Interesting?

I've been reading The Mind Body Problem, by Rebecca Goldstein.  The novel centers around the relationship between two characters, Renee and her husband, mathematical genius, Noam Himmel.  Theirs is, from the outset, a terrible mismatch -- simultaneously painful and  intriguing.

At one point, the book delves into the question (from a philosophical and mathematical standpoint) of whether sex is interesting.  So, I've found myself pondering...  Is it?

There's the, more or less, ubiquitous set of sensations.  For all the variation among us; size, shape, color, temperament, appetite, belief...  the range of human sexual experience is pretty similar.  Those of us in the BDSM community tend, I suspect, to think we've concocted a wider and wilder range of sexual experience, but even with our kinky repertoire added to the mix, the sexual sensation catalog only has so many pages.

Once we have, ourselves, crossed the line that delineates sexual imagining and sexual fantasy from sexual experience, the extent of the territory to be explored is bounded.  From missionary position, one on one, penis in vagina copulation, through the realms of tantric pleasures, and on into the varieties of power exchange and sadomasochistic play, there are only so many sensations that can be wrung from the human frame.  We may pick from the menu of options.  We may combine the elements in a dizzying array of possibilities.  We may achieve orgasms, in singles and multiples, and in whatever order, individually or as couples.  We can wash, rinse, and repeat until we wear ourselves completely out.  And then what?  Once we've poked and prodded and stroked and wrestled one another into sexual delirium a few hundred or a few thousand times.  Once we know all the angles, and every nuance, and every single moan and sigh ...  is sex interesting?

What say you?

Being Happy

Many, many, many years ago, I had a friend who was fanatically seeking after spiritual growth.  I met her while I was studying with a Lakota Sioux teacher.  She was "ahead" of me on the path, and I came to believe that it was very important to her to STAY ahead of me.  We shared many of the same dreams and the same general orientation to the spiritual world.  As she worked and toiled to discern her spiritual paht, she never did understand my tendency to meander along that same path, picking up pretty stones and lingering on fallen logs next to singing brooks.

We maintained a push-pull friendship for many years, and then there came a day when I decided that I was no longer interested in "seeking" the way.  I had come to understand that I was "on the path;" that everything I did and every choice I made was part of it all.  I didn't have to go find the "spirit," I realized.  I was "spirit," and everything about my life was a manifestation of that reality.  So, I quit chasing the esoteric wisps of expanded consciousness.  The day to day, mundane world in which I lived was, I believed, enough.  There was no need to search further.

My friend was angry.  Furious, in fact.  "What are you doing?" she demanded.  :What do you think you are going to do, now?"

"I am going to be happy," I told her.  She sputtered in exasperation, turned her back, and walked away.  We never spoke again.  She would not answer the phone, or return my calls.  Letters went unanswered.  Our once parallel paths never ran in tandem again.

I embarked on a solitary path that day, and that is the first thing that I have learned about being happy.  No one in responsible for making me happy.  The random events of my days are not the causes of my happiness.  I choose to be happy, or not.  It is something that each of us does all by ourselves.  No one can do it for us.

I think, from the perspective of almost six decades, that most people would say that they want to be happy, but that few ever figure out that they can BE happy.  With fifteen some years in the BDSM lifestyle, I have chased after happiness myself, and I've had plenty of company while I did it.  I can look back over the years, many of them documented in this blog, and see all that frantic, obsessive, compulsive flailing after the "elusive" happiness I sought.  It has been, in some significant degree, the emotional equivalent of a snipe hunt (as described by Wikipedia):

“A snipe hunt, a made up hunt that is also known as a fool’s errand, is a type of practical joke that involves experienced people making fun of credulous newcomers by giving them an impossible or imaginary task. The origin of the term is a practical joke where inexperienced campers are told about a bird or animal called the snipe as well as a usually preposterous method of catching it, such as running around the woods carrying a bag or making strange noises such as banging rocks together.” 

I think that one of the important lessons I've learned in these last few years is that I can choose to be happy.  I am not at the mercy of people or events.  My happiness is not a function of anything that those around me do or do not do, nor is it irretrievably linked to what is going on in the external environment.  Things do not have to be perfect for me to be happy.  It really is a simple choice -- If you want to be happy, then be that.

The thing that really does seem to impact our sense of happiness, according to a new study just published by neuroscientists at the College of London is our level of expectation.  Disappointment is the poison pill for happiness, as it turns out.  If my expectations are higher than the likely "payoff" in any given situation, then I will become disappointed (I got less than I hoped for), and my happiness evaporates.  The real trick to being happy most of the time is to manage expectations, while allowing myself to notice what is good about the present moment.

So, for example, if I work myself into some big, romantic, the orchestra swells and the fireworks light up the sky, imagined encounter sort of relational expectation ... and what I get is the much more typical, weekend morning hard-on that needs to be attended to, so would you please... deal, I am likely to feel a huge letdown, and then it is pretty easy to get tipped over into feeling unhappy.  Rawr, rawr, rawr, rawr...

If on the other hand, I go through my days, happy for the companionship, glad for the supports I do get, aware of the life that I get to live right here and right now, my expectations stay in line with the likely outcomes, and it is a lot easier to be happy.

That is, I suspect, the function that the once popular "gratitude journal" used to serve.  Although I never got into that practice that swept the cyber universe a few years back, I can see the value of that discipline.  If we look at our lives with the intent to see those things that are good and for which we ought to be grateful, then we do not look outward and compare what we have to others, and begin wishing and longing for some "better" reality.  Looking at my good, comfortable home, the meals that get put on my table, the closet full of comfortable clothes, the satisfying work, the loving family that surrounds me, I am better at living for me in this moment.

So... Yeah.  It is probably just that easy.  Stay in the moment.  Enjoy and appreciate what is.  Don't compare my life to anyone else's life.  Don't try to make someone else responsible for my happiness.  Tah Dah!

Being Honest

It is a widely held tenet of the BDSM lifestyle that honesty and transparency are important.  Even foundational.  Necessary for this thing we do to work.

I've often heard it said that this person or that will absolutely not tolerate dishonesty.  Mistakes in judgement -- yes.  Carelessness -- OK.  Plain, downright stupidity -- sure... even that. But not ever, never, no way will we tolerate dishonesty.

It makes sense.  I guess.  But I wonder what we really mean when we say we demand honesty and transparency.  No.  I wonder what I mean by that.  Me.

Because here's the thing.  I have been kinky since I was old enough to masturbate, and that was just not that old.  Actually, I've been kinky since way before I was old enough to realize that being the way I am was not OK with the rest of the world.  I learned to pretend that I wasn't like this at a very young age.  By the time I reached the age of majority, I was a practiced liar.  Mostly, at that point, I lied to myself.  I was pretty naive, but I knew that if I were to live the "happily ever after" dream that was the background to every girlish imagining, I was going to have to play the part of a good girl / nice woman.  No dark fetish tinged longings were allowed in the planned for future of marriage and family and successful career.  So lying became the garment that I wore closest to my skin.

And the guy I married; he lied too.  First he lied when he promised to take care of me and my children.  That wasn't something he was prepared to do; able to do.  He tried to maintain the illusion, but it just wasn't in his makeup.  He was who he was -- good hearted, sweet, loving.  He was no bread winner.  Nor was he strong and protective by his nature.  He might have convinced the 19 year old I was then that he was my knight in shining armor, but he knew it wasn't true.  It was just that the lie was required if he was to have the life he wanted.

Somewhere along the line, I began to itch under the weight of the lie I was living.  I began to "come out" as the freakish, fetish driven, weirdo I really was.  Telling even some of that truth turned out to be no panacea.  Honesty is not always the best policy.  Standing in front of the man I'd married and telling him the truth about what I was and what I wanted created a whole new level of intimate dishonesty.  What, after all, was he to do with that information?  He wasn't any part of that dark world.  He neither understood it nor wanted it.  He only wanted his "comfortable, normal, socially acceptable" life to go on as it had been.  So, he lied again.  To meet my need, my demand, he tried to take on the guise of the dominant partner in my little personal movie.  His dishonesty was understandable, I guess.  My insistence on that dishonesty was unforgivable.

But the sad tale doesn't end there.  Needs denied are wicked things.  They whisper in the darkness.  The hunger is never sated, and the longings never stop.  It is a kind of madness swirling out of control.  Anyone who has ever passed through the attempt to shove a fetish into some kind of back corner, or box, or closet, knows the futility; knows how the squashed down, buried, hidden desires come roaring out, demanding their day in the sun.

I found my way to get that dark drive fulfilled.  I don't think it was conscious or planned.  I only knew that when the opportunity came to get spanked, flogged, and caned by Tom, I was not about to walk the other way.  Married?  Yeah.  I was.  He was. I was willing to toss those vows in the can; willing to move away from my children; willing to quit a good job; willing to sell the family home.  There was nothing I wasn't willing to do or give up in order to get what I wanted.  That simple.  I wanted, and that was all I knew.  Turned out that my commitment to being wife or mother was only sort of that.  Commitment? 'Til death do us part?  In sickness or in health?  For as long as you both shall live?  Once upon a time, long long ago, I said yes to all of that.  I lied.  So.

Probably, in the rush and excitement, I lied to myself.  I told myself that I could give up everything, give up my self, be nothing at all.  I think I tried to believe the fiction that I could lose myself and be fulfilled in that loss.  I'm sure that I wasn't honest with Tom.  I let him believe that I was that "perfectly" submissive who needed only him, and really, only as much of him as he was willing to give.  I let him believe that I could just join the stable of butts and it would all be fine with me.  "Whatever you want, whenever you want."  That is what I told him; what I told myself.

As it turned out, there was no way to talk myself into that story either.  I did try.  But we are who we are.  No matter the stories we tell ourselves.

I don't know the lies others tell.  Maybe, some never do.  Tell lies.  Maybe some are as open and honest and transparent as I've read for all these years.  Maybe there are those who do not carry around dark secrets and shameful hidden failings.  That must be so, because, to demand that level of truthfulness from another person, you would have to live up to that standard yourself.  Wouldn't you?  Wouldn't I?

Sl-ub-ottom

I've been contemplating the path I've taken, in terms of BDSM, to where I find myself now.  To make any sense of that, I need to rehash my meanderings through the various down-side labels that I've used for my part inside of power relationships.  Now, before anyone jumps all over me, I know that my view of all of that is particular to my experience, and it may not match up with your views.  I get that, and I'm really fine with it.  I am trying to sort my own path out here.  Not trying to be prescriptive.  So, if you can, try and be patient with me.  Or enter the conversation.  Or just click on to the next place.  It's all good.

In the BDSM bestiary, there are labels applied to roles and we are inclined to cuss and discuss the varieties of "beast" described  by all the words we use.  On the "down" side of the power based relational dynamic, we find (among a widely shaded pantheon of others) bottoms, submissves, and slaves.  In general, those three are viewed as nesting subsets; each part of the larger set that umbrellas over it.  Hence:

• All submissives are bottoms, but not all bottoms are submissive.
• All slaves are submissive, but not all submissives are slaves.

What else, one might be tempted to ask, is there to know?  Pick your "level," and you are ready to "play" at this thing we call BDSM.  Except, of course, it is never, ever that simple.  Well, maybe it is.  For some people.

We BDSM types borrowed the notion of "bottom" from the world of gay men, where the word "bottom" denotes the passive, receptive partner -- especially in anal/oral sex.  Appropriated by the, not-necessarily-gay, BDSM community, the term is generally understood to mean the passive and receptive partner:  the one who submits, suffers, obeys, serves.  In my experience, bottoms are BDSM players who take on the receptive role for a negotiated, pre-defined, agreed to period of time (a scene or an evening, or a weekend).  Some who enjoy the part of "bottom" play regularly with one or several partners who take on the role of "top."  It is a complementary relational arrangement that tends to work for both partners when they can reach a balanced understanding that allows them to play congenially.

The submissive is, most often, a bottom who enjoys giving up some measure of personal autonomy to a partner who will accept the responsibility for those parts of her/his life -- the dominant.  While it is common for bottoms to be passive within the context of BDSM play, the submissive's willingness to allow the dominant to control what happens may extend to a few or many parts of life.  "It is not just play," or, "I'm not just submissive in the bedroom," are the claims made by many submissives.  It is pretty easy, especially if one is new, young, or inexperienced, to believe that being submissive is a level up from being "just a bottom."

Slaves are those who are willing to turn over all of the control, within whatever negotiated limits may be specified at the beginning of the relationship, to become the property of a master.  No rights.  No property.  No options.  No way out.  Slavery is, arguably, the most extreme form of bottoming.  It is also, in some weirdly convoluted sense, the most prestigious manifestation of bottoming.

I came into the BDSM lifestyle, thinking that I might, maybe, possibly be submissive.  I wasn't all that comfortable with the idea.  It really didn't fit with my sense of who I'd worked very hard to be in my life, but it did seem to answer to something that I wanted in some deep, shame-filled, neglected part of my being.  So, I tried to learn how to be submissive.  I read a lot.  I corresponded on lists, trying to learn from those who seemed to know more than I did.  And I wrestled with my inner voices (and a cadre of inner demons) until I finally came to some kind of internal sense of peace over the whole business.  I submitted; giving up control; giving up choices; sinking into silence; swallowing the words and the ideas behind the words; making my mind to conform itself to another's.

And I kept reading, learning, or so I thought, learning to submit; learning to be a better submissive.  I steered a course that avoided the depths where it might be said that I was "topping from the bottom," and so, from day to day and week to week, I said less and less.  Pushed down the thinking that might have given rise to opinions and ideas that would run counter to those of the ones to whom I'd given control.  Except the thoughts were still there.  The ideas never really went away.  I was quiet on the surface while the chatter in my head pushed me further from the true connection that I sought.

Somewhere along the way, I came to believe that the "best" of the downside roles was that of "slave."  Now, in retrospect, I question who, exactly, I thought it would be "best" for.  For him?  It wasn't his idea; not in the beginning, and probably never once in all the time we practiced that particular mode of D/s relating.  I do not think that I was ever "slave" in his perceptions except when putting that notion out on the table might win him an argument; get me to acquiesce to whatever it was that he wanted in the moment.  For me?  For me the idea of belonging totally to someone meant a trade off -- I would give up all the rights given to any adult human if only...; if only doing that would give me safety and security and the assurance that I'd be wanted and treasured, cared for and protected.  The child I was wanted all of that, even as I made choices from the perspective of a grown woman.  He of course knew nothing of that bargain.  It was all in my head.  He never agreed to any of that.  Never made any of those commitments or promises.  That bit of negotiating never happened anywhere except in my own mind.  What came about later ought to really be laid at my door.  Negotiating is not a solitaire game.

Which brings me back around to the "beginning;" if it can be said that bottoming is the "beginning" of all of it.  I have never spent any time bottoming.  It seems to me now, that bottoming is purer if not simpler than its more laden corollaries.  I do not pretend to be any sort of expert at bottoming.  Just bottoming.  I am new to this.  I bottom when he is willing to top; and I do it for me.  Just me.  And I do not feel guilty or selfish about that.  Surprisingly.  I think, when he is choosing to top, he is doing it mostly for him.  The way he wants to do it.  He may be aware of what is happening on my end, but it really isn't his concern.  He is involved, in the event, with getting what he wants out of it all.  As am I.  I used to white knuckle my way through sessions because it was all about him, and for me to SAY anything about what I liked or didn't like or wanted or didn't want -- all of that fell into the realm of "topping from the bottom."  So, he topped, and got whatever he got out of it.  And I suffered.  Because I was trying to be a good submissive; a good slave.  Now, I bottom.  I play because I like to play, and if it gets too intense or there is some part of it that is not good, I say so -- because I want what I want.  Too.

I still take care of him on a number of levels.  I still listen to what he wants and needs.  I still treat him with respect and love.  He still watches what he wants to watch on television, and he seldom thinks to ask me about that.  And that is OK.  With him and with me.  There at those bits of submission and slavery that work for us, and I don't feel the need to reject those parts of who we are.  But it is just the fact that some of that was wrong for us.  Unhealthy for us.  Destructive for us.  Better gone -- a bit of interpersonal history to be noted and recognized and left to move on along the currents of time.

Perhaps it is true in BDSM as in other facets of our lives, that none of us are all one thing or another.  Most of us are conglomerations, mixtures, combos, collages that are built of the parts that work from the ideas and experiences that we encounter along the way.  Spiritually, politically, physically, sexually, intellectually, personally, inter-personally, we take what works; what fits, and leave the rest behind.  I've tried on the trappings of submission and slavery.  For a time, I claimed those labels for myself.  No more.  At present, the best I will claim is to be some mixture of the subsets:  slave, submissive, bottom -- sl-ub-ottom.

On Second Thought --

Actually, I DO have something to say about that "c-string" bikini thing, and that would be, simply, "WHY?"

Why bother?  If we have come to this:  micro-bits of clothing intended to emphasize (rather than conceal) the body parts that we have customarily kept out of sight, then we have come to the point of foolishness.  Let us, as a culture, just admit that our goal is to put genitals out in plain sight, and then do that.  Leave the coy, peek-a-boo nonsense behind, grow up, and just let everyone who wants to do so go naked.

I do not object to visible body parts.  The human body is not at all shameful, and there is no reason, beyond culturally imprinted prudishness (or religious practice), to hide the fact that we are male and female.  If we do not value modesty, and a cursory perusal of our music, our movies, our advertising, our sidewalks and public places would indicate that we do not, then let's just stop playing this game of sartorial chicken.  I am pretty sure that I'd be more comfortable with simple, honest, straightforward public nudity, than I am with the intentional application of pseudo-clothing that is intended to scream, "LOOK everyone, I have a vagina/penis."  Since the anatomical reality of that statement is pretty much a given, the whole business is clearly about adolescent attention getting behavior.  For my money, if you are wanting everyone to notice your man bits or lady parts, then just put 'em out there, and let's all take a good look.  Maybe then, we would all finally come to understand that anatomy does not equal sex.

Yellow

OK.  Nothing heavy today.
School is out!  Out for the summer.  Longest, most difficult year I have ever had in over 20 years in the teaching profession.  Not the kids.  They were great, and I did fall in love again.  Always.  But the hierarchical, political, theological nonsense -- exhausting, depressing, frustrating.  I am worn out with worry and hurt and sorrow for what might have been and what has been lost.  However that all works out in the end, THIS year is done.  I am DONE.
So.  It is summer.  Yellow sun and yellow flowers and yellow song birds.  Luscious, yellow, summer fruits:  apricots, peaches, mangos, pineapple, and lemons.
It is a season for resting, playing, finding the lightness in life.  I am ready for some light times, for some fun, for some silliness.  And so, to wrap up this meander through the emotional color wheel (and yes I know I didn't do orange or purple -- feel free to pick those two up if you are so inclined), my warm, energetic, inspirational, laughing, confident, and optimistic weeks of summer break lie ahead.  I intend to bask in the sun and take in whatever there is of happiness to be had through these next few weeks.

Red

I have tried to address the color, red, several times, and I am finding it very, very difficult to get to.  Red is not like those softer, quieter, calmer colors.  Red is the most emotionally evocative of all colors.  Throughout human history, the red hues have held sway in powerful ways.  In fact, as I think about it, humans are not the only organisms that find the color red to be intensely attractive.  Insects, birds, and even some mammals are drawn to or aroused by the color red.

The powerful emotions that are characterized by the color red, remain problematic for me, personally:  love, rage, passion, courage, even faith.  I look back over the years, and I believe that I have made choices based almost entirely upon passionate love.  The roaring of lust and love and sensuality have, more often than not, over-ridden my normally cool analytical way of viewing the world around me.  I have never, once, ever negotiated carefully when it comes to my love life.  I fall in love, I ignore all the sensible, reasonable voices, and I plunge in head first.  I lay my heart open, and I choose to make myself entirely vulnerable.  If I love you, I will bleed for you and cry over you and hope and believe with every fiber of my being.  For all that I am cynical about romance, Valentine's Day, and happily ever after stories in general, I absolutely believe that MY story will ultimately be one of enduring, passionate, and wondrous love.  Not hearts and flowers, but a hand to hold and a dearly loved companion on life's journey -- always and all ways.

The physical imagery of the color red is a whole other thing.

 BDSM is a sexual and erotic way of intimate expression that is painted in two colors; black and red.  Leather and blood.  Black leather falls against glowing red skin.  Pain and pleasure mingled in a fiery brew that consumes everything that is not utterly pure and strong and committed and dedicated.  The red I have known; the red that I have borne in my flesh is not a fantasy painting; not a flowery story.  Red for me is struggle, and sex, and power, and connection at a level of soul that defies simple descriptions.

For me, forever, being female, if it were a color, would be red.  Blood.  Menstrual blood flowing forth, defining everyday of my adult life, washing me away in its tides, pausing only to announce the advent of my two children -- who came bursting forth from my womb, bathed in my blood.  For me, that bloody passage through the female landscape stopped abruptly and thrust me out into a cold, dark, black emptiness that forever changed how I live in my physical body.  If red represented the fullness of being alive and female, then the blackness that followed represented the utter loss of that life.

Red is just... complicated.

Gray (Grey?)

Technically, gray (or 'grey' if you are in any English speaking country in the world except the U.S.), is really not a color.  It is a neutral, in the same category as black and white.  While white is the combination of all the colors, and black the absence of color, gray is considered to be achromatic.

Like smoke, mist, dust, and shadows, the various shades of gray are generally soft and quiet.  Perhaps that is why, on this night which is one of the last few before this school year ends, I am thinking of the way my classroom feels as the year winds down -- and that feeling, if it were a color, is gray.

Maybe tired is gray.
Surely all the dust of a whole year of lessons learned and work completed is gray.
When all the brightness of bulletin boards and posters and calendars and bins and tubs and the stuff of my world is put away, then the place seems to fade to a soft, sad, sullen, empty gray.
And the long, seemingly endless hours and minutes dripping off the face of my classroom clock, trudge one behind the other, clad in dull, deadening working man's gray.

Next week, after some much needed rest, I will sit here in my quiet home, and come once again to appreciate the grays of a summer thunder storm, the soft gray fur of the household cat people, the misty grays of my summer dreams, the silver in his hair -- and mine...  I will open my eyes and the world will glisten in its pewter toned, dew-covered richness, and I will be able to rejoice.

Blue

Every decorator knows that blue is a color that cools and calms and refreshes.

Personally, I've had a love affair with blue that goes back to my childhood.  Shoes, for a child of depression era parents were a serious matter.  I wore Buster Browns, or sometimes saddle oxfords.  For church, I had the ubiquitous patent leather Mary Janes.  And then, when I was about 7 or maybe 8 years old, there were Keds.  The original, as far as I know, tennis shoes, Keds were the play shoes of my youth.  They came in white and black, but also red and navy blue.  My young brothers always had the choice of white or black, but for me there was no choice ... I wore white.  White.  Every year I made the case for blue Keds, and every year, I left the store with white ones.  Until ... one amazing day, when I was 10, my parents said "yes" to my navy blue Keds.  They were the best, fastest, coolest shoes ever.

Since that day, I've decorated a home in pale creamy blue tones -- blue flowered upholstery and blue plaid curtains, even, in the first house I ever had any choice with, blue carpet. I have lounged the weekends away in a favorite, old, worn pair of denim jeans.  I've relished the bright, sweet flavor of blueberry pie on a warm summer night.  I have hiked up stony mountain peaks toward a high blue sky.  The closest thing to a prayer, for me, is a golden aspen grove against a mountain sky on a September afternoon.

People often say that they are "blue," when they are feeling down, and here in the U.S. we lay claim to The Blues as our one entirely American musical genre.  I'm not sure why being sad or forlorn equates with the blue wavelengths of the visible spectrum, but there it is.  Blue just doesn't seem sad to me.

Of course, for us, there is the great blue heron that has stood as the totem animal for our family for many years; the majestic, solitary, wading bird that lends its name to this blog.  They still grace the pond behind our home beginning each spring and extending into the summer.  We still call to one another and point out our big, blue-gray, spirit guides, and we all still come from wherever we might be to gather at the windows and watch their slow, listening passage along the shorelines.

Spirit color it is.  Blue.

Brown

Colors are, from the standpoint of science, about varying wavelengths of light and our perceptions of those wavelengths.  Very cool, technical, cut and dried science.  Nothing mystical or magical or airy-fairy about it.  Which all begs the question of why colors can, for some of us at least, evoke emotional responses that are entirely independent of the actual object that is seen.

Take the color, brown, for example.  Camel, coffee, cinnamon, clay, earth, bark, toffee, taupe, mink, walnut, cocoa, seal, sand, leather, roan, toast.  Browns are found in a diverse palette of tones that underlie and underline the more vivid hues of our daily lives.  Browns are quiet and calm and serene.

But, in my mind, I can smell the wet mud, taste the bitter chocolate, feel the campfire smoke sting the tears from my eyes.  Brown is coffee brewing in the dark of a winter morning, and brown is the grime under my nails as I finish planting flowers in the pots on my patio.  Brown will always be the texture of a fine, leather covered volume from my bookshelf.  Wood grains and spicy aromas and the velvet ears of a cocker spaniel puppy are the browns of my heart.

If colors were sounds, then brown would be the low, pounding, rhythmic beat that keeps the rest of the symphony together.  When I am quiet in my deepest self, it is as if I am wrapped in the finest of warm brown woolens -- a luxurious comfort.

Green

I am, for whatever reason, interested in colors.  There is nothing driving that as far as I can tell.  It just seems that my thoughts are tending to the expression of emotions and thoughts in terms of the hues of the spectrum.

So, to begin... with green.  We are at the transition point, here in this region of the country, between spring and summer.  Summers here, are a wash of greens.  I remember that, when I first moved here, I was struck almost wordless by the intensity of the summertime greenery.  It was a far cry from the scattered and sparse greens of my western home.  The greens of summer are overwhelmingly, shamelessly, stunningly, assertively, powerfully green.

It is also true that the completed green landscape of summer is arrived at only after the passage through springtime.  I love the springtime in this part of the country best of all.  Springtime arrives so very quietly, with just a whisper of verdant tinges here and there.  It starts off low, near to the ground, climbing by inches up winter dark boughs.  In the very early days of spring, it is common to think you see that hint of emerald, only to be disappointed when you turn your head to actually look.  Somewhere, unseen, the impressionist painter works, day by day, to add shades of sage and mint and lime and kelly and seafoam.

Spring green signals the end of the long, gray, bitter days of winter.  Spring brings me, always, into the closing days of the school year, when all the long weeks of planning and delivering all the myriad lessons begin to come to an end, and hopefully fruition.  The days lengthen and the breezes grows soft and mild.  Neighbors and neighbors' children come out and walk and play around the grounds.  The young ones, show the growth from the winter, and there are smiles and greetings on the air.  Even as new buds open in the warming sun, our lives open up more in the gentle days of spring.  Everything seems possible, and all of us are green and new in this season.

For a woman no longer young, it is good to be reminded that all things come around, again and again, into this green time of the year.

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.   

The Grandma Who Sends Boxes Full of Books

Ever since my young grandson was born, I have struggled with how I can be a presence in his life.  At the age of 4-1/2 years, he lives across the continent with his parents; a 1200 mile (2 long days) drive.  For the past year and a half, he has lived in the home of his "other" grandmother, and while she finds spending time with him annoying and unnerving, she has plenty of money and is able to regularly shower him with things.  There is no way that I can compete with that.  In fact, there is no way that I WANT to compete with that.  I am not interested in being the person who buys him stuff.  So... what to do?

Christmas is one of those times when I am challenged to find an appropriate gift that I think he will like, and that I like sending to him.  When he was very young, it wasn't hard.  There were lots of cute, fun, educational toys -- and I enjoyed finding something unique and interesting to give as a gift.  This year, it seems harder.

All of the toys that I find for boys his age seem dull and unimaginative; or they simply offend my sensibilities for one reason or another.  And yes, I am prone to not supply toys that I find "offensive" on whatever level.  Ask my own children.  They will be happy to tell you how they suffered through childhoods without toy weapons of Barbie dolls or video games that included violence.  Poor things.

Anyway, somewhere last summer, I began to gather a collection of interesting, fun, and beautiful children's
books -- until I came up with a significant pile of very nice books:

And then I finally figured it out...  I will become the Grandma that sends boxes of books!  I will hunt down neat and interesting and beautiful children's books, and I will send them off to my sweet young grandson.  They will be presents, but they will also give the two of us something to talk about.  As he grows, I'll find books to send that match his interests (like pirates) and others that might expand his interests.  All those fancy toys will have their day, but they will eventually fade away or fall apart.  I am hoping that the books will become good friends and treasures to be visited over and over and over; enjoyed and cherished well past his childhood; perhaps tucked away to be given someday to another generation of young ones...  my great grandchildren.  

It all makes me happy.

Sue

Looking Toward the Future

This morning, T and I headed for the hospital where her surgery is to be performed.  She had a pic line installed in her right arm.  It was the final hurdle in this run up to Tuesday -- the actual date of the surgery.

Now, there is nothing to do but wait, and try and cheer her on as she lives through the just awful, liquid diet that is required for these last five days.

We are, each in our own way, anxious -- this is a very big deal surgery with some very real and scary risks.  We have done everything we know to do to give our T the very best shot at having this be successful.  The surgeon is one of the best in the area.  She has been cleared by our cardiologist, after some very thorough testing.

We will, most likely, spend a quiet weekend here together.  There are some movies that we want to see together, and we will find some time to do that.  It is probably going to be a good long while before we are ready to go see movies together again.

Tuesday morning will start very early.  We are to be at the hospital very early.  The surgeon estimates that the actual surgery will last between two and five hours.  Figure another hour or two in the recovery room, and we should have her back in her room, with us, by about 2:00 in the afternoon.

Once she is through surgery and on her way to recovering, we'll get her home as soon as we can.  We'll tuck her in nice and comfy in her favorite chair, and get to work helping her through the beginning days of post surgical eating.  The digestive system shifts that the surgery creates are monumental, and it is a very slow process to reintroduce foods.  In fact, it really seems that Himself has only begun to eat pretty much normally in the last 4 -- 6 months, and His surgery was over four years ago.

I am working hard to be positive and hopeful and upbeat about this.  We are so aware of what can go wrong with this surgery, but I also know how much can go "right," and I am focusing on that.  This will be good, and my sister-heart will come through with flying colors.  By this time next year, we'll be hanging out at the pool together so she can show off her new cute, little self.

swan

Stages, Seasons, and Nuances

We are all familiar with the relational vocabulary we've created inside the lifestyle:  M/s, D/s, OP, TPE.  The various acronyms are labels we use with one another to describe the types of power exchange at the foundation of our disparate relational dynamics.  We alternately insist that those relationships descriptors mean exactly what we say they mean, and then we back track and declare that each relationship is unique, and each set of partners defines the norms for themselves.  We can, and do, argue endlessly about what is what and who is who.  I've been engaged, personally, in more of those conversations than I can count, and I have no intention of revisiting that old wrangle.

However we define the power dynamics for ourselves, I believe the labels are too simplistic, too one-dimensional, too short-sighted to serve for the long-term discussion of the ways in which we live our lives together.  Our relationships may look different, in a wide variety of ways,  than more traditional relational models, but just like our brothers and sisters who might be inclined to the "vanilla" approach, our lives together are fraught with stages, seasons, and nuances.  We cannot simply declare ourselves to be "this" or "that," and then proceed as if all the questions and variables have been answered and resolved.  Would that it were so easy!

Relationships go through shifts and changes as they develop over time.  As people grow and learn their way into the patterns that form between them, there are recognizable stages to the relationship.  Just as we realize that children pass through stages as they grow and mature, relationships have stages, too.

In the very beginning there is the stage that is built out of a mutual attraction.  In vanilla relationships, and in many lifestyle pairings, this phase involves “falling in love.”  Our culture tends to see romantic love as the ONLY kind of love.  Those of us who practice BDSM sometimes have romantic love as part of our relational foundation -- just like anyone else.  We might also be attracted to a number of other characteristics, depending on our particular inclinations. It might be that we "fall in love" with the sense of power or control. Maybe we really get taken with someone's Dominant/submissive nature, or their sadistic or masochistic bent. There are lots of different things that might "ring our bells." Regardless of how we might characterize this stage, it almost always leaves us feeling as if we have found “the one.”  In the throes of this early stage of relating, we experience our partners as nearly perfect; we feel alive, excited, and passionate.  Euphoria is just part of the reality in this stage.  I know that we, early on, believed we were star-crossed, meant for each other, bound together at the level of soul and spirit.  In those early days and months, it was easy to believe in forever; to see ourselves holding hands into the mists of a future we could not even remotely imagine.

In time, of course, reality sets in, and all relationships have to adjust.  It turns out that real life can’t be all roses and/or whips forever.  Inevitably, predictably, reality rears its sometimes ugly head and partners have to confront the demands of life and living. No matter our early dreams, we discover that our “perfect” love is human.  Small (and sometimes large) conflicts occur, and the fantasy begins to crumble.  The demands of work, the strains of managing finances, the demands of family and work, the minor daily irritations of personal habits and quirks, betrayals, mismatched desires and needs, all of these and a thousand other hurdles line the path along which we must all travel eventually. Conflicts, anxieties, disappointment, struggle, and hurt replace the effortless rapture of those first, breathless days.  This is the point where we first lose our relational innocence.  It is the stage where we learn that our once perfect love is not likely to live up to each and every one of our hopes and dreams.  It is at this point when we have to figure out how to negotiate through the sense of loss, of being somehow cheated by life and love.  Now, the real work of relationship begins as we start the process of learning how to deal with conflict, and create the intimacy we seek, and interweave that with the independence which is an essential part of our human condition.  Of course, inside our deliberately unequal power relationships, the incongruities and confusions are more sharply drawn, and navigating this stage is often more complex and more treacherous: How do I tell you that I want and need your control and attention without, simultaneously, creating a circumstance where I am, in fact, the one who controls?

As we struggle to adjust to the reality of our relationships, disillusionment deepens, and we tend to disagree more.  We may argue more.  Partners dig in their heels and battle lines are drawn.  What was once, sweet, sexy, and thrilling turns into a battleground as we find ourselves mired in a daily power struggle.  No matter the agreements, and whatever the labels we adopt, this stage is part of the relational work for those of us in power based dynamics just as it is for the more vanilla couple.  All of our lifestyle specific trappings cannot protect us from the work of this stage.  We are not immune from the requirements of this stage:  learning to listen, to negotiate, to seek mutual solutions, and to care for ourselves and one another.  As we struggle with our disappointments and broken places, we (hopefully) choose to stay in the relationship, even as it may seem tempting to leave.  If we stay; if we manage to weather the storms and battles of this stage, perhaps we will have the chance to grow and strengthen the bonds that will hold us together into the future.  It is, often, an exhausting, wrenching, painful process.

Sooner or later, all is laid bare.  Over time, we learn to really know who our partner is, limitations and all.  Whereas the original commitment we make is typically based on projections of fantasy, now we can ask and answer the essential question:  “Knowing all of it, do you still want to stay?”  This is the time of re-evaluation and, perhaps, reinvestement.  Especially for those of us in power-based relationships, this is a passage through uncertainty -- a time when the hot, sexy passions fade into memory.   Unless partners are willing to do the hard, personal work of understanding their own part in the disappointments; unless we are willing to confront our own fears and wounded places; unless we are willing to endure a period of limited gratification and security; unless we are each up to the task of staying present and honoring our commitments as we develop as separate people; there is a real likelihood that our once luminous dreams may crash and shatter.

Finally, most relationship experts assure us that if we can survive, relationships re-awaken.  I have to rely on the experts here. We are, I think (I hope), at the beginnings of this part of the work.  My sincere hope is that they have it right.  In the re-awakening stage, people understand the realities, and decide to try again.  Now, knowing about all the differences, and with a shared history of conflicts resolved, we have the tools needed for growth and change.  Once we come to the point of accepting that life and love are never going to be “perfect,” and that we really can’t change another person, we are ready to start working to create an honest, genuine intimate relationship. In this stage, partners finally get that no relationship can ever “save” us.  Whatever scars we bear, they will not go away just because we are in a relationship.  However, now  the war is over, the conflicts are accepted, and there is a sincere desire to learn how to work through the issues, and find a satisfying place to live together.

Some relationships make it.  Most don’t.  According to the people that do this kind of research, only 5% of couples ever reach the final stage of "complete acceptance." This is the point at which, each person takes responsibility for their own needs, for their own individual lives, and also for providing support for their partner. And that is a scary thing in a relationship that self-defines as unequal.  I think that it is particularly hard for the “one down” member in a power dynamic to understand that they do have a responsibility for themselves -- a responsibility that has to be fulfilled if the relationship is to survive and thrive.  Does the “top” of the dynamic have the same ambivalence about all of that?  I cannot tell. It seems to me that this is all very convoluted, and my efforts to untangle it, from my perspective are likely matched by Him. How He perceives all of this -- you would have to ask Him.  In the end, if it all comes together, couples develop relationships filled with warmth and balance.  They learn to navigate through the inevitable conflicts, and they mostly avoid resentment and nasty surprises.  Once you have dragged each other through all of that “stuff,” you know what you are getting -- no denial and no fantasy.  Working together with clear vision, couples who have learned to really accept one another learn the ways to maintain their connection AND their own identities.

From what I have learned, the stages of our relational lives are pretty consistent.  Most of us traverse the various stages, assuming that our relationships endure long enough for that to happen, and that is true no matter how different our relationships might appear on the face of it all.  Navigating all of the various stages can be a challenge.  There are difficulties to spare along that path.  However, the structural stages are not the only set of issues that most relationships must deal with.  There are “seasons” to our relationships as well.  

Just as our familiar, annual calendar cycles through from spring to summer to autumn, our intimate lives experience passages that mirror that cyclic shifting.  We have periods in our intimate lives that seem lively and fresh and new, and we have corresponding periods of declining heat and vigor.  The events of our physical lives push us through the highs and lows of our days and nights, and we respond to what IS with shifts in our energy and vitality.  I imagine that anyone who has spent much time in a close relationship has experienced times that might be compared to the seasons of summer or fall or winter or spring.  Just as my spring tulips bloom and wither to be replaced by the phlox and blanket flower of July; just as the blazing oranges and reds of the autumn give way to the stark blacks of bare branches against winter gray skies; the intimate connection between us ebbs and flows, blooms and fades -- over and over and over.  

The trick to riding through the seasons of our relationships is that the seasons overlay themselves on that other pattern of stages.  There are ripples and reflections and interference patterns in our lives, and it is easy to get turned around and disoriented by all the variations and nuances.   Add in some days of moodiness, exhaustion, frustration, illness, loss, and all the other bits of being a living, breathing, human animal -- and there should be no surprise that things get bumpy.

I don't have the fix for any of that, and I don't imagine that all of that sort of "heady," intellectual babbling will make the least bit of difference to anyone but me. I can't picture the me of eleven years ago believing that the bright promising future that I saw from that vantage could possibly hold so much trauma and turmoil. Funny how that works -- we can never see beyond what we can see. And so it is and so it will likely always be. I've often thought that some of this writing is about leaving signposts for those who might wander by. So here it is -- another one of those signposts.

swan

What if We Shared?

Sunday afternoon we traveled just a bit north and east of where we live to the Fort Ancient historical site to spend some time at the Gathering of the Four Directions Celebration.  It is an event that has been held for 23 years at the Fort Ancient site, and involves a weekend of Native American drumming and dance, accompanied by a sort of festival including vendors of all sorts and some educational demonstrations and performances.  There is something that simply draws us in and relaxes us as we join the circle around the dance area, to watch and listen and enjoy.  There are elements of religion and spectacle and veteran's parade and community party to the whole business.  There are protocols and customs and a definitive hierarchy that is sensed more than seen by those of us who are outside the tribes.

I am always taken by the way dancers and singers are with one another; with the way that the youngest and the oldest all join in the rhythms and patterns of the dances.  I know enough to know that, for the people of the various tribes, there are huge parts of the whole business that are strictly private.  I know that there is a place where the drumming becomes hypnotic and transports those who dance into another frame of awareness.  I know that they know, as they dance, that beyond the rope that delineates the circle, we are all there, watching, talking, drawing our own conclusions about what we are seeing.  I know that they watch us, watching them, and I know that there is something remarkably generous in their choosing to invite us in and share what they have with us.

Spending time at a Pow Wow has some of the same electricity as does spending time in a public BDSM dungeon.  It is another example of a non-dominant culture group taking hold of a space and making it "theirs" for a bit of time.  It is a circumstance in which the "outsiders" become the normative culture, and that shift changes everything for a space.  The air is different.  The light is different.  The sounds are different.  The reactions and interactions are all changed, too.  Something very powerful happens.

Sitting there in the green light of Sunday afternoon, floating along on the pounding of the drums, I wondered:  "What if the BDSM community were to adopt this model?  What if, instead of hiding away in hotels, behind carefully controlled access points, entirely separated from the 'normal' culture, we instead, set our public events up in public places, and invited those who were not us to come and be 'audience'?"  Would doing that make big changes in the way that WE relate to the dominant culture within which we all have to live.  Would doing that give the 'vanilla' people who are our neighbors a chance to know us as a culture that is apart and different, but not necessarily bad?  Would we be able to show how we are with one another, in ways that would shift the perceptions that are created by the porn industry?

I don't know.  I only know that I wondered.

swan

Disclaimers

One other thing --

It is just fascinating how some people, usually those who intend to be nasty, will open up their comments with some sort of disclaimer that only serves to elucidate their intention.

 Why would you think that starting off a comment with, "I'll be nice about this...," is going to somehow obscure the fact that you absolutely intend, from beginning to end, to be anything but nice?  "Nice" would sound pleasant, good-natured, and kind.  

That sort of blatantly dishonest disclaimer is in the same category as those that begin with things like:

• "I hope you don't take offense at this, but..."
• "Not meaning to sound rude, but..."
• "I don't want to sound judgmental, but..."
• "Please don't be hurt, but..."

The translation for each of those is so evident and so clear that it is amazing that anyone ever tries to get away with that silliness.  How much more honest it would be to simply declare from the outset that what will follow is, of course, meant to be offensive, rude, judgmental and hurtful.  People who begin comments, or conversations of any sort, with that kind of thinly veiled excuse for bad behavior, know better.  After all, we teach toddlers how to be "nice."  It is one of the earliest social skills that small humans learn.

I don't know.  It makes me just shake my head.  

swan

What Do You Believe?

belief (n.) 

late 12c., bileave, replacing Old English geleafa "belief, faith," from West Germanic *ga-laubon "to hold dear, esteem, trust" (cf. Old Saxon gilobo, Middle Dutchgelove, Old High German giloubo, German Glaube), from *galaub- "dear, esteemed," from intensive prefix *ga- + *leubh- "to care, desire, like, love"

"You may believe in this shaman hooey..."  That's the last little fragment of the comment left here a few posts back.  I've taken off and written this series of posts about the content of that comment that got me to thinking.

I found it amusing that the immediate, and obviously unthinking follow on to the characterization of shamanism as "hooey," was the assertion that her "god" was into making me pay for what I'd done.  I guess one person's hooey is another person's belief.  And vice versa.

I'm not sure that I'd say I believe in shamanism.  I'm not sure that I'd say I believe in much of anything, actually.  I style myself a scientist, and I understand the basics of a lot of scientific theory from natural selection to quantum mechanics -- but believe it?  Well, that's a little different.  If you told me that the existence of dark matter is akin to magic, I'd take your word for it.  I can push the clouds around and move a storm from one track to another, but I can't explain it and I don't really "believe" it.  I can prove that 2+3 equals 3+2, and I can also prove that the interior angles of a triangle always add up to 180 degrees, but believe it?  On faith?  No.  Not really.  I for sure don't believe in some up in the sky somewhere "god" who keeps track of human doings and then evens up the score.  I don't believe that some or any of the gods of human mythology were really born of any of the virgin mothers found in those same myths.  I don't believe that any of them ever rose from the dead, or caused anyone else to do that.  I don't believe that god sent Katrina to New Orleans or allowed crazy people to fly planes into the World Trade Center to punish us for our sins, and I sure as heck don't believe that god is out to get me because I chose badly when I married at the age of 21 years.

I think that, as humans, we believe in the abstracts that we believe because they help us to explain the unexplainable:  emotions and feelings, intellectual uncertainties, and arbitrary suffering.  Too, belief in the abstract works to stabilize the social order, to oppress and manage the masses, to define the roles and rankings among us all.  In the end, believing in whatever it is helps us make sense of a world and life that most often does not make sense.  No wonder we come to "esteem," and even "love" the belief system that enhances our sense of comfort and belonging.  Shamanism is like that for me.  It works in some instances to help me make sense of things that make no sense.  I feel the same way about parts of paganism, the practice of wicca, and native American spirituality.  I can get lost in the music at a Catholic mass, and love the ritual and ceremony, even as I reject the basic theology.

I've never claimed the label of atheist, or even agnostic.  I really don't feel the need for any of the labels.  There is so much that is not amenable to any sort of "unified theory."  The universe is one unfathomable mystery piled on top on all the others.  From the beginnings of time, which is, itself, shrouded in mystery beyond our reach, we've tried to find the stories that help us understand (just a bit).  Religion and all its secular counterparts are nothing more than that:  the stories we tell ourselves so that we can make it through the darkness without being too afraid.

swan

What Brings You Here?

Sometimes a comment sets off a cascade of thoughts and ideas, and that is true of a most recent comment.  It has set me off on a whole series of mental conversations.  I am done with school for the year, and so I'm inclined to pick up those threads and spin them out here over the next few posts... until my head stops chattering.

So, I know that my commenter reads here regularly, and has done so for a very long time.  I also know that she bears me some significant amount of personal animosity.  It makes me wonder why she continues to read.  That leads me to wonder, in a more general sense. what it is that attracts people.  Why do people read blogs in general, and more particularly, why do people read this blog?

I think that some read this blog (and others like it) because they want to connect.  They want to know and feel that they are not alone.  Especially for those of us who live in alternative relationships and who establish relationships that are other than what is defined as 'normal' in the more mainstream society, feeling like your way of life can be healthy and good and "normal" in some sense is really important.  Blogging has given me access to the wider world of people who live lives that are like mine in some ways (even as we recognize and compare the places where our lives are very different).  As I've come to know others like me, I've formed attachments and friendships...  Of course, not everyone is a friend, and not everyone likes me.

Some people who read blogs are just curious.  They wonder what it is that we do, and what it might be like to live like this.  They wonder what motivates us, and they wonder why we are the way we are.  I think that humans are inherently curious animals.  We want to know and we want to understand.  The quintessential two-year old questioning that asks continually, "why?" really never leaves us.  We want to know.  Sometimes that curiosity is just nosiness, and perhaps an inclination to being gossipy -- for spreading rumors and telling tales.  But most curiosity is healthy and normal.  Blogging, and the reading of blogs allows us to satisfy our interest in people; to come to "know" our fellow travelers on the paths we follow through our lives.  We are, simply, social creatures, and that drives us to look at each other and wonder and ask and contemplate -- how are we alike and how are we different and why?

For some people, blogs like this one are attractive because they feel close and intimate.  I have often compared this place to my living room, and the experience of entering the conversation here can be (in the best of circumstances) like sitting down together with a cup of tea for a nice friendly chat.  When readers feel that what they find written on a particular blog is authentic; when they feel that the writing has some degree of integrity and honesty, then they are more likely to engage in that blog experience.

Other people read blogs to learn, or to escape into realms of fantasy and imagination.  People new to the lifestyle, or who are trying to learn new skills may read blogs to acquire basic kinds of information.  Let's face it, blogs are a free source of information.  Of course, to quote the song lyric, "nothing ain't worth nothing, but it's free."  I have always struggled with the idea that this blog might be construed as any sort of "authoritative" source for lifestyle information.  It has felt important to me to be clear that I am no expert and no guru.  I don't generally give advice, and there is very little here of the typical "how to."  Still, I do think there are those who read here because they find bits of material that is "instructive" in some sense.

I think some people find "inspiration" as they read at some blogs.  Maybe inspiration for ways to do things, or inspiration for ways to change things, or just the inspiration to dream and hope and believe and risk going for the things that you want in your life.  Again, I am not convinced that this blog is particularly "inspirational," but then I suppose that inspiration is where you find it.

I'm not sure that any of that explains my most recent commenter's interest in this place.  Not wanting to ascribe negative motives, I still cannot deny that there are those who visit blogs with agendas that are driven by jealousy, bitterness, judgement, self-righteousness, and spite.

In the end, I guess I am left with my own curiosity:  why do you read here ... or on other blogs?  What brings you here?

swan