Tree Analogies

I have a long history of poking at the puffed up, self-important denizens of the blogosphere.  I don’t often do it, but I do it.  There is just something about the sound that I can hear in my mind when people start to pontificate and/or spout nonsense.  I’m no expert at this thing we all try to do.  I’ve had some soaring high points and some devastating crashes.  Probably, I should have garnered some bits of understanding from all of that, but honestly, I am pretty darned sure that, if I were given the chance to do it all again, I would.  Don’t look here for expertise.  Ever.

Knowing what I know about what I do not know, I am, perhaps, hyper-sensitive when others present themselves as knowing how it all works, or having the secrets to success.  That sort of thing just perks my antennae up and sets them quivering.  

So, yeah.  I threw down with Kaya.  THE Kaya.  Just as I once did with Patti, and in a less flamboyant way with Sara, I called “bullshit.”  Predictably, she came roaring back, insisting that “she is only talking about HER relationship (never mind that what she actually wrote surely SOUNDS like she’s got it figured out for the whole bunch of us).  I’m not at all concerned that her feelings are hurt here.  It has been a long time since I believed that kaya actually cared about me or my life, and she confirms that, stating:  “I don’t care. Truly. Not to sound callous but I have enough trouble keeping my own relationship running. I don’t have the energy to worry about yours.” (italics are mine.)

Interesting. Except that, she then goes on to a very odd little riff about being a “plant,” that seems to clearly indicate that she really does “care:”

“A plant is going to wilt if you don’t water it, no matter how badly it wants to stay perky. I suppose one could berate the plant for wilting, for all the good that will do. It’s still gonna wilt.

You could determine the plant is not worthy of being a plant because it wilts- but it’s still gonna wilt.

You could decide the plant was an uppity cunt of a plant for needing to be watered- but it’s still gonna wilt.

You could mock the plant for being sad that it has no water- and it’s *still* going to wilt.

Maybe you’re just a prickly cactus that doesn’t need water and I? I am a ficus.”

Sort of funny, that.  Kaya does have that amazing funny way about her.  It can be endearing.  No wonder so many, including me, find her writing compelling.  Yes.  Me.  I read her regularly.  I’ve done it for years.  Knowing that she “doesn’t care,” and does not value that long-standing readership, I still read.  After all, there are plenty of writers that put out words I appreciate with whom I have no one-to-one relationship.  So…

I can be prickly.  It is true.  So, maybe that characterization is fair at some level.  Although, coming from one who prides herself on her capacity for snark, I find it a bit disingenuous.  But never mind.  I actually think I am less like the cactus than like an ancient oak.  And so, I found myself thinking about that “tree” analogy as it relates to how one approaches the “bottom” side of the power-based relationship dynamic…

Take kaya’s ficus, for example:  Ficus plants range from large trees to woody shrubs to trailing vines. All grow best in medium to bright light, although they will tolerate low light for short periods.

Ficus varieties are often chosen by those who are just beginning to learn the art of bonsai.  They are easy to grow, however they are very tender, not hardy at all.  A ficus needs to be kept in a bright window, away from heat sources and cold drafts.  Big temperature fluctuations cause them to drop their leaves due to stress.  You have to manage the humidity around a ficus.  With bonsai, you may need to put a tray of water under the pot, but even then, the bonsai must be raised above the water line.  You can’t have the bonsai’s “feet” in the water!  The humidity tray needs to be kept topped up so that the moisture will rise up through the leaves of the tree.  Even then, it is advisable to mist your ficus with filtered water occasionally.  Water it regularly, keeping the soil moist but not waterlogged.  These trees need to be re-potted every 2-3 years, and fertilized weekly throughout the entire active growth season.  A ficus is a lot of work.  Which, perhaps, was exactly kaya’s point in making the comparison between herself and this very high maintenance houseplant.

An oak, on the other hand, is a tree or shrub -- one of about 600 known species.  Oaks are found from cool temperate climates to the tropics in the Americas and in Asia.  Oak wood is very dense, very strong, and very hard.  It makes beautiful, durable lumber which has been prized for everything from shipbuilding to the crafting of fine furniture.

At the beginning of an oak's life, when an acorn first sprouts, most of its energy is spent on root development, with little growth above ground. The initial root is the taproot, which grows deep underground, seeking a dependable supply of water. Soon the taproot is surpassed by an extensive root system spreading horizontally. This lateral mass of roots will bring the tree moisture and nutrients for its lifetime. Most oak tree roots lie only 18 inches under the soil. They may spread, though, to occupy a space four to seven times the width of the tree's crown.  Oak trees have sturdy foundations.

The oak is a common symbol of strength and endurance. Many nations use the oak as a symbol.  Even our U.S. military uses the oak leaf cluster to denote bravery and valor.

The Greeks held that the oak was the sacred tree of Zeus, and in Celtic polytheistic spirituality, the word for oak was part of the word for “druid,” an adjective for “strong” or “firm.”  The Indo-Europeans connected the oak tree with a god of thunder or lightning, and there have been scientific studies  that show that oaks are more likely to be struck by lightning than any other tree of the same height.  Maybe that explains my propensity for getting smacked by powerful forces…

Mistletoe grows in the high branches of oak trees too -- that parasitic plant that we all associate with kisses and love.

Oaks grow to be very large and very old.  The Jurupa Oak tree of California is thought to be the oldest living thing on the planet at some 13,000 years.

So, yeah.  Oak tree.  If we are going to choose up plants to stand in for who and how we are in our lives and our relationships, I will go with ancient oak.   

Day 730

This is the 730th day of my sobriety.  It seems almost mythical.  In  alcohol rehab. the two year sobriety point was a sort of mid-range holy grail.  In addiction literature they write that at two years there is a neurological healing in alcoholics.  We (especially I) have paid a great deal of attention to this approaching milestone.  It is now here.

I have done a lot of considering and searching over recent weeks about what it is I can say for myself at this point in terms of who I am, and in particular, my sense of spirituality.

Yes, you are about to be subjected to another lengthy rambling manifesto of serious, not very  BDSM or adult consensual spanking oriented, self-absorbed, discourse about my personal growth, development, feelings, and thoughts about life in general.

I have come to realize that throughout my life my sense of who I am has been defined by others perceptions of my social role.  Ask someone who they are and you’re likely to hear something akin to doctor, lawyer, Indian chief, bricklayer, student, teacher, parent, child, man, woman, young, old, etc.  We are, each of us, in our minds, what we do. The way others react to what that is mirrors to us a reflection that we, all too often, interpret as “who we are.”  I have done that all my life.  I have been a social role player...objectified by my role.  One is objectified to the extent that one becomes what they perceive others’  reactions to them are.

As children we all become, to ourselves, what we feel is mirrored of us by the feedback we receive from our parents, our siblings, our peers, teachers, etc.  I was sickly, fat, prone to be bad, stubborn, slow-both physically and mentally, angry, hostile, and able to be made good if I suffered enough pain.  I accepted those realities as my own. My secret was that actually I was quite bright and could develop control to mount a counter campaign of guerilla warfare against adults and all authority, and I did, and felt occasionally great vindication when I could cause retaliatory pain to adults and gain some measure of control.

Gaining power through pain has been a theme in my life. (This is one part of this that may sort of apply to those who are oriented to or exploring SM.)  Pain was a constant companion of my life.  My parents were huge believers in its transformational and redemptive powers and wanted me to never be deprived.  My teachers, who were some of the first practitioners of special education, prior to anyone’s ever writing about dyslexia or ADHD or having any knowledge of those learning styles, knew that my failure to respond to school as most children did, meant I was willful, stubborn, bad, and stupid, and they too felt I needed transformation and redemption. So they frequently augmented and cooperated with my parents’ efforts to facilitate my development.

I learned early that pain is a social institution.  It is a response learned through conditioning.  Its experience is often relative.  I learned for example that if one shut one’s eyes, or didn’t look at a teacher when they punished you, you could avoid most of the unpleasantness and just not care....and WIN.  That never worked with my parents but their relationship was more seminal.  I knew the worst pain was not physical but was emotional.  I learned that when my mother had me go out to play wearing a sign that proclaimed to all my friends, “I am stupid,” I felt very deeply that in fact it was the truth.  I wondered why I was alive and wished desperately I could stop being...stop hurting.

In time one learns to make friends with pain, to recognize its power to remove barriers and, when shared, to create exceptional intimacy.  One eroticizes pain and what with frequent childhood experiences one eroticizes spanking.  It becomes a sensual/erotic orientation that is intertwined with the woof and warp of one’s sexuality.  In its acceptance as a part of identity, it becomes a disempowerment of its initially attendant harm.

I grew and finally became emancipated from my parental home.  My life became pursuit of pleasure.  Pleasure meant something that was not pain.  It was smoking, drinking, drugging, rebelling, thinking and learning (but refusing to demonstrate learning in ways that would result in good grades lest I satisfy authority figures in some way.)

I found a young woman.  She was the first woman with whom I had not been terrified.  I assumed this absence of fear must mean soul-bondedness and love.  This was a horrid mistake.  Fortunately she was a good mother to our children.

Eventually the seductiveness of the intellectual offerings of my university succeeded  in getting even to me.  I became a straight A student.  (My undergraduate transcript is a sight....three years of grade point averages which always ended with my being in a student status labeled “dropped,” followed by two years of successive 4.0 grade averages)  I’d finally matured enough to learn that my withholding gratification in academic pursuits punished me and no one else........DUH:)

I was the consummate long haired hippie druggie in the late 1960’s and early 1970’s, dedicated to fighting cops in street actions against the war and society -- Ronald Reagan’s worst nightmare kid.  As I walked down the street the feedback I received from others, whether adulation from peers or horror from “straight people,” was hugely gratifying to me.  I felt a sense of self-worth for the first time.  I subsisted economically, but independently, enough to go to school, get drugs and books, and to rebel.  I was married.  LIfe seemed good.  I felt better than I ever had.

I learned there were careers I could get into that were involved with changing the social order and which could give me economic growth which would afford a more comfortable lifestyle.  My then wife finished school and became a teacher.  I went to work in social services.  I always focused on work in the administrative control/political portion of the agencies where I worked.  Eventually I found my way to work in advocacy agencies...agencies whose purpose was the fomenting of social/political change.  I felt powerful.  I no longer used illegal drugs.  There was too much to lose by running afoul of the law.  I loved and reveled in the communion of drinking.  I was proud of my ability to drink much “better” than just about anyone.

My  two children were born.  I adored them.  Their being ”gave” me a new identity that validated my existence.  I did all I could to be super-dad.  I was progressive, and gender role liberated. and hard working, and loving, and strict, and providing, caring, teaching, and on and on.  My wife didn’t need me.  I had performed my function.  She had her children.  I no longer served a purpose in her life and was completely expendable.  I did not fit her identity.

Our marriage ended as did my parenthood for all intents and purposes.  My status as parent that had been so important to me was smashed.  I was devastated by this loss.  I drank and worked and flailed about in search of relationships within the then emerging BDSM community. I was seeking a new identity.

My career blossomed.  I became an advocacy leader who was powerful, sought after, and successful.  In my private life I found my  t and my swan and over time we became a family.

If I drank enough I could forget my childhood perspective of myself; I could numb the pain of the loss of my children.  I lived in my profession and was a very much loved Master in a poly triad M/s intentional family.  I was, I thought much more than good.  I was unique.  I was a rebel who controlled the least rebellious of social constructs...social institutions, and turned them back on the society that had formed them to foment change and progress.  Simultaneously, in my private life, I lived the antithesis of our social order.....polyamory and BDSM.  I had huge power in both professional and private domains, and I was strong....hell brilliant....and BOY, WAS I DRUNK!

Things went well for years but the gyroscope of my life began to wobble just a micrometer or two.  My parents became aged and ill, and I was their primary life support.  Eventually, my Mom was in an alzheimers center.  My terrible lifelong obesity problem was taking a huge and potentially fatal toll on me and we decided to make a radical attempt to save me.  I had gastric bypass surgery.  It went badly as a procedure but was ultimately transformational in terms of my life.  (On March 23 2009 I weighed 330 pounds and had a 54 inch waist.  This morning I weighed 154 pounds and I have a 32 inch waist.)  I had another subsequent life threatening emergency surgery 9 months later secondary to my gastric bypass, but eventually got past that as well.  In the last few years I’ve had a knee arthroscopy, two total knee replacements, a total reverse shoulder replacement, and an emergency bowel resection due to obstruction besides, my gastric bypass surgery.  Those health issues and the eventual loss of my parents caused the multiple spinning plates I had kept spinning in the air to come crashing to the ground.

As those plates crashed, so did my career.  No one ever questioned that I was a successful advocate and leader, but I lost sight of managing the business aspects of a very dynamic nonprofit in the midst of the economic upheaval.  In June 2010, I was unemployed for the first day in thirty-five years.  My parents had died.  I lost in very short order my identity as son and caretaker, professional, leader, and my body image, while improved, changed so radically as to become almost unrecognizable to me.  I was in pain and I dealt with it by numbing it with drinking.  At least I was still Dominant in my family.  As I drank more my behavior became more erratic.  It turns out that gastric bypass surgery makes handling alcohol very difficult if not impossible, and then only when consumed carefully in very small amounts.  I was neither drinking small amounts or carefully.  I became erratic and eventually violent.  My family called the police and I went to jail.  The Dominant role that was the last vestige of my “identity” crashed and burned.

I started this piece talking about how influenced I have been all my life by believing that feedback I  received from others mirrored to me my self-worth or lack thereof.  In 1995 the Ohio legislature passed a joint resolution honoring me as one of Ohio’s finest citizens for my leadership in organizing constituents to work with the legislature on behalf of people with disabilities and their families.  I felt like I was a wonderful man.  In 2010 I was removed from being kept nude in jail isolation and dressed in orange pajamas, full body chains, and flip flops taken through the snow and dragged into court charged with domestic violence and inducing panic.  I knew I had become totally worthless and my life was over.  Further I knew I was there because of my family (despite the fact that my family was fighting valiantly to get me out and to help me.)  I was destroyed, and worse yet, I would never be able to use alcohol again to treat my pain.  I could never drink again.

The last two years here on this Blog have chronicled my/our story since.  

-NOW-

After the worst passage of my life, thanks to my family, and treatment, and my psychotherapist, and lots of searching, I AM ME.  I suspect the recent medical development of adding l-methyl folate supplementation has corrected a fundamental neurological problem in my life permitting me to overcome longstanding undiagnosed (prior to two years ago) depression.

I feel I am me.  Not me because of what I do.  Not because I am retired, or treasurer of my homeowners association, or a father, or a husband, or well-educated, or Dominant, or Top, or bottom, or switch, or professional, or experienced, skilled. criminal, alcoholic, gastric bypass patient, thin, sixty-three, dry drunk, social activist,
Executive Director, BDSM practitioner, former jail inmate,. rebel, probationer, or whatever other descriptors.  I have been all these things.  They have effected me. They are not me.  I am me.

-Me-

I am made up of an almost unquantifiable number of cells which are all comprised of atoms.  These atoms are 99.9 % blank space.  This blank space is, we now know, comprised of energy, i. e., power. We all are.  Everything that is, is made up of atoms comprised of 99.9% space, energy, power.  The universe is patterned after this model or else, who I am is modeled after the universe, or we both share this model, or they both just are.  But in any case this is what is.

I have spent much of the last year questioning what “spirituality” is.  It is the effect of invisibe forces on physical reality.  It turns out just about all of physical reality is, in its very essence, unseen force----i. e., energy.  I am an integral part of all that. We all are.  Everything is.  I realize this lacks a lot of the voodoo which the spiritual perspectives of many contain.  It is mine...now.

I , my ego, is, my conscious perception of this reality....whether my personal reality, or the larger macro reality.  I am not a social role.  What others perceive me to be has no effect on who I am.  I am just me.  I may play or not play whatever piece I choose to in participating in the social role game.  Still, I will always know I am me.  Even if I do something that counts, it cannot change who I am. I cannot become greater or less.

I am me.  I am an integral part of everything.

I feel the best I ever have.  I am sure my sobriety is making me feel better than my drinking ever did or could have.

It is day 730 and I am me.  Being me is a new adventure.

Tom

Learning About My Own Sexuality

Jojo wrote an impassioned plea in a comment about my "realizing" that I'd finally recovered from the mental and emotional and sexual impacts of my hysterectomy almost five years ago:

"Numb and miserable. I know that feeling. How, swan? How did you find the path? What did others try to tell you that you couldn't hear? I am listening because I so need to find the path to sexiness again. I am too young to have lost it but it is so hard to overcome drastic body changes that come as the result of surgery. Teach me!!!"

I don't know what I have to teach here, or how I might go about that teaching.  Still, I remember that same plea echoing in my head for all these years, and I remember the desperate wish that someone could tell me what I so clearly did not know.  I do not feel up to the task, but I also feel that sharing what I've learned is important -- especially if it might help someone else.  What I have, mostly, is a narrative of the subtle shifts in my thinking and my perceptions.  Most of what has evolved for me has crept in slowly.  Very little of this has been fast, or earth shaking, or even entirely noticeable in the event.


The beginning for me was simply time.  It took me a long time to heal and regain physical wellness following my surgery.  Corollary issues including anemia knocked me down, and my recovery was much longer than I anticipated.  Six months after the surgery, I was "healed" from the surgical wounds, but far from well.  I was weak, tired, worn out, and with a real lack of vitality.  Because I didn't anticipate all of that, I was impatient.  I desperately wanted the promised benefits of my surgery, and it did not materialize as promised.  I grieved what had been lost.  I mourned for the woman that I would have been if I hadn't been the woman I was.  I grieved.  I mourned.  I was inconsolable.  I don't think there is any way to speed up that initial process of physical healing, and I believe that each one will grieve as they must.  I have wondered if it would have been different if I'd been forewarned, but I imagine that the individual reactions are so unique and so varied, that there was no way to predict my particular set of responses.  I needed time.  Lots of it, and looking back, I don't think there would have been a single thing that would have made that passage go more quickly.    


Following the immediate recovery phase, I entered into a long, long, long period that was characterized by anger.  I was angry with my surgeon.  I was angry with Tom.  I was angry with every still sexually whole woman in the world.  Mostly, I was angry with my own body.  I felt betrayed by my body.  I hated what had happened to me, and it seemed to me that the root and beginning place of the harms I'd suffered was, in the most immediate sense, my own female anatomy.  My rages burned so brightly, searing all my relationships -- and then turning itself back on me.  In the end, I was the one that I blamed.  It has taken me a very long time to come to some sort of forgiveness and compassion for myself in all of this.  Now, five years later, I am coming to hold myself with some gentleness and softness and kindness -- I do not forgive quickly it would seem.  That forgiveness and compassion, as it turns out, has been critical to my path through the darkness.  


When I thought about my body, after the surgery, the image that I held in my mind, was of a dark, dingy, dirty basement; filled with cobwebs; lit by bare bulbs; broken pipes hanging from brackets...  A dismal and empty space.  I have been certain that my insides were somehow like that mental basement space -- empty, broken, dark, dismal and ugly.  Nevermind that doctors assured me that it was all secure, healed, and quite healthy, I was sure that my female anatomy was a cobwebby mess.  It has taken me years to begin to envision something other than that dark basement.  I've had to clear it out and envision something new and remodel and redecorate (metaphorically, of course).  I've needed to work some sort of mental feng shui transformation on my inner space, and when I began to get that I could choose to "see" something sweeter in my mind, things began to change.


Surgery changed my body in profound ways.  The visible scars were not significant, but the internal changes were enormous.  The hormonal sunset, brought on by the removal of my ovaries, was devastating and utterly irreversible.  I'd never realized how much of the sensation of an orgasm was a function of contractions of the uterine muscles.  Damage to nerves during the removal of my uterus, limited the sensitivity of my vaginal wall.    The vaginal lining began to thin, and my natural lubrication began to dry up.  In the months right after the surgery, I was anxious to be able to resume sexual activity -- and then when I got that medical clearance, nothing happened.  Nothing.  My responses were just gone.  I was still interested in sex; still hungry for sex; still horny as hell -- but I couldn't achieve orgasm.  I'd get all hot and bothered and then my lady parts would just lay there, inert.  


Tom found the very best medical people; found a specialist in women's sexual health -- and He was a fierce advocate with the doctors we saw.  I endured months and months of testing and a complicated scheme of hormone therapies.  Nothing worked.  My migraine headaches got worse than they had ever been before, but my sexual response was just as absent.  


I wanted Him to fix things for me.  I wanted Him to work some sort of magic and restore my sex life.  I was convinced -- utterly certain, that there was some thing He could do; some trick that He ought to know; some sexual alchemy that He would pull out of the hat for me.  When that did not happen, I blamed Him.  Not directly, not openly, not in so many words, but just as surely.  I imagined that what I needed was a "real" lover -- that fabled prince charming who would touch me just so; play with me just right; charm the orgasms right out of my recalcitrant body.  It wasn't that He was unwilling.  I know, with a sure certainty, that Tom would have done anything I wanted sexually.  He was more than willing to do whatever would work to help me find my way back.  If I could have told Him exactly where to touch; exactly how hard and how fast -- then He' d have been delighted to take care of things.  The problem was that I had no idea.  I was lost, with no map to my own body -- and I desperately wanted someone to guide me home to myself.  It turns out that I was that guide ... I just didn't know it in the beginning.  When everything was said and done, I had to be responsible for my own sexual pleasure.  I had to do the exploring.  I had to learn what felt good ... and what didn't.  I had to listen to my own stories and fantasies, and I had to give myself permission to indulge and enjoy the pleasures that only I could stir up in my loins.  I figured out, finally, that all sexual pleasure is good.  I stopped ranking and rating the various sensations and experiences.  I learned to enjoy my enjoyment.  If I managed an orgasm during good old fashioned boy-girl sex with Tom, then that was something to celebrate.  If I worked my way to an orgasm in the dead of the night, using my trusty Wahl vibrator, that was good too.  If, in the middle of a spanking, I can catch on and ride it out to that delicious, lusty, writhing hunger, then good for me.  I've gotten greedy about sex; demanding about sex; serious about sex.  What I took for granted, before my surgery, I now know to be a pure gift, given for some undefined bit of time.  I thought I'd hit my end point, and I was wrong.  I do not intend to waste any of the good times that I may have left to me.


Jojo, I don't know what, if any of that, you can use.  I do know that your story and your challenges are different than mine.  I hope that there may be some bits there that you can use for your own benefit.  All the best ~~


swan

Cherry Blossoms?

I've never really been crazy about tattoos. 
My kids both have "ink," and I always tried to remain neutral about their choices in that realm -- but the truth is that I always thought they were just perfect exactly the way they came into the world.  I never thought that the tattoos improved their looks one bit. 

So.  It was a surprise to me when, in response to a post that kaya made about searching for a suitable tattoo a little while back, that I got caught by my very own intense tattoo frenzy.  Me.  Wanting.  This tattoo (or one very like it):

I somehow cannot get that lovely piece of bodyart out of my head.  Probably an old lady fantasy.  But wow.  Just wow!

swan

Pillar

Copyrighted image used with permission.  Find original work at: ({{Information |Description=Dolmen of Menga, Antequera, Spain. |Source=my own work |Date=July 21, 2008 |Author=Juan de Vojníkov |Permission=Attribution ShareAlike 3.0 |other_versions= }} {{cc-by-sa-3.0}} Category:Dolmen de Menga )

My therapist tells me that I serve as a "pillar" in our family.  Ever since she told me that, a couple of months ago, I've poked at the idea, the image, in my mind.  I've not been entirely easy with it.  It feels like it fits in some ways, but I am not convinced that I am "up to the job" of being a PILLAR.

I've wondered what, exactly, it might mean to be the pillar of the  family.  I think I know some of what my therapist meant to imply or suggest by the image, and still I keep coming back to the questions -- "If this is my role in this family, how am I supposed to do it?  What is it that I am supposed to do?  Can I really do it at all?  Do I even WANT to do it?   

As I've looked around at the idea (what did we do before there was Google?), most of what I've found is grounded in religious thought -- as in pillar of the community, or pillar of the church.  I've read a couple of sermons on the subject of "pillar people," but they just didn't offer me much that helped me make sense of this for myself.  I read, and still found myself wandering around, muttering about it in my head.

Then I stumbled across some business leadership sites that talked about Pillar Wisdom as a tool for those engaged in leading organizations.  Pillar Leadership methodology hinges on a set of characteristics and traits that managers and leaders can bring to bear on the work of supporting, developing, and carrying their companies forward.

• Self-control (self-awareness, managing emotions, stress management, ethics, resilience, rationality)
• Excellence (conscientiousness, attention to detail, competitiveness, empathy)
• Strategy (innovation, motivation, originality, openness to change, rule consciousness, critical thinking)
• Decision-making (analytical thinking, problem solving, knowledge, intuition, decisiveness, assertiveness, innovation)
• Communication (listening skills, social skills, discernment, self-assurance, instincts)
• Collaboration (relationships, empathy, independence, self-reliance, agreeableness)
• Execution (achievement, management, motivation, competitiveness)

So, I can look at that list, and I can see some of the attributes that might be part of what the therapist perceived when she gifted me with that "PILLAR" label.  I think I do live according to a personal ethical code.  I think I am pretty resilient.  I can be competitive.  I am sometimes empathetic.  In my lifetime, I've had to be self-reliant, self-aware, and self-assured.  I am a critical and analytical thinker, and I value my ability to use my knowledge and instincts to solve problems, make decisions, and discern the truth of a situation.  Living as I have for the last number of years, I've learned to be open to change, learned to be conscious of rules and expectations, learned to be attentive to details, and learned to be conscientious.  Those things are part and parcel of who I am; they make up my character and they shape my presentation in the world.  I can see it...  The idea of being "the pillar" isn't exactly easy or comfortable, but it isn't as far away from my understanding of who I am as I thought it might be.

I think my uneasiness about this "architecturally" based description of my role in our family stems from my attachment to my former perceptions of how He and I relate.  I was very enamored of the deliberate and defined power dynamic we had, and somehow the image of the strong, sturdy, essential, assertive pillar feels very contrary to that.  In fact, it is contrary to that.  If the only viable way for us to manipulate the power balance between us is for me to be passive, dependent, and weak, then it could be argued that we've made a transition away from THAT power exchange to something that is "other than."  I am stretching to be able to accommodate the notion that my role is to be strong and assertive, and that it is precisely because I am capable of filling that role, that my service in that capacity is valuable.  And so I go round and round and round -- talking to myself, feeling confused, wondering what it all means.

I think it is just a matter of allowing my self-perception to catch up to the changed reality.  I need to learn to wear the mantle of powerful structural member.  I am sure it would be easier if the parallel that my therapist drew evoked for me some sort of soft, compliant, sheltering, comfortable, open and yielding architectural element:  corbel, cornice, cupola, dormer, eave, fanlight, parapet, pediment, lintel, doorway, arch, foyer, closet, cellar, attic, roof, chimney, porch...  I am sure it is just me, in my highly visual mode, seeing that solid, monolithic cloumn, and wanting to not have to shoulder the responsibility of holding up the whole world.

swan 

Feeling Sexy

We haven't been spanking much lately.  Maybe you've noticed?  Yeah.

Yesterday, though, in the middle of the afternoon, He suggested that we would play, and He told me that He just wasn't sure whether He should spank me on the bench -- or over His knee. 

I told Him that I thought the most important consideration was what would be easiest on His shoulder.  There are just some angles and motions that are too difficult and too painful for Him as the arthritis in His right shoulder has gotten steadily worse. 

He talked about the fact that, in some ways, the bench is really good -- and He told me that He can't really use floggers when I am OTK.

"I really don't think we ought to flog."  I told Him.  "It is just too hard on your shoulder.  I love it, but it isn't a reasonable thing for You to be doing at this point." 

Once we had that resolved, He decided that He was really in the mood for some over the knee style play, and so He wandered off to round up a suitable array of toys and knives.  I got myself settled over His lap, and He played with a variety of straps and paddles -- mixing in lots of stroking with knife blades, and some really delicious hand spanking.  It has been awhile since we played like this, and I found myself enjoying it, reveling in the various levels of sensation -- even appreciating the sounds and rhythmic slapping noises.  Somewhere, fairly early on, I found myself at the point where I realized I could "slip through a door" in my mind and drift away.  That isn't the way I have experienced the entry into subspace previously, but today it seemed so simple, and so I let myself go through the opening and off into happy space. 

Recognizing my state of contentment and relative ease, He had Himself a little sadistic party -- whomping away on my upraised backside until, I suspect, He wore Himself out.  When He tapped me on the shoulder with the paddle -- our usual signal that it is time to end things -- I couldn't immediately remember what response I was supposed to make.  Surprising, as I've repeated that required, "Thank You  for my spanking, Sir" more times than I can count over the years.  At first, I babbled a loopy sounding "I love You, Sir," and I heard Him chuckle.  That simple sound brought me back in just enough, and I quickly added the expected thanks. 

Once I had recovered a bit, and was feeling more back in my own mind and body, He broached the subject of me spanking Him, basically repeating the same session with our roles reversed.  It is a topic He's been dancing around for awhile now.  Wanting to be spanked, but then uncertain about it.  I've been reluctant to enter into that sort of play without a clear sense that He was really "into it."  We used to switch pretty routinely.  It was, in those days, a mutual sort of give and take that we both enjoyed.  And then, He seemed to lose His taste for the bottom role. 

I am not sure what has brought Him back around to feeling "switchy."  Neither is He.  Whatever it is, it was fun to assume the role of Top for awhile this afternoon.  I wasn't sure exactly what He had done with me.  I'd been off in LA LA LAND for a good part of my own session.  However, the toys He'd used were all still lying there in a pile, and so it wasn't difficult to orchestrate some sort of reasonable approximation of what He'd done.  I do, after all, know what He usually will do with a stack of toys.  The fact is that, in some ways, I know His toys better than He does.  So, I strapped, and paddled, and scratched with a variety of knives, and worked a rapid fire drumbeat on His ass with my hands.  He squirmed and wiggled -- and thoroughly enjoyed the whole business. 

And -- when I was done with Him, He talked T into taking over.  Really!

I left them to it, and went and took a shower.  Once I was dressed, I took off in the car to go pick up some prescriptions and try and get a haircut (an unsuccessful endeavor).  It was a lovely afternoon, and I found myself smiling and bouncing along as I ran my various errands.  People seemed much more friendly and more responsive, for some reason.  I got lots of smiles and lots of pleasant greetings.  It might be that this was just one of those days when I randomly encountered the happy and open part of the local populace, but I believe that there is a difference in me when He and I connect sadomasochistically -- and it goes satisfactorilly for us both.  It leaves me feeling whole and calm and, yes -- sexy.  I think that's what people were responding to this afternoon.  It was a great feeling, and I am hopeful that there'll be many more chances for experiencing life through that lens.

swan

"When I Grow Up, I Want To Be Just Like..."

I hope I can be forgiven for continuing to talk about the struggles of my friend, morningstar. It is just that her latest comment on my Rules post caused a flood of responses to come up in my mind, and I really feel that I need to take some time to talk my way through it all --

She wrote:

When i look at the relationship you have with Raheretic .... you always seem to know what is expected... or .. better put.. you always DO what is expected ..... and i admire that.... and tend to say "when i grow up i want to be just like her"...... because you see i DO tend to make decisions on my own about these expectations.. which is where most of our problems have stemmed from.. my doing what i think is right at the time... often times putting my own interests etc before Sir's... At first.. they were smallish things... like a grain of sand in your shoe.. annoying but not enough to stop and fix the problem.... it was when there was a whole mess of sand in His shoe that He stopped and decided to fix the problem....... ugh... perhaps i should spend some time trying to put down in words on my own blog what has been going on.... but ya see... i find it embarrassing and humiliating... and i feel as though i have been lying for months and months.... and it is very difficult to stand up tall and say "mea culpa"

My first and strongest reaction to all of this, but especially the "you always DO what is expected" piece, was an immediate denial and disclaimer. In my head, there was an insistent voice that kept repeating the question, "Doesn't she know; doesn't EVERYONE know, how often and how colossally I screw up?" I imagine that I am not the only person who is gifted with that particular voice. I could be wrong, but I think that there are many of us who just KNOW that we are not nearly as good at this as people think we are. I am pretty sure that there is a (largely unacknowledged and unexamined) part of my psyche that believes that I have fooled everyone; am nowhere near as good or wise or submissive or strong or whatever, as everyone thinks I am; and that it is all balanced precariously just waiting to tumble into a heap when somebody catches on and blows the whistle on me.

There is a benefit, I suppose, to being possessed of an appropriately critical and honest internal monitor that reminds us that we are far from perfect; that we have plenty of room for growth and improvement. Humility is a good thing -- especially in a person who follows the path of slavery or submission. That "voice" can assist us in our continued work to learn to live and serve with joy and integrity, with grace and dignity.

Unfortunately, many of us, myself included, have internal monitors that are prone to take on the voice of those from our past that hurt and damaged us. Where we suffer from poor self-image, and a hobbled self-esteem, the hyper-critical internal monitor can tell us that we have failed; that we are stupid; that we are ugly and lazy. The voice that should guide and strengthen us becomes predatory and ravenous and destructive.

I have been lucky. Master has consistently refused to allow me to succumb to self-talk that denigrates the worth of His property. Some of the most difficult and impactful discipline that I have ever been subjected to has come as a direct response to instances when I have fallen into that abyss. Over time, I believe that the volume has been turned down on those voices from my past. These days, I am much more tuned into His evaluation of my worth, and much less inclined to react and respond based on hurts and disappointments from the past.

All of that allows me to focus more consistently and clearly on living up to His expectations. There is less "noise" to cope with. Of course, the drawback, from my perspective, is that I don't have that as a line of escape anymore. Because, the truth is that, when I was still moored in the muck of self-doubt and self-blame, I could retreat to that and use it as a shield -- "See, You can't be mad at me for my failings, Sir... I am too broken and stupid and worthless for you to be able to expect anything more." Yup. Sometimes being powerless is a powerful thing.

Being hurt and being wounded and being broken keeps us focused on ourselves. If I intend to serve Him, I need to focus on Him. I need to listen to Him. I need to attend to Him. I need to continually check to see if my thinking and my acting in the world are aligned with His. That is the key to living up to His expectations. I don't have a whole lot of rules or guidelines, and I do have a whole lot of personal leeway as to how I conduct myself in the world. I leave each morning and go off to work, and what I do in that context is entirely up to me. Some might look at all that "freedom," and declare that I am, in fact, not a "true" slave. If that is your view, I understand. For me however, over time, I've acquired an internal touchpoint that allows me to continually check my actions and choices against my perceptions of what Master would want, or what Master would do. I am almost never "on my own." He is at the center of everything that happens in my world. That becomes the compass that guides me through my days.

Writing here has helped me with all of that. Putting my worries and my wonderings and my confusions here, along with my joys and my successes helps me keep it all sorted out. Having the long term record of my thinking and my growth helps too. Sometimes, when things get rocky, I can come to feel that it is a waste of time, that everything I've ever written is just so much bullshit -- a giant pile of lies. Too, being exposed here is sometimes very difficult... readers in this place have seen me soar, but also crash in flames. It doesn't matter. This was His idea in the beginning. It remains His directive that I write here. There are no hard and fast requirements as to how often I should write, and He doesn't usually direct the subject of my discussions. However, on those occasions when I get frustrated with the whole business and declare that I hate this blog and want to just delete the whole thing, He makes it clear to whom the place really belongs...

Too often, the assumption is that a slave has no independent thoughts, no reactions or responses to things that happen. If that does happen for some people, I have not achieved the level of accomplishment that allows me to simply say, "Yes, Sir," without any reaction. There are times when Master's take on things seems just ridiculous to me, or mean, or flat stupid. That's when, if you could peer into my shower, you would find me in there with the water running full force, muttering and sputtering and shaking my fist at the unfairness of it all. Thank goodness for indoor plumbing and running water. That shower saves my ass -- literally.

So, no. Far, far from perfect. Better than I was seven years ago, I hope. Better, day to day, as I learn and grow and mature. It is embarrassing to admit to the failings, to have the flaws and broken places be seen. But the broken places are mine too, and so they are His. I am not a "finished" piece of work. Our relationship is not done -- we are still growing; still pursuing the dream we share. I hope there are things that I share that help others as they walk their own paths. If that can happen, and most believe that I've done that with some integrity, then it will be good enough for me, and hopefully, good enough for Master.

swan

Re-Booting

When I got to fussing about the "Sexy Blogger Awards," Amber wrote the following comment:

"If I were Tom ... I'd tie you up on that coffee table, give you the following mantra to repeat, "I am a beautiful, sexy woman and my Master loves me" and beat your ass every time you don't say it and say it like you mean it. Every day until it became second nature for you to believe it."

Now. My first reaction to that bit was that I hate it when slaves and submissives try to set each other up, and behave as if that behavior is cute or clever or somehow funny. But ... then I calmed down fairly quickly and I really do believe that Amber intended to be helpful and constructive in offering this bit of advice for Himself.

Actually, that approach is one that He used to use with me on a pretty regular basis. He would refer to it as "rebooting," just like one might do with a wayward computer. Generally, rebooting was His response when He would perceive that I was engaged in self-talk that was self-denigrating and emotionally harmful to my well-being.

"Rebooting" always felt just brutal to me. Those sessions were not "technically" punishment in the absolute sense, but there was a serious disciplinary intent to them. He meant to create change, and He meant to make an impression. With all of that in play, I generally came off a "rebooting" session with intense bruising and welts, and as my skin grew more and more likely to break and bleed from spanking, it was not uncommon for there to be significant blood splatter when it was all over and done with.

I am sure that I must have written about those events here or at The Swan's Heart, but I can't seem to find any reference to them, so maybe not... It is just that I really think that there were people who commented about it -- who were often shocked and appalled at the whole idea. There were people who were quite serious about telling me that it was not possible to spank someone into changing their internal belief system. How can it be that I remember comments to posts that seemingly never existed? Hmmmm...

Anyway. There has not been a "rebooting" in a really long time. I'd like to say that He convinced me that negative self-talk is something I just don't ever do, but that is really not the case. I can still get pretty down on myself by times. I think that it is much more a matter of His adjusting what He does with me to accommodate my changing capacities. He is surely naturally inclined to be sadistic, and He remains entirely Dominant with me, but He also loves me; wants the best for me; does not want to cross some line that would put Him in the position of feeling that He was harming or abusing me. I don't know if He made some conscious decision at some point, or if it was just the way things evolved between us. I only know that it is what it is now.

So, thanks for the thought, Amber. Not a new idea around here -- maybe just something that has gone the way of other things that were part of our lives when we were both younger. I don't know... don't really have to know.

swan

The "Shape" that He Desires

There is art to deep power exchange. Like a sculptor, a Master works to mold and shape a slave into the form that He can see in His mind. That shaping occurs in a variety of ways, but it does occur. The root experience of consensual slavery may be change.


The behavior changes. The voice changes. The mindset changes. The temperament changes. The focus changes. The physical being may change as well.


Some of this "shaping" occurs naturally and simply as the power dynamic begins to create new experiences and the expectations become known and practiced. Other changes may be more challenging or difficult, and so require active interventions to cause the shift.




I remember that, in the beginning of our relationship, there were times when Master would decide that I needed "reprogramming." Generally that occured when I'd get myself caught up in an internal (mental) monologue that caused me to begin to be self-denigrating or to lose my sense of trust in Him and in our relationship. I'd get entirely wound up with a litany of "I'm too old, too difficult, too tall, not masochistic enough, not good enough, OR I'd begin to believe that He wanted someone else, was tired of me, bored with me, frustrated with me ... Either of those sets of self-talk, would cause Him to intervene as soon as He became aware of them. Generally, I'd find myself strapped down, crying, begging, raging, pleading, promising anything -- ANYTHING. Reprogramming was never a "gentle" thing.




I am well aware that you really can't beat someone into believing they are good or attractive or sexy or accomplished or whatever. On the other hand, I do believe that it is possible to aggressively address self-defeating and negative thinking patterns, and that this may be exactly what a Master does at various points in the process of shaping His "property." I have come to believe that a slave comes to reflect what her Master sees. Sometimes that vision is made clear in words and instructions and requests. At other times, the clarity comes in much more sensory intensive ways.

swan