up the power and exercises the control, they are only capable of holding that power because it is literally laid in their hands by their submissive partner. It is a handoff that is no less delicate and no less breathtaking than the mid-air, high-in-the-sky, whirling, flying exchange between trapeze artists.
Timing is crucial. Careful, nearly perfect balance is a requisite. Courage and temerity and daring are all part of the mix. Grace and strength are needed and valued. Trust and total reliance on the other part of the equation is the keystone.
Master and I have been out of sync with one another for a very long time. We've lost our balance, and each of us have felt a bit lost and unable to sort out the tangle of emotions and needs and fears between us. We have each nursed a whole stew of doubts and conjectures and hurts and frustrations -- and the distance between us has grown and grown and grown. Neither of us have been happy with all of that, but it has seemed that neither of us has known how to restore the balance.
We had a serious bump in December, and this last round has wobbled us again. We've struggled to keep up with all the day-to-day stressors and frustrations, and at the same time we've wondered how to ever find our way back to the delight and joy in one another that was once the water in which we swam together.
And then, something shifted. Yesterday. He was keeping me apprised (via email) of the progress of the Reds baseball game, and I was relaying the information to my kids at school. At some point, He wrote that He really wanted me -- wanted to be able to hold me, or be held by me. I wrote back that I simply wanted a hug -- and maybe a little practice spanking. He wrote back that He thought we should practice lots.
It was a late evening for me, and I didn't arrive home from school until well after 7PM. We had some dinner and He began to test the waters about the idea of "practice" spanking. He clearly had some ideas about how that might go, and as is usually the case, what He was envisioning was significantly more extreme than what I'd contemplated when I wrote that bit about "practice spanking." It wasn't what I had in mind, but it was an opportunity to reconnect, and I wasn't about to pass it up. He went to collect paddles and other goodies and I closed the blinds at the windows.
We had quite the session before it was all over with. No switchy thing and no rubber floggers, but a good, solid, serious, lengthy paddling. Mixed in with the strokes from all the various implements was a thread of conversation -- about my fears, about His wishes, about us, about sex and spanking, about listening and hearing and talking...
And then we headed off to bed and slept. Together. All night. Both of us peaceful. The first time in a long, long time. Today, I have felt hopeful and so has He. It feels like last night was the beginning of us coming back to one another; regaining our balance; and learning how to do this and be this for one another again.
There'll be much more in the days ahead. Life will continue to challenge. But we have found ourselves once again, face to face with the truth of who we are together, and we have regained our balance as we have retraced the steps to passing the power between us.
swan
Fundamental to most definitions of leathersex is power exchange. The idea that some player ... is on 'top' or dominant and some other is in a 'bottom' or submissive role...Power exchange can happen in many ways...A skilled and caring top invariably must be able to read the bottom well, and usually a bottom who's really having a good time simply exudes feedback ...SM scenes without power exchange tend to look ... regimented. Scenes with power exchange feel well 'powerful'...Leathersex today is quite vibrant and widely pansexual.
I want to talk about that notion of power exchange. It is, I think, a phrase that has fallen out of favor to some degree. These days, people seem much more inclined to name these kinds of relationships Owner/property or TPE or Daddy/little or HOH and wife or..., and the notion that there is some sort of de facto transaction being carried out in those relationships is often downplayed.
I think that if we do not talk about power exchange within the context of our relationships, then we miss out on an essential truth. Power exchange is a deliberate and conscious manipulation of the energies that exist and are generated between two people in an intimate context. Entering into such a relationship requires that both parties bring their own very real power to the table, and make it available within the context of the relationship. Whoever takes up the power and exercises the control, they are only capable of holding that power because it is literally laid in their hands by their submissive partner. It is a handoff that is no less delicate and no less breathtaking than the mid-air, high-in-the-sky, whirling, flying exchange between trapeze artists.
Master and I have been out of sync with one another for a very long time. We've lost our balance, and each of us have felt a bit lost and unable to sort out the tangle of emotions and needs and fears between us. We have each nursed a whole stew of doubts and conjectures and hurts and frustrations -- and the distance between us has grown and grown and grown. Neither of us have been happy with all of that, but it has seemed that neither of us has known how to restore the balance.
We had a serious bump in December, and this last round has wobbled us again. We've struggled to keep up with all the day-to-day stressors and frustrations, and at the same time we've wondered how to ever find our way back to the delight and joy in one another that was once the water in which we swam together.
And then, something shifted. Yesterday. He was keeping me apprised (via email) of the progress of the Reds baseball game, and I was relaying the information to my kids at school. At some point, He wrote that He really wanted me -- wanted to be able to hold me, or be held by me. I wrote back that I simply wanted a hug -- and maybe a little practice spanking. He wrote back that He thought we should practice lots.
It was a late evening for me, and I didn't arrive home from school until well after 7PM. We had some dinner and He began to test the waters about the idea of "practice" spanking. He clearly had some ideas about how that might go, and as is usually the case, what He was envisioning was significantly more extreme than what I'd contemplated when I wrote that bit about "practice spanking." It wasn't what I had in mind, but it was an opportunity to reconnect, and I wasn't about to pass it up. He went to collect paddles and other goodies and I closed the blinds at the windows.
We had quite the session before it was all over with. No switchy thing and no rubber floggers, but a good, solid, serious, lengthy paddling. Mixed in with the strokes from all the various implements was a thread of conversation -- about my fears, about His wishes, about us, about sex and spanking, about listening and hearing and talking...
And then we headed off to bed and slept. Together. All night. Both of us peaceful. The first time in a long, long time. Today, I have felt hopeful and so has He. It feels like last night was the beginning of us coming back to one another; regaining our balance; and learning how to do this and be this for one another again.
There'll be much more in the days ahead. Life will continue to challenge. But we have found ourselves once again, face to face with the truth of who we are together, and we have regained our balance as we have retraced the steps to passing the power between us.
swan
5/12/2010
Beast
I remember being exceptionally uneasy with that line of chatter. I remember sounding a cautionary note; warning against playing casually in that realm; fearing that there were a number of my compatriots who were allowing their fantasies to blur their judgement in ways that were potentially harmful. It was, perhaps, one of my earliest appearnces on the blogging stage in the role of crotchety old lady.
I have never deliberately or consciously sought to evoke the "inner beast" in Master. I am fully aware of the depth of His sadistic urges, and I am certain that He can bring a willingness and ability to inflict pain that far exceeds my capacity to encompass that pain. I have always believed that what keeps me safe in playing sadomasochistically with Him, is the simple fact that He keeps His sadistic inclinations under pretty tight rein. Under normal circumstances, He plays with great personal awareness and attention and restraint. He could go to much more intense extremes in His play. Most of the time, He chooses to not do that. He maintains boundaries for Himself, and, in doing so, for me.
Now, however, the beast has been aroused and unleashed. I did not do it. Another person worked the incantation that brought the beast roaring out of the dark depths. Another person teased and tantalized and taunted -- stirring up the primordial urges. The conversation did not include me. The negotiation was not something with which I was involved.
And then, I came crashing into the middle of the heat of all that. All that fine talk about being stoic, about not caring, about recognizing what was mine and what was not turned out to be just so much whistling past the graveyard. It turned out that I was not so stoic after all. It turned out I did care -- could not find any way to really not care. It turned out that I "lack compersion." I stomped into the midst of the negotiation and laid my very unslavish "No" out on the table. My pain was intense enough, and my level of craziness over it all was extreme enough that He relented and turned away from the outsider -- but the beast is on the rampage and will not be soothed into docility again.
I will meet the beast, and soon. That is the clear and absolute price that must be paid for His concessions to my weaknesses and failings. He has moved decisively to do the things that I need Him to do in order to feel more secure and less threatened, hurt, and humiliated. In return, He has been adamant that I WILL meet His needs for intense sadistic play. I don't know when. I do know what. I've been told. It is pain that will far exceed my ability to endure it, and I know I will have no choice.
I am afraid. Part of me believes that He will protect me somehow, but I am also convinced that short of some life-threatening crisis, He will simply hurt me, working out His anger and frustration on my powerless body; evening the score for the temerity of my "No." I cannot see to the other side of that. Perhaps, making that crossing will turn out to be a good thing...
swan
5/09/2010
Happy Mother's Day
I got another Mother's Day with Mom. Way Cool!
The family got together and did garden work for her today. I hauled a load of food, some plants, some potting soil, and tools. My brother and his soon-to-be-ex-wife and 2 of her 3 kids and an extra friend and a grand baby all brought gifts and muscle to do the heavy work. My Niece was there with her camera getting great pics of all of us looking ridiculous.
Mom was thrilled. We bundled her up in a coat, hat, blankets and portable oxygen and sat her in a chair in the front yard so she could "supervise". We removed 3 ugly, old shrubs that had grown past attractiveness. We planted bunches of annuals for color. My brother brought her a rose tree and that was planted out front.
Then half of us moved to the back yard to trim bushes that have been growing beyond all reasonable control since 1954, when they were planted by the first owner of Mom's house. They used to be lilac bushes, but now are a host plant for a mutant honeysuckle vine. The men crawled around and cut out huge amounts of dead wood and opened up a very shaded corner of the yard to the sun. It was not long before Mom was being moved to the backyard to supervise there.
After everything was cleaned up, we moved inside for lunch. Ham sammies, fruit and macaroni salads, chips and a wicked looking chocolate cake were consumed by all and thoroughly enjoyed by Mom.
When I left, Mom had positioned herself in the living room in line with the rose tree so she could watch it sway in the cool breeze.
A good day was had by all. And we had one more year with Mom.
I hope everyone had as wonderful a day with their families celebrating the greatness of our collective Moms.
T
The family got together and did garden work for her today. I hauled a load of food, some plants, some potting soil, and tools. My brother and his soon-to-be-ex-wife and 2 of her 3 kids and an extra friend and a grand baby all brought gifts and muscle to do the heavy work. My Niece was there with her camera getting great pics of all of us looking ridiculous.
Mom was thrilled. We bundled her up in a coat, hat, blankets and portable oxygen and sat her in a chair in the front yard so she could "supervise". We removed 3 ugly, old shrubs that had grown past attractiveness. We planted bunches of annuals for color. My brother brought her a rose tree and that was planted out front.
Then half of us moved to the back yard to trim bushes that have been growing beyond all reasonable control since 1954, when they were planted by the first owner of Mom's house. They used to be lilac bushes, but now are a host plant for a mutant honeysuckle vine. The men crawled around and cut out huge amounts of dead wood and opened up a very shaded corner of the yard to the sun. It was not long before Mom was being moved to the backyard to supervise there.
After everything was cleaned up, we moved inside for lunch. Ham sammies, fruit and macaroni salads, chips and a wicked looking chocolate cake were consumed by all and thoroughly enjoyed by Mom.
When I left, Mom had positioned herself in the living room in line with the rose tree so she could watch it sway in the cool breeze.
A good day was had by all. And we had one more year with Mom.
I hope everyone had as wonderful a day with their families celebrating the greatness of our collective Moms.
T
5/04/2010
"It"
In her comment to the Joy and Laughter and Fun post, dara suggested that I try "it" -- IT being a practice of consciously focusing on the things that you want, and so "bringing them to you" by what she called magnetic thought. I am certain that her suggestion was made in the very best of good faith, with the sort of enthusiasm that is the trademark of someone wrapped up in the almost magical sense of having discovered some great truth.
That is heady stuff. I know. At 55, I've been exploring in the spiritual and metaphysical realms for probably 35 years. I have tried IT. In fact, I've tried so many variants of IT that I'm not sure I could even put names or labels to all the great spiritual discoveries I've made in my lifetime. Raised in the Roman Catholic faith, I have very early memories of being a child skeptic. It wasn't very many years later that I found that I could induce in myself a sort of mystical rapture that kept me entertained through a great number of boring Sunday church services. Like so many young adolescent girls of my era, I spent a lot of time "playing at" making contact with the spirit world. Seances and Ouija boards were the stock in trade of that part of my journey. As a young mother, I left my 'cradle' religion, and set out to explore what else might be out there. I spent time with just about every mainline Protestant sect, but also wandered along the edges with Mormons and Mennonites. I read deeply into the literature of Judaism and Buddhism. I toyed with astral projection. I flirted with EST -- didn't everyone? Later, as I got older, I spent time with a couple different flavors of pagan folk. I did deep body work. I followed the Artist's Way. I studied with a Lakota Sioux teacher, walking some distance along the Red Road. I sat for some dozen years in the silent worship of the Society of Friends. From Johnathan Livingston Seagull to Martin Buber to Clarissa Pinkola Estes, I've stretched out my heart and mind and spirit to touch the great unknown -- sometimes the great unknown has touched me back. In my experience, the unknown mostly remains simply unknown.
We humans are such interesting and curious creatures. We want to know the secrets, and simultaneously, we insist that there is some magic that cannot be fathomed except through the practice of some sort of arcane and convoluted ritualized pagentry. All the gourd rattles and chicken entrails and tea leaves and tarot cards entice and intrigue us -- but they are constructs of our own minds and imaginations. It is all illusion -- the sort of David Copperfield conjuring that, when it is done well, can make us believe that something magical really has occured.
There is no magic. There is only life; night and day; rain and shine; feasting and sex and dancing and laughter and sweet refreshing sleep. There is luck and fate and chance and pure serendipity. There is coincidence, correlation, and causation. There is science and there is superstition -- both have their place.
We are animals on a small blue speck of a planet. We are electrons mingling in our orbits -- without a shred of solidity no matter what our skin bound lives might insist is the reality. Call me old and call me jaded. Shake your head at my disbelief and cynicism. I understand. For me, life is just simpler when I am living in the acknowledgement that I only know what I know; that there is a very great deal that I do not know, and even more that I do not understand. It is and I am and that is enough.
swan
That is heady stuff. I know. At 55, I've been exploring in the spiritual and metaphysical realms for probably 35 years. I have tried IT. In fact, I've tried so many variants of IT that I'm not sure I could even put names or labels to all the great spiritual discoveries I've made in my lifetime. Raised in the Roman Catholic faith, I have very early memories of being a child skeptic. It wasn't very many years later that I found that I could induce in myself a sort of mystical rapture that kept me entertained through a great number of boring Sunday church services. Like so many young adolescent girls of my era, I spent a lot of time "playing at" making contact with the spirit world. Seances and Ouija boards were the stock in trade of that part of my journey. As a young mother, I left my 'cradle' religion, and set out to explore what else might be out there. I spent time with just about every mainline Protestant sect, but also wandered along the edges with Mormons and Mennonites. I read deeply into the literature of Judaism and Buddhism. I toyed with astral projection. I flirted with EST -- didn't everyone? Later, as I got older, I spent time with a couple different flavors of pagan folk. I did deep body work. I followed the Artist's Way. I studied with a Lakota Sioux teacher, walking some distance along the Red Road. I sat for some dozen years in the silent worship of the Society of Friends. From Johnathan Livingston Seagull to Martin Buber to Clarissa Pinkola Estes, I've stretched out my heart and mind and spirit to touch the great unknown -- sometimes the great unknown has touched me back. In my experience, the unknown mostly remains simply unknown.
There is no magic. There is only life; night and day; rain and shine; feasting and sex and dancing and laughter and sweet refreshing sleep. There is luck and fate and chance and pure serendipity. There is coincidence, correlation, and causation. There is science and there is superstition -- both have their place.
We are animals on a small blue speck of a planet. We are electrons mingling in our orbits -- without a shred of solidity no matter what our skin bound lives might insist is the reality. Call me old and call me jaded. Shake your head at my disbelief and cynicism. I understand. For me, life is just simpler when I am living in the acknowledgement that I only know what I know; that there is a very great deal that I do not know, and even more that I do not understand. It is and I am and that is enough.
swan
5/01/2010
Higher Power
The anonymous commenters to my Stoic post proposed corollaries between that philosophical position and the tenets of Alcoholics Anonymous (AA). I understand that one way to manage something that makes you uncomfortable is to reframe it as something more familiar and acceptable, and then posit that the two are "the same only different."
So... Let me be clear: my life path and my belief system are not, in anyway consistent with or congruent with the methods and teachings of AA. Within the AA culture, there is a core belief in something referred to as Higher Power (frequently abbreviated as HP). Higher Power is a term coined in the 1930s in Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) and is used in other twelve-step programs. It is also sometimes referred to as a power greater than ourselves. In current twelve-step program usage a Higher Power can be anything at all that the member believes is adequate. Reported examples include Nature, consciousness, existential freedom, their twelve-step group, God, science, Buddha. It is frequently stipulated that as long as a Higher Power is "greater" than the individual, then the only condition is that it should also be loving and caring.
The male oriented spirituality inherent in all of that voodoo gobbledygook is completely contrary to my understanding of how the universe operates. I don't buy into the belief in some sort of personified, all-powerful, god figure -- by whatever name. I believe that we create the universe together, all of us. I believe that we are the creators of the creation of which we are all a part. There is no power higher than ourselves.
So. The trite serenity prayer, directed to some outside-of-the-self "god," doesn't speak to me at all. It doesn't have any truth for my life. There is nothing in the AA Big Book for me.
Even Master, who is the center and focus of my world, who holds control over me, is not in absolute terms "greater" than me. He is a man, a good man, but a man just the same. I am not "less than" He is, and He knows that and values that and enjoys that. He has more power than I do, within the context of our relationship, because I have consented to that reality. Period.
So, my embrace of the philosophy of stoicism is not "the same as" some twelve-step mumbo jumbo. I've not become a believer, placing myself in the care of some loving higher power. I am, simply, a woman choosing to live my life in accordance with my dreams and the leadings of my heart. I am His.
swan
So... Let me be clear: my life path and my belief system are not, in anyway consistent with or congruent with the methods and teachings of AA. Within the AA culture, there is a core belief in something referred to as Higher Power (frequently abbreviated as HP). Higher Power is a term coined in the 1930s in Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) and is used in other twelve-step programs. It is also sometimes referred to as a power greater than ourselves. In current twelve-step program usage a Higher Power can be anything at all that the member believes is adequate. Reported examples include Nature, consciousness, existential freedom, their twelve-step group, God, science, Buddha. It is frequently stipulated that as long as a Higher Power is "greater" than the individual, then the only condition is that it should also be loving and caring.
The male oriented spirituality inherent in all of that voodoo gobbledygook is completely contrary to my understanding of how the universe operates. I don't buy into the belief in some sort of personified, all-powerful, god figure -- by whatever name. I believe that we create the universe together, all of us. I believe that we are the creators of the creation of which we are all a part. There is no power higher than ourselves.
So. The trite serenity prayer, directed to some outside-of-the-self "god," doesn't speak to me at all. It doesn't have any truth for my life. There is nothing in the AA Big Book for me.
Even Master, who is the center and focus of my world, who holds control over me, is not in absolute terms "greater" than me. He is a man, a good man, but a man just the same. I am not "less than" He is, and He knows that and values that and enjoys that. He has more power than I do, within the context of our relationship, because I have consented to that reality. Period.
So, my embrace of the philosophy of stoicism is not "the same as" some twelve-step mumbo jumbo. I've not become a believer, placing myself in the care of some loving higher power. I am, simply, a woman choosing to live my life in accordance with my dreams and the leadings of my heart. I am His.
swan
Joy and Laughter and Fun
It seems that my last post was one of those that evokes deep and thunderous silence in most of our readers. I understand, I think. The convoluted internal wanderings of my mind are interesting to me, but probably not to most other people. For me, it is precisely the sort of post that works because it helps me to learn and grow and understand myself and my life as His slave. I imagine, however, that learning about philosophy and "stuff" is not the driving force behind our daily hit numbers.
The comments, though, seemed a little strained, as if people were "reaching" to comprehend or somehow frame what I said in some other context. I'll address the "reframing" in another post. For now, I'm wanting to try to respond to my friend, morningstar who wondered...
My lifestyle choices are very different than those of most other people, and they are very different than what I once imagined for myself. I didn't grow up dreaming of a future that would revolve around BDSM and intimate power exchange. I don't know anyone who did. One of the difficulties with talking about our lives is that there are very few people who do what it is that we do. Even within the BDSM lifestyle community, I find it very rare to find people who really understand the dynamic within which I live. It is hard to find common vocabulary and harder to find those with shared experience. I suspect that, even when people think they "get it," there's a disconnect between what I think I am saying and what people actually understand.
I like to laugh and I like to have fun. We laugh a lot. With each other and at each other. We enjoy one another and we enjoy the time we spend together. The simple daily events that we share are sometimes prosaic and mundane, but too they are sometimes just delightful and often quite funny. Living life with joy seems far better than the alternative. So, I think that the real question is "how can you be joyful when confronted with events and circumstances that do not necessarily make you happy?"
I think that there is some component of joyfulness that we are born with. Some people seem to be lighthearted and positive by nature and others seem just naturally dour and gloomy. Garrison Keilor, classically, makes fun of Lutherans as people who are on the dour and gloomy side of that balance:
For the rest, living in joy is learned. It comes out of our habits and our thought patterns and our perceptions and our interpretations of the world around us. Aside from those events and losses that might reasonably be expected to plunge any one of us into a period of sadness -- the places where we must navigate the pathways of grief and mourning -- life can be joyful if we agree to allow it. I know that I can choose what to think about, and how to think about it. I can choose what to remember and I can choose the terms I use to frame those memories. I can choose whether to be happy or unhappy, and I can choose whether to focus on the good or the bad.
I choose to cede my personal control to Master. There is no way to do that while insisting that He do everything the way I would do it -- no way to give up control and simultaneously maintain control. Sometimes, He makes decisions and choices that are contrary to what I want. Big meanie! I could, and sometimes I do, get angry about that. Pout. Get sullen and bent out of shape until He gives in and changes course to make me happy -- except that it never works that way. He's DOMINANT. In His bones. He won't be pushed around or bullied or manipulated. Certainly, not by me -- that is not at all acceptable within the context of our relationship.
He does love me. He wants me to be happy. He is happy with our life together, and it distresses Him when I seem sad and angry -- I know. So... the "stoic attitude" and my acceptance of that is a path for me to tap into the things that are good about my life and our life together. It is a pathway to my framing those decisions that cause me distress in ways that allow me to let them go -- leave them in His hands, and dwell in joy.
swan
The comments, though, seemed a little strained, as if people were "reaching" to comprehend or somehow frame what I said in some other context. I'll address the "reframing" in another post. For now, I'm wanting to try to respond to my friend, morningstar who wondered...
"i was bothered by this "stoic attitude" and your acceptance of it...what about joy and laughter and fun ..."It is a fair question. I am as interested as anyone in the things that make life enjoyable. There isn't a single thing wrong with joy and laughter and fun. So, perhaps there is value in considering the ways in which we form our lives in order to bring us those things that make our days full and rich and meaningful and pleasurable.
My lifestyle choices are very different than those of most other people, and they are very different than what I once imagined for myself. I didn't grow up dreaming of a future that would revolve around BDSM and intimate power exchange. I don't know anyone who did. One of the difficulties with talking about our lives is that there are very few people who do what it is that we do. Even within the BDSM lifestyle community, I find it very rare to find people who really understand the dynamic within which I live. It is hard to find common vocabulary and harder to find those with shared experience. I suspect that, even when people think they "get it," there's a disconnect between what I think I am saying and what people actually understand.
I like to laugh and I like to have fun. We laugh a lot. With each other and at each other. We enjoy one another and we enjoy the time we spend together. The simple daily events that we share are sometimes prosaic and mundane, but too they are sometimes just delightful and often quite funny. Living life with joy seems far better than the alternative. So, I think that the real question is "how can you be joyful when confronted with events and circumstances that do not necessarily make you happy?"
I think that there is some component of joyfulness that we are born with. Some people seem to be lighthearted and positive by nature and others seem just naturally dour and gloomy. Garrison Keilor, classically, makes fun of Lutherans as people who are on the dour and gloomy side of that balance:
...we were not brought up to experience pleasure. It doesn't register on us. It's like trying to write on glass with a pencil...I'm not Lutheran. I can and do rejoice in the coming of spring, the light in the eyes of one of my kids when they triumph over mixed numbers, the warm blend of flavors in a well made pan of lasagna, the goofy antics of the cat, the comfort and safety of being snuggled into bed next to Master... So, I think that I have a fair natural capacity for joyfulness.
For the rest, living in joy is learned. It comes out of our habits and our thought patterns and our perceptions and our interpretations of the world around us. Aside from those events and losses that might reasonably be expected to plunge any one of us into a period of sadness -- the places where we must navigate the pathways of grief and mourning -- life can be joyful if we agree to allow it. I know that I can choose what to think about, and how to think about it. I can choose what to remember and I can choose the terms I use to frame those memories. I can choose whether to be happy or unhappy, and I can choose whether to focus on the good or the bad.
I choose to cede my personal control to Master. There is no way to do that while insisting that He do everything the way I would do it -- no way to give up control and simultaneously maintain control. Sometimes, He makes decisions and choices that are contrary to what I want. Big meanie! I could, and sometimes I do, get angry about that. Pout. Get sullen and bent out of shape until He gives in and changes course to make me happy -- except that it never works that way. He's DOMINANT. In His bones. He won't be pushed around or bullied or manipulated. Certainly, not by me -- that is not at all acceptable within the context of our relationship.
He does love me. He wants me to be happy. He is happy with our life together, and it distresses Him when I seem sad and angry -- I know. So... the "stoic attitude" and my acceptance of that is a path for me to tap into the things that are good about my life and our life together. It is a pathway to my framing those decisions that cause me distress in ways that allow me to let them go -- leave them in His hands, and dwell in joy.
swan
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