"Most of my writing is $hit," I flippantly state, with a wave of my hand.
"No, it's not. I like your writing," he responds as a burgeonging warmth of knowing spreads across
my belly.
For too long, I refrained from intimacy because there was always some concocted reason for "No." "He doesn't make me laugh." "I don't feel it in my primal, animal sexuality." "We're just friends." And on and on the list went. It wasn't until I finally allowed myself to engage in a long-term relationship that I realized my refusal to engage was simply based in delusion. Personally, I had mistakenly fooled myself into believing that my $hit didn't stink. "Ha!" As a result, I wasted too many precious years spending too much time alone.
It is only through sharing my human frailty, my weaknesses and my contradictions with others that I am offered experiences of true intimacy. Which, really, is just my allowing for me to know myself deeper. Of course, acknowledging this doesn't necessarily make my path any easier. Gratefully, these days, I'm trusting more and more what I'm experiencing, especially in terms of my sensations and feelings.
Our multi-dimensionality of senses is always a great gauge. Take smell, for example - it's a huge indicator of pheromones and, personally, of my natural biology talking without my messy mind getting in the way and fu@king everything up. Last summer, the premise of possibility danced excitedly between a new friend and myself. As we were getting to know each other, my authoritative nose decidedly picked up an immediate scent of "absolutely not." In his and my continued conversations, his words gave voice to a life lived rife with fear. I know myself well enough to know that my fearlessness/courage is of extreme value and cannot be comprised.
Another indicator involves my ex-boyfriend, who is moving back down to Mexico to live with his fiancee at the end of this summer. I now experience a similar sensation in his and my continued dances. Sure, I love the man - he's a great dad to our dogs - and, when we hug, my trusted olfactory flatly states that the past is exactly where it's meant to bee, over and done with. I wouldn't say that the smell is quite $hit-like, but it's enough to put me off on pursuing paths that lead anywhere but to a platonic nature. And, I like to think, that this is just perfect.
