I was going to write a light philosophical musing about the range of Beltane practices in the pagan community, from the visceral and orgiastic to the fully academic, but instead I find myself focused on something else.
Desire.
For years, I buried passion in compassion, earthing it down and keeping it tightly reined. My sexuality was something deeply private, even its *existence* shared only with the few partners who managed to make it through the intellectual and emotional obstacle course to my bed, and even then I didn't always admit the most powerful truth: it's not the act of sex that pleases me, but the exchange of desire. Inexperienced and fumbling, lacking the right vocabulary or even a complete understanding of my own feelings, I could never fully explain that it mattered far less how a man touched me than it did whether or not his hands shook with pure need as he did it. Being wanted wholly, utterly, helplessly has always been my greatest aphrodisiac.
The face I showed the world was one of service, kindness, duty, compassion, hiding my more feral impulses beneath a calm, smooth, helpful smile. I was considered, by many who knew me, as prudish, repressed, even frigid. Some of this came from my own acceptance of the idea that lust was something only thin, pretty, socially normalized girls got. As a fat girl who's been more than once described as 'sort of plain', I assumed that my chances to be truly desired would be few and far between. The events surrounding my marriage, which don't bear going into here, only served to reinforce that assumption, to add yet another layer of "so much is clearly wrong with you that your lust could only ever be a burden to its targets, gratified as an act of pity or mercy."
For years, I believed that anyone in whom I felt a sexual interest would be embarrassed by the knowledge, and if he were sufficiently generous of spirit, he could bring himself to accept and perhaps even indulge my desire without showing his revulsion. I cannot begin to count how many men I watched, hopeless, fiercely hiding any evidence of my interest to spare them. Even when I could manage to admit it, I was circumspect to the point of nonchalance, and probably gave the impression of lukewarm interest instead of the burning passion I felt. Very few men saw through it, and I wish now I'd made it easier on them to love me. (I'm sad to say that some of you, reading this, have probably missed out on a certain amount of what I imagine would have been pretty incredible sex, as a result of my fear. Sorry about that.)
Each year, Beltane came and went, and I buried myself in academic musings about personal creativity and intellectual fertility, shying away from the true celebration of desire, of lust, of the sheer blissful sharing of intimacy as a sacred act. I said, "This is not really one of my holidays." I feigned disinterest in the romps and celebrations of my friends, while secretly wishing I could join their headlong burning. I so tightly bound and constrained my own expressions of desire that they only rarely woke reciprocal desire in others, and when they did I found myself thrown off balance and inclined to deny them entirely.
Just before I moved to Texas, that began to change. I began to work with fire magic, and I learned that you can't actually hold a flame suppressed indefinitely. It must be given freedom to burn, to shine, to glow as it will. Before I was able to move into safely holding and working with fire in any meaningful capacity, I had to address my own desires -- not just sexual -- and acknowledge them as valid and worthy. I had to learn to make "I want" statements without feeling I was a penitent asking for a favor. I had to stand, open to the gods and myself, and admit that desire is a sacred prayer, a ritual of will, an expression of being alive. This led me to the practice of sacred sexuality, to the idea that all acts of intimacy can be joyful rituals of shared love and lust.
This Beltane, I choose to formally honor my desire, to acknowledge that I am grateful for passion's presence in my life. I honor the gods with my spirit, and with my heart, and with my body. I begin from a willingness to accept my own wants and needs as valid parts of my experience in this life, and I embrace my nature as a sexual being. I will not be embarrassed by or ashamed of my own lust, and I will not hide from what I desire. I will offer to share my passion as I will, and on my own terms, with no constraint beyond my respect for the boundaries of others. And when the opportunity for shared and passionate joy comes into my life, I will not suppress it, will not temper that passion with the fear that I am giving too much, delving too deeply, flying too close to the sun. This Beltane, I join that headlong burning, that spinning arc of sunward longing, that visceral and joyous celebration.
I want.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
Sunday, March 31, 2013
In Which I Finally Understood Easter After I Stopped Being Christian
One of the last times I visited my grandmother, she wanted to give me 'a little money' (I think it was $20 or so; she liked to tell me to 'get myself a treat'), and I followed her into her bedroom so she could get her purse. Looking at all the family pictures on her dresser, I noticed one that wasn't a relation. Neatly tucked in among the shots of my mother and aunt, sister and cousins, of my great-grandmother and my great-uncle and my nephews, was a small framed picture of Christ. I didn't really think much of it until I was headed home, but it says something profound and significant about my grandmother's relationship with her faith.
She had, of course, all the other pictures of Jesus that Midwesterners have, the one over the TV, the one in the guest room, and so on. But here was one that made a statement that defined her: Jesus was part of my grandmother's family. He was not a remote and unknowable being, a distant mythical figure to be worshiped but never understood. He was a friend, a brother, a father to her. When she prayed, she genuinely believed that he heard her, and that feeling of being heard gave her comfort whether her prayers were answered or not. Though, my grandmother's prayers were usually answered -- not because she was better than the rest of us, but because she knew what her God could give her. She wouldn't pray for an end to a sickness, but for the wisdom of the doctors and the courage to endure. She wouldn't pray for a good harvest, but for the strength to work hard and the skill to make the most of weather and circumstance. When my grandfather was diagnosed with cancer, she didn't ask God to take it away: she prayed for smart doctors, and her own courage, and her husband's comfort. She understood that faith isn't about waving a magic wand to get what you want; it's about having support and comfort for your journey.
I'm thinking today about my grandmother's relationship with her gods because it's Easter, the most holy and joyful day of the Christian faith. A lot of my friends like to mock it with faux-clever quips about zombie Jesus, but I can't really see my way clear to mocking something that meant that much to someone who's meant so much to me.
When I was little, I didn't really like Easter because it wasn't as fun. Sure, there were eggs and candy, but Christmas had a TREE and PRESENTS and maybe even SNOW and time off school. I left the Christian faith at 19, before I fully understood the idea of self-sacrifice, of making life choices for the love of others. Within paganism, as I've chosen a path of duty and service, I've finally come to understand Easter, to understand why this story of incredible love and compassion is so powerful to those of the Christian faith.
My grandmother believed that once upon a time her God had looked forward to everyone who would ever be, and had known that someday she personally would exist, and he had asked his son, "I love these people. Will you also love them enough to die for them?" And she believed that Christ had looked forward, and had seen her (and everyone else who would ever be), and said, "Yes, I will."
In the Fionavar Tapestry by Guy Gavriel Kay, a character named Kevin Laine swears an oath: "Though he be a god, and it mean my death ... to this I will make my reply." Later, another character references that promise and points out that you give a little leeway to a man who says that sort of thing, even if he doesn't quite know how he'll accomplish it when he says it.
That's sort of how I feel about the Christian promise. I am not a Christian theologist, and I have my own ideas on the nature of free will and redemption that may or may not jibe with the Easter story. But the gist of it is that one man said, "Yes, these people, I love them so much, even the ones I've never met, that I'll go through this horrible thing for them, just because of my own belief that somehow my sacrifice will make something possible for them that they couldn't have otherwise managed." And...I have to give a certain amount of respect to a man who swears that sort of oath, even if the fundamental mechanics are sort of unclear to me.
If you've read Fionavar, you know what Kevin's reply was. If you haven't, you should. And it remains to be seen what Christ's reply really means in the long run; people have their own beliefs ranging from 'nothing' to 'everything'. Maybe he never existed. Maybe he existed as a man and teacher who's been expanded to the Son of God to fill a mythic role. Maybe he was the literal Son of God. I don't know. I can't know. Personally, I don't need to know.
But I do know that my grandmother loved him deeply, with all her heart, and that her love for him was profound and important enough to her to inform every single aspect of her daily life, to color every interaction, every conversation. And just as I wouldn't mock someone's dead father, or dead brother, and just as I would be hurt by someone mocking my grandmother or the best friend I lost in 2004, I simply cannot find it in myself to disrespect her love that way.
I love you all.
She had, of course, all the other pictures of Jesus that Midwesterners have, the one over the TV, the one in the guest room, and so on. But here was one that made a statement that defined her: Jesus was part of my grandmother's family. He was not a remote and unknowable being, a distant mythical figure to be worshiped but never understood. He was a friend, a brother, a father to her. When she prayed, she genuinely believed that he heard her, and that feeling of being heard gave her comfort whether her prayers were answered or not. Though, my grandmother's prayers were usually answered -- not because she was better than the rest of us, but because she knew what her God could give her. She wouldn't pray for an end to a sickness, but for the wisdom of the doctors and the courage to endure. She wouldn't pray for a good harvest, but for the strength to work hard and the skill to make the most of weather and circumstance. When my grandfather was diagnosed with cancer, she didn't ask God to take it away: she prayed for smart doctors, and her own courage, and her husband's comfort. She understood that faith isn't about waving a magic wand to get what you want; it's about having support and comfort for your journey.
I'm thinking today about my grandmother's relationship with her gods because it's Easter, the most holy and joyful day of the Christian faith. A lot of my friends like to mock it with faux-clever quips about zombie Jesus, but I can't really see my way clear to mocking something that meant that much to someone who's meant so much to me.
When I was little, I didn't really like Easter because it wasn't as fun. Sure, there were eggs and candy, but Christmas had a TREE and PRESENTS and maybe even SNOW and time off school. I left the Christian faith at 19, before I fully understood the idea of self-sacrifice, of making life choices for the love of others. Within paganism, as I've chosen a path of duty and service, I've finally come to understand Easter, to understand why this story of incredible love and compassion is so powerful to those of the Christian faith.
My grandmother believed that once upon a time her God had looked forward to everyone who would ever be, and had known that someday she personally would exist, and he had asked his son, "I love these people. Will you also love them enough to die for them?" And she believed that Christ had looked forward, and had seen her (and everyone else who would ever be), and said, "Yes, I will."
In the Fionavar Tapestry by Guy Gavriel Kay, a character named Kevin Laine swears an oath: "Though he be a god, and it mean my death ... to this I will make my reply." Later, another character references that promise and points out that you give a little leeway to a man who says that sort of thing, even if he doesn't quite know how he'll accomplish it when he says it.
That's sort of how I feel about the Christian promise. I am not a Christian theologist, and I have my own ideas on the nature of free will and redemption that may or may not jibe with the Easter story. But the gist of it is that one man said, "Yes, these people, I love them so much, even the ones I've never met, that I'll go through this horrible thing for them, just because of my own belief that somehow my sacrifice will make something possible for them that they couldn't have otherwise managed." And...I have to give a certain amount of respect to a man who swears that sort of oath, even if the fundamental mechanics are sort of unclear to me.
If you've read Fionavar, you know what Kevin's reply was. If you haven't, you should. And it remains to be seen what Christ's reply really means in the long run; people have their own beliefs ranging from 'nothing' to 'everything'. Maybe he never existed. Maybe he existed as a man and teacher who's been expanded to the Son of God to fill a mythic role. Maybe he was the literal Son of God. I don't know. I can't know. Personally, I don't need to know.
But I do know that my grandmother loved him deeply, with all her heart, and that her love for him was profound and important enough to her to inform every single aspect of her daily life, to color every interaction, every conversation. And just as I wouldn't mock someone's dead father, or dead brother, and just as I would be hurt by someone mocking my grandmother or the best friend I lost in 2004, I simply cannot find it in myself to disrespect her love that way.
I love you all.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
In Which I Advocate for Domestic Partnership
Almost everyone I know is currently up in arms about gay marriage. It's understandable; a substantial portion of the American population is being denied basic civil rights on a flimsy 'moral' pretext.
The argument as to whether homosexuality is moral or immoral is relevant to the social and personal treatment of gays, but it should be irrelevant to law. Law is not, contrary to popular belief, derived from a moral argument. It's derived from an ethical agreement we participate in as a society. Things are not illegal because they are 'wrong' on a moral level. In a pluralistic society, things should be illegal because they're detrimental to the social order, not because they're in opposition to a theological position.
Civil rights are not detrimental to the social order. Equality is not detrimental to the social order. If you give everyone the same rights and privileges under the law, it creates a more stable system, not a less stable one. Greater social stability is an inherent benefit to those who live within a society, so long as it doesn't prevent the growth and progress of that society. Any expansion of civil rights encourages the growth and progress of a society.
Marriage equality is a complex issue, and one that affects me on a number of levels. As a non-Christian, I object to living under the assumption of 'Christian morality'. As a straight ally, I see my friends and loved ones denied a basic right I enjoy simply because my sexual preference is more palatable to a certain segment of the population. And as a clergyperson, I have to wrestle with the issue of whether or not I will perform heterosexual marriages when I can't legally solemnize same-sex ones.
The first two are larger social problems, but the last can be viewed as a matter of contracts. Ultimately, what I've come to consider is that I should give up my power to confer legal status on anyone, straight or gay. When I perform a wedding, it should be solely a spiritual and social ceremony, with no legal standing at all. I believe that clergy should play a simple role, managing the rites and rituals of community life. But I believe that ultimately, the only way to maintain a proper separation of church and state is to create two separate elements to marriage.
The first element is the social and spiritual one, the ceremony before community in which consenting adults swear oaths to one another by whatever they hold sacred, oaths that create no legal obligation. This element of a wedding confers a social standing upon the participants, by which those who share similar values can recognise that these people have made promises to one another. It creates a moral obligation, but no connection under the law. I feel, as a priestess, that I am qualified to perform these ceremonies because I intimately understand the structures of oath and obligation, the social fabric of community that makes that ritual meaningful.
The second aspect of marriage is the legal contract. It creates a connection under law, a set of obligations with fiscal and legal ramifications, and a set of privileges that affect property transfer, parental rights, healthcare decisions, and financial standing. The set of promises entailed in civil marriages all relate to simple contract law, and should be handled as such by a state-appointed official well-versed in contracts, estate law, tax policy, and property rights. As a priestess, I am not an expert on contract law, and am not best qualified to legitimize that relationship.
I propose a complete severance between the aspects of marriage, that the clergy be left unmolested to perform any marriage they choose: man to woman, man to man, woman to woman, three or more people. In cases where one party is unable to legally consent (age, mental incapacity), clergy marriage shouldn't provide protection to the relationship (if you find a priest to marry you to a twelve-year-old girl, "she's my wife" should not protect you from statutory rape), but otherwise there should be no legal restrictions on who can be married in such a ceremony.
In tandem with this, any domestic partnership should be required to undergo a civil contract registry to obtain the rights, privileges, and legal standing available to married persons. Any number of consenting adults can sign a contract, provided all signatories agree to the terms. You can be married all you like, but without a domestic registry the state recognises nothing about your union. Each state has a standard set of rights and privileges associated with marriage, and a simple "John Doe and Jane Smith agree to enter into a domestic partnership according to the laws of (state) with no exceptions," contract would cover most marriages, and those with more complex relationships are free to seek legal counsel to codify the terms of their marriage contract, just as a couple can seek legal advice for a prenuptial agreement now.
Most suggestions of 'domestic partnership' offer a 'separate but equal' dodge around marriage equality, creating a second tier of 'almost the same' to be offered to gays and lesbians, but that creates a second-class marital status. Pure equality under the law requires, ultimately, that only the law determine who has a legal standing.
This involves me giving up a power I currently hold under law, but I've been feeling a growing conflict with that power for some time. I am not qualified to advise on the legal ramifications of contract marriage, and if I am truly taking the responsibility of officiating weddings seriously, I should be able to intelligently explain to everyone involved the full ramifications of the thing we are doing together.
The argument as to whether homosexuality is moral or immoral is relevant to the social and personal treatment of gays, but it should be irrelevant to law. Law is not, contrary to popular belief, derived from a moral argument. It's derived from an ethical agreement we participate in as a society. Things are not illegal because they are 'wrong' on a moral level. In a pluralistic society, things should be illegal because they're detrimental to the social order, not because they're in opposition to a theological position.
Civil rights are not detrimental to the social order. Equality is not detrimental to the social order. If you give everyone the same rights and privileges under the law, it creates a more stable system, not a less stable one. Greater social stability is an inherent benefit to those who live within a society, so long as it doesn't prevent the growth and progress of that society. Any expansion of civil rights encourages the growth and progress of a society.
Marriage equality is a complex issue, and one that affects me on a number of levels. As a non-Christian, I object to living under the assumption of 'Christian morality'. As a straight ally, I see my friends and loved ones denied a basic right I enjoy simply because my sexual preference is more palatable to a certain segment of the population. And as a clergyperson, I have to wrestle with the issue of whether or not I will perform heterosexual marriages when I can't legally solemnize same-sex ones.
The first two are larger social problems, but the last can be viewed as a matter of contracts. Ultimately, what I've come to consider is that I should give up my power to confer legal status on anyone, straight or gay. When I perform a wedding, it should be solely a spiritual and social ceremony, with no legal standing at all. I believe that clergy should play a simple role, managing the rites and rituals of community life. But I believe that ultimately, the only way to maintain a proper separation of church and state is to create two separate elements to marriage.
The first element is the social and spiritual one, the ceremony before community in which consenting adults swear oaths to one another by whatever they hold sacred, oaths that create no legal obligation. This element of a wedding confers a social standing upon the participants, by which those who share similar values can recognise that these people have made promises to one another. It creates a moral obligation, but no connection under the law. I feel, as a priestess, that I am qualified to perform these ceremonies because I intimately understand the structures of oath and obligation, the social fabric of community that makes that ritual meaningful.
The second aspect of marriage is the legal contract. It creates a connection under law, a set of obligations with fiscal and legal ramifications, and a set of privileges that affect property transfer, parental rights, healthcare decisions, and financial standing. The set of promises entailed in civil marriages all relate to simple contract law, and should be handled as such by a state-appointed official well-versed in contracts, estate law, tax policy, and property rights. As a priestess, I am not an expert on contract law, and am not best qualified to legitimize that relationship.
I propose a complete severance between the aspects of marriage, that the clergy be left unmolested to perform any marriage they choose: man to woman, man to man, woman to woman, three or more people. In cases where one party is unable to legally consent (age, mental incapacity), clergy marriage shouldn't provide protection to the relationship (if you find a priest to marry you to a twelve-year-old girl, "she's my wife" should not protect you from statutory rape), but otherwise there should be no legal restrictions on who can be married in such a ceremony.
In tandem with this, any domestic partnership should be required to undergo a civil contract registry to obtain the rights, privileges, and legal standing available to married persons. Any number of consenting adults can sign a contract, provided all signatories agree to the terms. You can be married all you like, but without a domestic registry the state recognises nothing about your union. Each state has a standard set of rights and privileges associated with marriage, and a simple "John Doe and Jane Smith agree to enter into a domestic partnership according to the laws of (state) with no exceptions," contract would cover most marriages, and those with more complex relationships are free to seek legal counsel to codify the terms of their marriage contract, just as a couple can seek legal advice for a prenuptial agreement now.
Most suggestions of 'domestic partnership' offer a 'separate but equal' dodge around marriage equality, creating a second tier of 'almost the same' to be offered to gays and lesbians, but that creates a second-class marital status. Pure equality under the law requires, ultimately, that only the law determine who has a legal standing.
This involves me giving up a power I currently hold under law, but I've been feeling a growing conflict with that power for some time. I am not qualified to advise on the legal ramifications of contract marriage, and if I am truly taking the responsibility of officiating weddings seriously, I should be able to intelligently explain to everyone involved the full ramifications of the thing we are doing together.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
In Which I Am Not Pretty
This poem by Kate Makkai is making the rounds again, and it hits me so hard every time I hear it.
When I was younger, I wore "I am not a Pretty Girl" like armor. I've never fit the measured social standard of 'pretty'. I am too large, too curved, too strong, too loud, too smart. My features are described as 'striking' or even 'majestic' and 'beautiful' but I never fit into the pretty pink size four prom dress, and so many of my high school colleagues tried to make sure I'd wear that failure for the rest of my life.
Every 'friend' who said, "It probably doesn't come in YOUR size," every young man who rejected me in favor of some tanned and slender, soft and smiling creature, the teacher who 'inspired' me with "It's OK. You don't really need to worry about your looks, because girls like you are admired for what's inside," all served to remind me that there is a mold for 'girl' in this world and I grew out of it somewhere around the eighth grade as the Pretty Girls were just learning how to grow into it. The Pretty Girls took that power and they made my life hell for years. And I let them.
I wore my rejections as a reminder that 'women like me' didn't have to be desired to be valuable. I told myself, for years, that I didn't need love if I could just be smart enough to figure out how. I had crushes like the other girls, but I assumed their futility from the start. I operated under the expectation that who I was, this too-tall and too-present body, the unafraid opinions and the aggressive pursuit of my own ideas, the fast-moving mind and the mouth trying to keep up, spelled a diminished mating fitness that everyone could see.
I spent years of my life believing I'm not (and never could be) the sort of woman men pursue; as much as I've always flirted and joked, I secretly believed anyone showing interest was settling. When I look back at my 20's, I have to admit that while I dated some wonderful men, I also threw my time away on some real losers just because they showed an interest and I didn't think I really had the room to be picky. Girls like me, I was made to believe, should learn to take what they can get and not complain.
In short, I lived Makkai's premise as a defiant embrace of failure, a deliberate rejection of my own pursuit of happiness. Fuck 'pretty', I said, which was a good start, but then I took the fatal step of missing the point entirely, of becoming complicit in the exact thing 'fuck pretty' is supposed to reject.
I agreed to accept, somewhere along the way, that only pretty girls deserve to be loved, desired, happy, and fulfilled, and that by embracing my own lack of 'pretty' I was giving up any chance at all that. I decided I would reject their stupid notion that women have to be pretty, but instead of taking that next step to "I deserve the chance to pursue what will bring me joy regardless of whether I grew into or out of the 'pretty girl' mold," I said, "I'll just get used to not having the nice things pretty girls get. I'll content myself with more cerebral, more spiritual goals and maybe find love with someone who's willing to look past the outer me," never realizing that by doing so I was automatically devaluing myself, those goals, *and* anyone who might look twice at me.
Whether I meet that standard or not has nothing to do with whether I deserve to be loved, whether it's reasonable for me to want to be desired, whether it's shallow for me to want compliments, whether I build loving relationships or spend my life alone -- or move between paired and alone as life moves and changes. If I choose 'deeper' pursuits, it's not settling for having a 'nice personality'. If I seek partnered relationship, it's not a desperate chasing for something I'm not 'supposed' to have.
These days, pretty's not my enemy any more. It's just another way for people to be. Pretty is more than just 'easy on the eyes'. Pretty is easy to know, easy to approach, easy to like and accept. Pretty is more comfortable, more pleasant. There's nothing wrong with being any of those things; pretty people are actually pretty nice to have around -- especially once we all got out of high school and 'pretty' stopped being a weapon in the wars girls fight to destroy each other.
But...I will still never be one of them. I cannot fit the pretty mold and I won't kill myself trying. I'll keep being too big and too loud and too 'striking' and I'll keep challenging assumptions about beauty and I'll keep on being just awkward and ferocious enough that 'pretty' falls off when you try to hang it on me.
There are any number of people who'll read this and want to reassure me that *they* think I'm pretty. While I appreciate the sentiment, it's not necessary and I'd rather they not do it. I've come to terms with it. It's not a denial or a resentment, not a resigned acceptance of my 'never have' status. Not pretty is a way to be, just like pretty is a way to be, and I've abandoned "Fuck Pretty" for "Hey, Pretty, did you know we're on the same side? Let's go get a beer and hang out."
Thursday, February 14, 2013
In Which I Love You
Today is a frustrating and upsetting day for many people who are important to me. Social pressures and personal anxieties collide to create a terribly perfect storm of guilt, loneliness, resentment, and bitterness. Those who feel the lack of a partner feel it ever more keenly today. Those whose relationships don't follow traditional dynamics face a reminder that they're outsiders. Even those with stable, joyful, happy relationships still may face a minefield to be navigated. Do I make a gesture? Do I plan a date or buy a gift? What if I do and he doesn't? What if I don't and he does? What if I do the wrong thing, and I hurt the one I love?
Awash in a broad cultural message of "Have you DONE ENOUGH to deserve your partner's love? Did you EARN it today by proving your worth as a partner? If you don't have a Valentine, you FAIL but if you have a Valentine and don't do everything right you still FAIL and if you have a Valentine and do everything right your Valentine might still FAIL and not love you enough," many end up lost and angry.
But we don't have to listen. I know it's easier said than done, but we can speak louder and fight harder than that voice.
Love does not fail. Love never fails, because its simple existence is victory. When you stand your ground and let the love flow out from you to the Universe, you beat back the tide of hate, of judgment, of fear and inadequacy, and you are mighty.
Choosing to love is allowing the sacred to act upon the world, through you. When you open your heart first to yourself and then to those around you, what flows through you is divine communion with the deepest essence of the Universe. I don't mean something as limited and finite as gods. I mean the primal stuff, the heady swirl of matter and energy from which everything that has ever been or ever will be is made. A loving spirit is a conduit for pure creation, a beautiful and perfect moment in space -- and that moment can be created every single day, every single second, if you choose to. The longer you spend immersed in love, the easier it becomes to tread those waters and breathe those vapors.
Love is revolution. Everything and everyone you love, you make beautiful, even if it's just for one moment. We're under tremendous pressure to let the ugliness of the world beat us down and back every day, to admit that it's all crap, all worthless, that happiness is a crock or a thing other people get to have. Love is the best defense, the only certain way to shine a grace even the meanest spirit can't deny.
It's been almost a decade since I took this risk, since I committed myself, heart and spirit, to living a life of conscious love. I won't say it's been easy, because it hasn't. This is the hardest thing I have ever done, and I am still doing it. I still fight with the need to have my love validated by reciprocity. I still struggle with the difference between "I don't have a partner" and "I am not loved." I still hold out love to people who don't value or even notice it and haven't quite managed the lack of attachment that would take away that sting. I am not always loved on the terms I want, and I have to remind myself that it's all right to love someone even if I don't like him very much.
But what's made it more than worth it, a thousand times over, are the moments when I stand, basking in the primal power of the Universe, head spinning with the energy of pure potential, loving eyes open to a world so beautiful it breaks and heals my heart all at once. Les Mis told me long ago, "To love another person is to see the face of God." It's more than that.
When I am wrapped in love, I do not see the face of the Goddess.
I wear it.
Awash in a broad cultural message of "Have you DONE ENOUGH to deserve your partner's love? Did you EARN it today by proving your worth as a partner? If you don't have a Valentine, you FAIL but if you have a Valentine and don't do everything right you still FAIL and if you have a Valentine and do everything right your Valentine might still FAIL and not love you enough," many end up lost and angry.
But we don't have to listen. I know it's easier said than done, but we can speak louder and fight harder than that voice.
Love does not fail. Love never fails, because its simple existence is victory. When you stand your ground and let the love flow out from you to the Universe, you beat back the tide of hate, of judgment, of fear and inadequacy, and you are mighty.
Choosing to love is allowing the sacred to act upon the world, through you. When you open your heart first to yourself and then to those around you, what flows through you is divine communion with the deepest essence of the Universe. I don't mean something as limited and finite as gods. I mean the primal stuff, the heady swirl of matter and energy from which everything that has ever been or ever will be is made. A loving spirit is a conduit for pure creation, a beautiful and perfect moment in space -- and that moment can be created every single day, every single second, if you choose to. The longer you spend immersed in love, the easier it becomes to tread those waters and breathe those vapors.
Love is revolution. Everything and everyone you love, you make beautiful, even if it's just for one moment. We're under tremendous pressure to let the ugliness of the world beat us down and back every day, to admit that it's all crap, all worthless, that happiness is a crock or a thing other people get to have. Love is the best defense, the only certain way to shine a grace even the meanest spirit can't deny.
It's been almost a decade since I took this risk, since I committed myself, heart and spirit, to living a life of conscious love. I won't say it's been easy, because it hasn't. This is the hardest thing I have ever done, and I am still doing it. I still fight with the need to have my love validated by reciprocity. I still struggle with the difference between "I don't have a partner" and "I am not loved." I still hold out love to people who don't value or even notice it and haven't quite managed the lack of attachment that would take away that sting. I am not always loved on the terms I want, and I have to remind myself that it's all right to love someone even if I don't like him very much.
But what's made it more than worth it, a thousand times over, are the moments when I stand, basking in the primal power of the Universe, head spinning with the energy of pure potential, loving eyes open to a world so beautiful it breaks and heals my heart all at once. Les Mis told me long ago, "To love another person is to see the face of God." It's more than that.
When I am wrapped in love, I do not see the face of the Goddess.
I wear it.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
In Which I Still Expect It All To Change Every Few Years
I spent the early part of my life as an Army Brat. The core result of this is that I tend to make new friends fairly easily, and that every four years or so I start looking to make life changes. As of 2011, I had lived in Austin longer than I'd lived in any other city in my life. In 2014, if I stay in my current apartment, I'll have lived there longer than at any single address. I have, since being born, had between 20 and 30 addresses, depending on how you count dorms and subleases.
Mid-2009 I started to get itchy, to think that maybe it was time to move along. Then I thought, "Where to? I don't want to be anywhere but Austin!" I made some other life changes instead, shifting my diet and exercise habits around to be healthier and more active. I made some shifts in my friendship paradigms, stopped wasting time on people whose friendship wasn't a positive effect in my life.
Four more years have gone by, and I'm starting to feel the Time To Move Itch. It's not time to move, because again, I love Austin and don't want to be anywhere else. If I could think of somewhere else I'd rather be, I'd pack up my kitties and books and set out on the adventure, but this is where I belong right now.
So, what to change? I like my job, I like my friends, I like my apartment complex. I might move into a bigger apartment, or I could start looking at buying a house. The changes I'm feeling, though, are very different. I'm shifting perspective, and I'm doing 'adult' things.
Not 'adult' things in the pervy sense (though maybe I am and I'm not telling; I'm a mystery) and not 'adult' things in the 'no fun pay bills' sense. Adult things in the sense of fleshing out the bones of my life. Last year I started taking vacations, fully frivolous non-essential non-family non-working trips to simply get out on my own and have my own, personal experiences. I picked up a camera to take on the trip and have begun to find that I'm really enjoying photography as a hobby.
A hobby. You see, I never really had a hobby before. I read a lot and I like to play role-playing games and I like to play board games, and I enjoy baking and cross stitch as time occupiers, but none of my interests previously have carried the same sense of "This is a skill set I am developing because I am having fun getting better at doing a thing. I am researching, and learning, and accumulating physical and intellectual tools to improve my experience."
When you're an Army Brat, everything in your life is as simple as it can be, because you may need to break it down and relocate it on a moment's notice. It was only after I moved to Texas that I started having furniture that wasn't either modular and easily disassembled, or a hand-me-down I could discard without a second thought. The bulk of my life could be easily packed into a single ten-foot rental truck and driven anywhere the roads would take me, then set up in a similar configuration elsewhere for an instant feeling of home. I was a living MASH unit.
Over the last ten years, as I've finally come to accept that I can put down roots, real roots, I've gradually bought sturdier furniture and accumulated kitchen gadgets and put pictures on my walls and thought about curtains as actual decoration instead of just protection from nosy neighbors.
The last aspect of my life left to finish out and decorate, then, was...me. I've started considering that I might have 'a style' instead of just buying interchangeably utilitarian clothes. I've added the vacations, and the hobby. I've started setting up long-term goals as a person and thinking about who I want to be more than what I want to be. I'm genuinely learning how to express and embrace who I am in a variety of ways, which is something I'd never even considered a thing people did, much less considered doing it myself.
I can't wait to see what this next four-year 'posting' will bring.
Mid-2009 I started to get itchy, to think that maybe it was time to move along. Then I thought, "Where to? I don't want to be anywhere but Austin!" I made some other life changes instead, shifting my diet and exercise habits around to be healthier and more active. I made some shifts in my friendship paradigms, stopped wasting time on people whose friendship wasn't a positive effect in my life.
Four more years have gone by, and I'm starting to feel the Time To Move Itch. It's not time to move, because again, I love Austin and don't want to be anywhere else. If I could think of somewhere else I'd rather be, I'd pack up my kitties and books and set out on the adventure, but this is where I belong right now.
So, what to change? I like my job, I like my friends, I like my apartment complex. I might move into a bigger apartment, or I could start looking at buying a house. The changes I'm feeling, though, are very different. I'm shifting perspective, and I'm doing 'adult' things.
Not 'adult' things in the pervy sense (though maybe I am and I'm not telling; I'm a mystery) and not 'adult' things in the 'no fun pay bills' sense. Adult things in the sense of fleshing out the bones of my life. Last year I started taking vacations, fully frivolous non-essential non-family non-working trips to simply get out on my own and have my own, personal experiences. I picked up a camera to take on the trip and have begun to find that I'm really enjoying photography as a hobby.
A hobby. You see, I never really had a hobby before. I read a lot and I like to play role-playing games and I like to play board games, and I enjoy baking and cross stitch as time occupiers, but none of my interests previously have carried the same sense of "This is a skill set I am developing because I am having fun getting better at doing a thing. I am researching, and learning, and accumulating physical and intellectual tools to improve my experience."
When you're an Army Brat, everything in your life is as simple as it can be, because you may need to break it down and relocate it on a moment's notice. It was only after I moved to Texas that I started having furniture that wasn't either modular and easily disassembled, or a hand-me-down I could discard without a second thought. The bulk of my life could be easily packed into a single ten-foot rental truck and driven anywhere the roads would take me, then set up in a similar configuration elsewhere for an instant feeling of home. I was a living MASH unit.
Over the last ten years, as I've finally come to accept that I can put down roots, real roots, I've gradually bought sturdier furniture and accumulated kitchen gadgets and put pictures on my walls and thought about curtains as actual decoration instead of just protection from nosy neighbors.
The last aspect of my life left to finish out and decorate, then, was...me. I've started considering that I might have 'a style' instead of just buying interchangeably utilitarian clothes. I've added the vacations, and the hobby. I've started setting up long-term goals as a person and thinking about who I want to be more than what I want to be. I'm genuinely learning how to express and embrace who I am in a variety of ways, which is something I'd never even considered a thing people did, much less considered doing it myself.
I can't wait to see what this next four-year 'posting' will bring.
Saturday, February 9, 2013
In Which I Am Not Yet Highly Effective, But Getting There
I used to have a genuinely horrible job selling wine over the telephone. Truth be told, I've had a lot of horrible jobs, but that one really took the cake.
The company wasn't the problem, the manager was. He was the worst sort of self-improvement hypocrite, spouting Napoleon Hill, Stephen Covey, and Tony Robbins in between racist, sexist, ableist, homophobic jokes. He insulted and belittled those beneath him, and he berated us because our inability to sell $400 cases of untasted wine to strangers over the phone was obviously due to a lack of personal character and commitment.
The job paid $250 a week, on which I could barely live, and transitioned to straight commission after six weeks. I sold two cases of wine in the two months I worked there, so I essentially gave them two weeks of labor for free. My 'shift' ran from 1 to 10 each day, but I was expected to arrive at noon for the daily 'motivational lunch', where we all gathered around the conference table to eat our lunches (and have the morality of our dietary decisions critiqued by a chain smoking alcoholic carrying a good extra 80 pounds) and listen to self-help tapes, especially Napoleon Hill and Tony Robbins, and be lectured on 'fake it till you make it' and 'no is never an acceptable answer to any question'. I would then sit through a prayer to begin the day, and spend nine hours on the phone, because if I took more than 15 minutes for dinner when I hadn't sold any wine, I was subjected to insults and ostentatious disappointment.
One of Pat's demands, as well, was that I spend five minutes a day reading some 'self-improvement' book. He provided a list, topped of course by the Bible and various professional motivation texts. He was livid when my first choice was the Tao te Ching, and my second was the Art of War. That 'commie foreigner nonsense' couldn't possibly teach me anything worth knowing, and at that point he washed his hands of me, despairing of my ever being a 'decent woman'. He found out from a co-worker that I read tarot, and from then on he 'jokingly' began asking every day if I'd like to begin the prayer with a ritual goat or baby sacrifice. Why did I stay? Because I couldn't find another office job and thought I was 'too good to go backwards to retail', and while I was at least making the $250 a week I wasn't getting evicted.
Near the top of the list he gave me was Stephen Covey's "The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People." Without reading a word of it or knowing anything about it other than "Pat thinks it will make me a better person," I dismissed it entirely out of hand as another example of the self-improvement genre geared towards becoming a pushy sales asshole. I wanted nothing to do with that Covey fuck, whose planners all carried a bunch of (to me) hollow affirmations about personal growth and goal-setting and time management.
Fast forward fifteen years, during which many people I did respect and appreciate have said to me, "I think you'd really get a lot out of that book." Finally, last year, I saw it in the Amazon Prime Kindle Lending Library and thought, "Is it really fair to let one bigoted asshole influence my reading decisions forever?" So, I started reading it and have been working through it slowly, reading each chapter twice before moving to the next.
I won't say it's 'changed my life' or anything that dramatic, but today I had an epiphany: what he was talking about doing was something that, in at least one area of my life, I'd been groping around trying to accomplish without fully understanding the transition or my reasoning. At one point he talks about changing your focus from crisis response to relationship management, and I thought about the changes that we've been working on with the Guardians. One of the big things that, after talking to the other Chiefs and our Director, we identified as a problem was that (primarily because of staffing shortages and shifts in paperwork management) many people often only interacted with a Guardian, especially with a Chief Guardian, when something was wrong. Outside of crisis, they knew nothing about us, didn't have any reason to trust us except the reputation of the team. The respect and trust accorded to me came from my possession of a green glowie and a laminate badge, not from a relationship and a history of personal integrity. Other people's integrity and right action had earned me that trust, but we weren't working to strengthen those relationships the way we needed to be. We can't effectively serve a community that doesn't know us as people.
We've been working to get back to that, getting the Chiefs out on patrol, getting our faces and our names in front of people so that they know *us* and not our titles, making sure that they feel comfortable talking to us on or off duty, about any issue even if it seems trivial. Instead of spending a precious few off-duty hours hiding or relaxing in my camp, I've been taking more time off duty to peruse the merchants' wares, go to workshops, visit other camps, hang out with non-Safety friends, and generally make myself known when I'm *not* wearing green. The effect is two-fold. First, and most important: I hope I never face a situation where people's lives depend on them trusting and listening to me, but with wildfires and increased animal sightings and weather oddities it's going to remain a possibility, and I'd rather depend on something more than "she has a piece of laminate that says 'trust me, I'm a Guardian' around her neck." I want it to depend on "She has used her position with integrity, to act in the best interests of the membership, and I trust her as a *person* and as a Guardian, to know what is happening, have a plan, and do her best to help us stay safe." Second: I'm having more fun, making more friends, and ending each festival with less stress than I had when I started it, which tells me I'm doing something right.
'Doing something right' is the conversation I've been having with this book. As I was avoiding it, I told myself that I'm pretty happy with my life (which I am, on the whole, even when annoyances and frustrations occur) and I didn't want to fight with some motivational asshat who'd dismiss my love-centered, joy-focused existence as meaningless and irresponsible. It turns out that the parts of my life I'm happy with (the parts where I'm consistently aware of and acting in accord with my values) are the parts that already fit into the structure of the book, and the message I'm getting isn't "You're doing it wrong." It's, "So far, so good. Now, let's look at the next step."
So, what happened with Pat and the wine job? Well, one day I'd had enough of the "Jerry's Kids" jokes and I told the Assistant Manager that they made me uncomfortable and I was pretty sure they were illegal. He assured me that I could talk to Pat, explain how the jokes and the insults and the bigoted comments made me feel, and that Pat, who after all spouted words about positive thinking and affirmations and respect for the dignity of the individual for an hour each day, could be trusted to receive that information, think about it critically, and work with me to create a more positive atmosphere. So, I did, because I was a naive young woman with very little professional experience.
What resulted was a screaming fight while I angrily packed the contents of my desk. He insulted my character, I insulted his management style. He called me an uptight dyke, and I lost my temper and suggested he'd been raised by chimpanzees. He screamed a lot of things at me, things like 'filthy whore' and 'fat lazy bitch' and 'devil worshipper' and pulled out the termination paperwork he'd made me fill out during a 'personal counseling session' the week before, then said I might as well quit because 'worthless cunt' wasn't one of the options under 'reason for separation'. I'm still not sure whether I quit that job or was fired from it, but he swung a golf putter at my head as I walked out the door. Later, I sent a letter off to corporate detailing conditions in the Kansas City office and the circumstances surrounding my last day, and I cc'd it to the Missouri Department of Labor and the EEOC. I don't know what happened from there, because I never heard from anyone connected to the company again. I called a temp agency, who told me, "We were just about to call you! A job opened up that's perfect for your skill set. Can you start Monday?
The thing that really gets me is that if I'd read "The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People" when Pat recommended it to me, at the start of the job, I'd have quit right then and there, working at McDonald's or QuikTrip or wherever I had to, to get out of that situation. Because I would have seen, halfway through chapter one, that there was no way I could work in that environment and keep that person in my life, if I wanted to stay true to my own principles and my own ideals.
The company wasn't the problem, the manager was. He was the worst sort of self-improvement hypocrite, spouting Napoleon Hill, Stephen Covey, and Tony Robbins in between racist, sexist, ableist, homophobic jokes. He insulted and belittled those beneath him, and he berated us because our inability to sell $400 cases of untasted wine to strangers over the phone was obviously due to a lack of personal character and commitment.
The job paid $250 a week, on which I could barely live, and transitioned to straight commission after six weeks. I sold two cases of wine in the two months I worked there, so I essentially gave them two weeks of labor for free. My 'shift' ran from 1 to 10 each day, but I was expected to arrive at noon for the daily 'motivational lunch', where we all gathered around the conference table to eat our lunches (and have the morality of our dietary decisions critiqued by a chain smoking alcoholic carrying a good extra 80 pounds) and listen to self-help tapes, especially Napoleon Hill and Tony Robbins, and be lectured on 'fake it till you make it' and 'no is never an acceptable answer to any question'. I would then sit through a prayer to begin the day, and spend nine hours on the phone, because if I took more than 15 minutes for dinner when I hadn't sold any wine, I was subjected to insults and ostentatious disappointment.
One of Pat's demands, as well, was that I spend five minutes a day reading some 'self-improvement' book. He provided a list, topped of course by the Bible and various professional motivation texts. He was livid when my first choice was the Tao te Ching, and my second was the Art of War. That 'commie foreigner nonsense' couldn't possibly teach me anything worth knowing, and at that point he washed his hands of me, despairing of my ever being a 'decent woman'. He found out from a co-worker that I read tarot, and from then on he 'jokingly' began asking every day if I'd like to begin the prayer with a ritual goat or baby sacrifice. Why did I stay? Because I couldn't find another office job and thought I was 'too good to go backwards to retail', and while I was at least making the $250 a week I wasn't getting evicted.
Near the top of the list he gave me was Stephen Covey's "The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People." Without reading a word of it or knowing anything about it other than "Pat thinks it will make me a better person," I dismissed it entirely out of hand as another example of the self-improvement genre geared towards becoming a pushy sales asshole. I wanted nothing to do with that Covey fuck, whose planners all carried a bunch of (to me) hollow affirmations about personal growth and goal-setting and time management.
Fast forward fifteen years, during which many people I did respect and appreciate have said to me, "I think you'd really get a lot out of that book." Finally, last year, I saw it in the Amazon Prime Kindle Lending Library and thought, "Is it really fair to let one bigoted asshole influence my reading decisions forever?" So, I started reading it and have been working through it slowly, reading each chapter twice before moving to the next.
I won't say it's 'changed my life' or anything that dramatic, but today I had an epiphany: what he was talking about doing was something that, in at least one area of my life, I'd been groping around trying to accomplish without fully understanding the transition or my reasoning. At one point he talks about changing your focus from crisis response to relationship management, and I thought about the changes that we've been working on with the Guardians. One of the big things that, after talking to the other Chiefs and our Director, we identified as a problem was that (primarily because of staffing shortages and shifts in paperwork management) many people often only interacted with a Guardian, especially with a Chief Guardian, when something was wrong. Outside of crisis, they knew nothing about us, didn't have any reason to trust us except the reputation of the team. The respect and trust accorded to me came from my possession of a green glowie and a laminate badge, not from a relationship and a history of personal integrity. Other people's integrity and right action had earned me that trust, but we weren't working to strengthen those relationships the way we needed to be. We can't effectively serve a community that doesn't know us as people.
We've been working to get back to that, getting the Chiefs out on patrol, getting our faces and our names in front of people so that they know *us* and not our titles, making sure that they feel comfortable talking to us on or off duty, about any issue even if it seems trivial. Instead of spending a precious few off-duty hours hiding or relaxing in my camp, I've been taking more time off duty to peruse the merchants' wares, go to workshops, visit other camps, hang out with non-Safety friends, and generally make myself known when I'm *not* wearing green. The effect is two-fold. First, and most important: I hope I never face a situation where people's lives depend on them trusting and listening to me, but with wildfires and increased animal sightings and weather oddities it's going to remain a possibility, and I'd rather depend on something more than "she has a piece of laminate that says 'trust me, I'm a Guardian' around her neck." I want it to depend on "She has used her position with integrity, to act in the best interests of the membership, and I trust her as a *person* and as a Guardian, to know what is happening, have a plan, and do her best to help us stay safe." Second: I'm having more fun, making more friends, and ending each festival with less stress than I had when I started it, which tells me I'm doing something right.
'Doing something right' is the conversation I've been having with this book. As I was avoiding it, I told myself that I'm pretty happy with my life (which I am, on the whole, even when annoyances and frustrations occur) and I didn't want to fight with some motivational asshat who'd dismiss my love-centered, joy-focused existence as meaningless and irresponsible. It turns out that the parts of my life I'm happy with (the parts where I'm consistently aware of and acting in accord with my values) are the parts that already fit into the structure of the book, and the message I'm getting isn't "You're doing it wrong." It's, "So far, so good. Now, let's look at the next step."
So, what happened with Pat and the wine job? Well, one day I'd had enough of the "Jerry's Kids" jokes and I told the Assistant Manager that they made me uncomfortable and I was pretty sure they were illegal. He assured me that I could talk to Pat, explain how the jokes and the insults and the bigoted comments made me feel, and that Pat, who after all spouted words about positive thinking and affirmations and respect for the dignity of the individual for an hour each day, could be trusted to receive that information, think about it critically, and work with me to create a more positive atmosphere. So, I did, because I was a naive young woman with very little professional experience.
What resulted was a screaming fight while I angrily packed the contents of my desk. He insulted my character, I insulted his management style. He called me an uptight dyke, and I lost my temper and suggested he'd been raised by chimpanzees. He screamed a lot of things at me, things like 'filthy whore' and 'fat lazy bitch' and 'devil worshipper' and pulled out the termination paperwork he'd made me fill out during a 'personal counseling session' the week before, then said I might as well quit because 'worthless cunt' wasn't one of the options under 'reason for separation'. I'm still not sure whether I quit that job or was fired from it, but he swung a golf putter at my head as I walked out the door. Later, I sent a letter off to corporate detailing conditions in the Kansas City office and the circumstances surrounding my last day, and I cc'd it to the Missouri Department of Labor and the EEOC. I don't know what happened from there, because I never heard from anyone connected to the company again. I called a temp agency, who told me, "We were just about to call you! A job opened up that's perfect for your skill set. Can you start Monday?
The thing that really gets me is that if I'd read "The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People" when Pat recommended it to me, at the start of the job, I'd have quit right then and there, working at McDonald's or QuikTrip or wherever I had to, to get out of that situation. Because I would have seen, halfway through chapter one, that there was no way I could work in that environment and keep that person in my life, if I wanted to stay true to my own principles and my own ideals.
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