Recognizing the Shadow Self

A few posts back, I ruminated upon force.  I spent a week, or two, eschewing the word - contemplating its role in my life; actively discussing the topic with others; and then, finally, coming to a catharsis in which I recognized that there can be "good" in force.  However, what I neglected to mention in that posting was the shadow side of force - abuse.

I had to experience some of its affects, such as a loved one grabbing my arm in a forceful manner and then proceeding to emotionally berate me (I understood that this person's behavior was not personal, he was simply responding from a place of deep hurt and fear) before I made a long, overdue emotional break.  What was most poignant about these moments is how I, through my own processes of introspection, meditative thinking, and curious questioning, was learning to honor myself.  "I do not deserve that touch, nor do I deserve this behavior," was a deafening call that I had finally learned to both listen to and heed.  (Yes, at 32 years of age, I am just coming into my own.  Shall I be ashamed of this, or shall I revel in it?  Considering the fact that I now have over half a lifetime left to make different choices, I think I will choose the latter - thank you very much.)

However, this posting is not about abuse.  Rather, I wanted to write of the shadow self, especially in regards to how it relates to physical and sexual attraction.  If you have not already made the connection, I was referring to my now ex-partner in the above.  I do not share this because I want to convey any ill will towards the man.  Quite to the contrary, he is a beautiful, amazing being whom I love and care about deeply.  We simply were drawn together during a period in each of our lives when we were feeding the whims of our shadow selves on a daily basis.  After all, no one can "abuse" us unless we are actively abusing our selves first.   (Just as no one can set us "free," if we do not create our own liberation first.)

With that said, I have been a single woman again, after four years of a monogamous coupling, since July.  I have not spent this time looking outside of myself - for any thing.  My intentions, for the most part, have been focused inward - on a pursuit to teach myself how to fill ME up with all that I need so that I no longer project any longings in an outwardly direction or suffer through any ideas that what I seek is with/out.  What I have been doing is observing my whole self in motion, and noticing where my energy is drawn, to who, and why.   

Just this past weekend, two instances revealed themselves to me in which I noticed that I was once again, strongly and with animal force, attracted to a shadow self.  In the first case, I had been harboring painful feelings of attraction for another, for years now.  Yet, there has always been a schism in how this person and I interact.  On the dance floor, our engagement is flowing, intuitive, juicy, and generous.  However, in the day to day, our interactions are awkward, disjointed, and there appears to be a serious void when our bodies touch. 

Ironically, only a few months back, I noticed how split my own self seemed to be.  There was the me who moved around a dance floor with grace, ease, and lacking fear, and there was the me who moved around the "real world" deeply afraid of judgment, denial, and rejection.  I have been resolved, ever since, to mend this divide - to actively engage in as many moments of life from a place rooted less in fear and my vulnerable defenses and more from an open and expansive vulnerability that is softer, gentler, more yielding.

In this person, I also recognized my mirror image.  More specifically, I saw my fears of my own sexuality and sexual attraction reflected back.  What I mean by this is simple: for entirely too long now, I have been afraid to speak my desires, to give voice to that which I want.  Yet, I deserve (just as you do) to give myself the chance to receive.  Even if the receiving is a, "No, thank you.  I am not interested and I do not feel the same."  At the very least, this kind of feedback allows me to let go of my attachment and to move on with my feeling body. 
Next. 
If I do not verbalize my thoughts, however, then I am passing up on an opportunity for growth.  When I do not give voice to my authentic desires, then I am stunting my own well-being.   
No mas, por favor...

The second instance was more intensely charged for this other was a stranger with whom I spent a mere few hours in shared company.  In his eyes, I recognized my shadow self - my dark side that includes forcefulness, aggression, rigidity, and apathy.  I raised my piercing browns and met his, time after time and ignorant comment after ignorant comment.  There was no backing down.  There was only these two animals, meeting - with horns raised, hooves clashing, and nostrils panting.  It was pure, raw attraction.  It was potent.  And, it, he, invaded my dreams that night.  The force was truly that palpable.  It was...scary.

Scary because I could have very easily (fortunately circumstances did not, nor would not, allow for such a thing to happen) acted upon the desire.  The following day, however, after the two glasses of red wine had worn off, I once again came to understand that my own fear is still subconsciously affecting my carnal yearnings.  For, in each of these cases, I had been attracted to elements of me.  However, engaging with these sides of me on a more intimate level would do little to foster my own intrapersonal growth.  More than likely, what they would have provided is for me to continue running circles around myself, and hitting my head against the same old, closed door. 
No thanks. 
I'll pass.



         

   

 

Leftovers

(The following is from a letter, typed this morning.  I felt it conveyed a message that is pertinent to this arena.)



Remnants from last night that I must convey, express, and let go of:

What I heard you saying in regards to the, to MY, San Diego Dance Community
(a community, by the way, that is older than the both of us),
is that you feel unsafe and that you perceive a lack of depth as well as raw vulnerability within it.
Yes, you are entitled to your feelings and to being in your place of becoming
(wherever that is) while in our shared area. It is NEVER my intention to imply otherwise or
to "force" anyone else to feel, express, and experience, the way I do while in this arena.

However, I feel the need to speak up for this beloved community of ours - for this lifeblood of mine
that sustains and nourishes my emotional well-being on a weekly basis. I chose to speak up for
this sacred space last night by pointing out what I feel is a selfish lack of compromise, even though I knew
that by doing so I was potentially creating disharmony and sowing seeds of discontent.
In the moment, this did not feel good or comfortable - whatsoever. Nonetheless, I chose to defend something
I believe in - because, otherwise, my silence would have been a complicit act of enabling (enabling you to continue to sit in your place of judgment, criticism, and projection).

This morning, I am compelled to point out a number of glaring contradictions in your words and deeds.
There have been a number of occasions in which I have approached you, and you have completely blown me off. You have refused to even try to engage with me. Therefore, my body intuitively responds and chooses to give you a wide arc of personal space so that you can process through your own healing. Your non-verbal language has conveyed to me to stay back, and stand clear. Why, then, would I place my hands on you, and attempt to give you anything in terms of physical/emotional healing, when this is the clear message you are sending? Then, on the day when I was lying in the back changing room, suffering from my own physical pain, and when I could have used your healing hands, you chose to walk by me -
heading directly into the bathroom where you changed into a bathing suit top and looked at your mirror reflection - TWICE!

You judge my peers, my friends, my beloved community members, for their "lack of raw vulnerability," yet you do not understand that choosing to show up, week after week, to be present, and to allow others to bear witness to the process, is, in and of itself, raw vulnerability.

You judge me for my "little girl'ness" yet I am every inch a self-actualized and deep woman (even if I have serious room for improvement). I spoke up last night, and my words produced in you a desire to bite back - which you did - to protect your withering defenses. You even slapped my arm - twice. When I called you on it, you again responded from your vulnerable defenses. "I did not hit you," you retorted. I did not appreciate your touch, I did not deserve your touch in that way, or in that context. Still, you did not apologize for your actions.
Then, when you were reduced to tears because you were finally realizing that all of this is self-created
blocks that your mind uses to separate you from me, from us, you became tearfully emotional and I offered my hand, to your knee, softly, gently, to soothe, and to remind that I am here, and that I support you.

But then, I left angry! Angry that I was left feeling unsafe in your home, and at your hand. Angry to be judged when all of your judgments are mere reflections of that which you have yet to accept in yourself. And angry that, again, it felt selfish - that I, along with others, am merely invited in to your home, week after week, to bear witness to YOUR process. Going in to someone else's home and sharing feelings, deep seeded emotions, is yet another act of raw vulnerability. I can not help but to notice that you do not invite others to host the potluck at their homes. Who is really suffering from a lack of vulnerability here? Just because I do not cry, and well up physically with sadness, does not mean I am superficial, always playful, and somehow lacking depth. Quite to the contrary.

Last but not least, the innocence of play is direly needed in today's world. Playfulness, curiosity, and the generosity that is a result of these, is an integral part of my practice and will continue to be so.
Perhaps, you can learn to harness some of these life skills for yourself.

Practice, Take II...

The Practice is...

Presenting Myself

to as many moments as I possibly can.

Turning and facing

listening and breathing

feeling and sensing.

The practice is...

ongoing, and daily.

The practice is easy to





forget.

Yet, the practice is simple.
It is nothing more
than the breath
a breath
this moment
now.
This is the practice.
See -
it's easy.

Practice...

After my graduating presentation, I attempted to share the surrounding terrain of Fort Worden, including the Pt. Wilson Lighthouse and its nearest Battery, to my parents, but their aging knees made for an uncomfortable stroll. We soon headed back to the hotel, where I dropped them off at the inn near the tides, changed my clothes, and returned to the scenic state park that I had just left. It was time to pay my dues, and my respect, to the land - this land that had fed and nourished me on numerous occasions.

Before turning up towards Artillery Hill, Laurie and I crossed paths. We shared a word or two, and a quick conversation, before I began traversing the sloping hill, walking below towering pines and breathing in the dense foliage of fern leaves and fermenting soil. I strolled above century-old batteries, their thick walls of ashen cement built into verdant green cliffs sitting directly above the Strait of Juan de Fuca. There, on a western facing overlook, I breathed in - the views, the scents, the sounds, the moment - and I began to rock and sway with the energy, as well as with the landscape and the horizon. Soon, I took a break, attempting to capture these moments on two separate cameras, but neither worked.

From there, I meandered over to Memory's Vault, a poetry garden built into the forest side. Rectangular, cement pillars forever entomb the etched engravings of poets, present and past. The sculptures pay homage to ancient Japanese folklore, with an emperor's throne facing an impenetrable portal. Over to the threshold, comprised of three, angular stone blocks, I found myself. It was here where I recited an embodied poem, "I am the wind whispering in your ear, and I am the cold chill shaking its finger in you face...I am the sonnet of a time now past, I can be the word and I can be the page...I am the everything with all that I am, and I am the nothing wit all that I am not."

Again, I moved with the words, with the way the sounds escaped from my lips, with the dance of my song as it moved through the air, the trees, and the land. A private presentation for the the birds, the insects, the Earth, the connection, the relation, the relating, the relationship.

I HAVE ARRIVED.
I HAD ARRIVED.
I AM HERE.
I AM NOW.
I AM PRESENT.
I AM EVERLASTING.



I took my bow, and made my leave. Back down the hill, from above and behind the beach campsites I emerged. Dusk was drawing near. My pattering footfalls led me over to the beach, where I strolled along the Admiralty Inlet. My thoughts also wandered, to any where but here. To the moments just had, to future engagements, to some where else. So, I would

stop


turn

and

face

the water.

I'd breathe in and note
the

silence

the stillness.

I would present

myself
to the moment at hand
to life as it is now.

Then, I'd turn and keep going. For darkness had fallen, and I made my way back...

On Sex, Take I

Recently, I was surmising about the sexual objectification of women. On my Facebook profile, I even went so far as to question, "If I've got it, should I flaunt it?"

And, here's the reality. Here's the stone cold, hard truth of the matter.
EVERYONE HAS IT. EVERYONE HAS SEX, as in a gender, as in a body with which to act out sexual fantasies, as in an ability to be objectified!!!!

Little 5-year old girls go missing and end up dead because of it.
And, coming of age teenage boys are sexually abused for it.

Sex is easy, folks.
What is hard is listening to the voices that say "No. Although you are attracted to that young woman, she is only 16. And, even though, you are just a mere 24, you must refrain. You are her teacher, and it is best for all involved if you do not get involved."
What is hard is talking about our sexual fantasies, about where they come from and who they are with. About the dreams we have at night and the visions that float through our minds when we masturbate.
What is hard is engaging with other sexual beings in soft, supple ways that are brillaintly sensual but do not distill these neccessary moments down into the heaviness of sexual longing.

We all want sex.
So, how do we get it?
How do we fulfill this very basic human need?

Walking Paths

After I graduated from Sonoma State, in the spring of '99, I moved to the East Bay. I set my bags down in my sister's small studio found off of Shattuck Avenue in Berkeley. During the weekdays, I would commute via Bart and Muni to an elementary school in San Francisco where I would teach dance to "at risk" youth. During this year, it became increasingly harder and harder for me to focus on the daily pattern of repetition that I had created for myself. Rather, the scenic vistas of the Bay Area skyline would sweep me off into fantastical daydreams and down paths that usually led away from where I was supposed to be. My footfalls were heard, and found, throughout that city during that last year of a millenium. I remember those fall and winter nights, when the dark would roll in early and the Pacific would bring thick winds along with it. One night, I was walking on an overpass when a text written with a black sharpie caught my eye. There on the gray metalic support of the freeway bridge, someone had stopped just long enough to scrawl the following words:

Big black boots
that can crush
like leaves
you under
the wake
of all that once was
my ornery sanity
now just little flakey pieces
of cereal
the butterfly of change has once again spoken
so i here i sit
so there i sat
so here i am
so there i'm gone.

So, was this my beginning introduction into the land of embodiment?
Who is to say, really?
Nonetheless, that poem still sits in a black and white composition book that I keep tucked away in one of my bedroom shelves.

"What Have I Learned?" A Monologue

I have learned that taking risk is essential, that I need to believe in my honest intentions, and that I must follow through on my big dreams.

Regardless of what comes, of who I alienate and of how the shit is thrown my way, I must take risk in order to succeed at existing as a human being and at living as an artist. I must believe in my honest intentions.

I do not purposefully mean to hurt you, or anyone else for that matter.
Yes, I have hurt others in the past and, yes, I will more than likely hurt many more people in the future, but it was mere circumstance that led to my actions.

(In other words, if I slept with your boyfriend, know it was not premeditated. It was only two adults making one, albeit momentary, decision. Know that the resulting fallout was difficult to navigate through, for us all.)
((Oh, also, if I become attracted to your partner as she grooves, deep and guttural, by my side on a wooden dance floor ("Ai!"), know that this too is not premeditated.))

It's only life. And, life hurts!!!
The rubbing against one another and the searing friction that ensues.
The spontaneous combustion of magnetic forces pushing apart and pulling back together, pushing apart and pulling back together, pushing, pulling, pushing, pulling, pushing...

Whew!! It's work. It's hard. And it hurts.

But, fuck, if I am not feeling it, then I am not living it.
And, if I am not living it, then I am not here.
And, if I am not here, then I am not (well, I haven't quite figured out this part yet).
I endure the pain so that I can feel the
lovehopejoylongingwishingdesiringfavoringflavoring
You I want to feel You
Your name on the tongue
Your being in this world
Your push to my shove
You.

Does tasting another really have to be so goddess-damned painful?
Can we ever let our defenses down, but for one moment in time, and allow the soft vulnerability to just simply flow?

No.
So we grab tight, to "The One," to those few, with who was can let our belt buckles out a bit, with who we can belch maniacally, and with who our bodies feel a little bit lighter whenever we are around.

But, why? Why can't I just let myself hang, and be held up by, by, by you? By a complete stranger? Why must I feel the need to push out a persona? To be
coolfunnysmarthipcrazylocovato...

Yo no se hombre.

Yeah, yo no se.
I dunno.
Instead, I breathe in and I try to re-member.
I try to Re-connect the invisible thread
And that is the big dream
This is the grand fantasy.

Little baby steps will get me there (here)
Listening, believing,
Deeper listening, sensing,
Still listening, embodying.

We are tied together
bound
like a little red bow
around your finger.
"Re-member," your finger winks at you,
"Remember..."










(this is my final grad school eval.
boo yah!!!!)

On Sex, Take II

the spark

found in another's big, deep eyes.
there lay
an unspoken agreement
of what could possibly be,
of moments in time to come,
or of what once existed and took place,
in some other realm,
on some other plane,
somewhere.

it is the succulent lips,
the prickly, dragon fruit of thailand,
where you feel yourself drawn
and desiring to seek out with your
own
small,
pink
pucker.

a hint of possibility
it brews
in your stomach.
your harbored
animus reawakened
mewling
like a cat in heat
as it prowls
back and forth
behind
the glass, window pane
crying
for just
one
more
last
look
at whatever brought you here, to this place of
absolute
need.

a need to know

what he tastes like.

salty?
as though he has just emerged from a refreshing dip in the ocean?
or cold?
like a flapping goldfish on a hardwood coffee table where an aquarium home resides? maybe, his mouth is warm, like a southern gulf coast where there is no reprieve to be found from a summer sun's rays?


it is a need to decipher

smell.

is she fruity in the hollow of her neck?
or, is she musky in all the glory of her birthday suit?
are her pheromones compatible with your own?
do you still want to kiss that sensual opening even after having wallowed in the stank of a stale mouth?







intimacy shared
innocence lost
the start of relationships
and the end of friendships.

where do we begin?
and with who?
do we only speak of those whose bodies and orifices we came to know quite well?
or, do we also mention the fleeting dreams,
as well as the unsavory realities?

do we only write of sweet kisses?
or, shall i briefly touch upon lustful embraces?
do i only speak of passion?
what of the need to use,
and be used, in order to fulfill short-term satisfaction?
how do we quantify and qualify these must-have sexual, life experiences?





a greek god sauntered in through my bedroom door.
at the time, i was living near frat row, on prospect street in berkeley,
california. nearly forty-eight hours later, he walked out, leaving me only tom robbins' "a roadside attraction" and the memory of an opportunity seized.

he was 6'4, muscular yet thin. with fair features and attributes, he was a far cry from the mirror image i had, for so long, been attracted to (dark and brooding). blond, closely shaven hair. piercing eyes with irises of a soft azul that conveyed quiet power. he was a stoic, old soul, traveling the american countryside in search of learning what his ivy-league experience could never teach him.

in the split second it took for me to welcome him in to my quaint abode, he held my breath in the palm of his long, outstretched hand. spiraling energy coursed through my veins, corkscrewing, and bringing to life an aged, and perfectly fermented, fine merlot.

my mouth, dry. my eager anticipation, on fire. his soothing voice, slow as honey.
he poured his liquid tongue all over my writhing body.

he offered enormous passion, - for life, love, and sex. it was unequal to anything i had been privy of before. he knew woman's wants, pleasures, and form, like so few men care to, or do, know.

despite all of my pent-up emotion,
regardless of my puritanical upbringing,
i denied the subliminal messaging.
instead,
i reveled
in complete
abandonment.
i physically gave all that i had
knowing
full well
that all i would be left with would be the occasional, email update,
forever.
still, i made no attachments to those blissful, momentary meetings
of saliva
and body fluid.
when another king of the renaissance arrives, extending an open invitation,
to join his armed band of nomads, i will gratefully accept.
i will luxuriate
in the knowledge
that it was zeus who led me here
to this momentary blink of the mythological eye
of time and space.

devan
wes
kale tej
it is the feel of their names on my tongue,
it is the way that my teeth come together with every spoken syllable.
rachel ivory omar leo
a diversity of shapes, sizes, colors, and beliefs.
christain
keenzia kevin keith
mark mario tim and teak.

small waists that fit within the crook of just one arm
broad backs, and large pectoral muscles cupped in greedy hands
soft, supple breasts
legs and arms entwined.

bodies mold into indistinguishable heaps
listening ears
grasping toes
tickling tongues

jamie, jason, jay, and jimmy
matt with one 't'
andy, anthony, and albert
dominic, david, and dee.

human beings desperately trying to reclaim
wholeness
attempting to remember
a beginning
the first nine months of development
spent in utero
on this planet earth.

sudhu

line.

she was a drop dead gorgeous dane. as we perused the lengths of a south sydney beach, the heads of young, pop culture attuned men, and women, turned. she was a booby blonde. a pin-up without a poster. western man's masturbation embodied.
and she wanted me, this petite voluptuous brunette woman.

she would purrrrr to me to
"think of me" as i drifted off
into a southern hemisphere slumber.
she wished aloud to sleep on her hostel cot snuggled up to my female form, instead of alone, and aching.

when we first met, i made a bet with myself. "i bet she is here with a staunch, over-protective boyfriend," i said in my head. but he never materialized and instead, it was an unimposing i who accompanied her to an italian dinner of pasta, bread, and salad, and who shared a bottle of vodka over laughs and conversation of a high school, best friend-turned lover, - a sultry, southe american who had returned home only to be missed by this nordic queen.

as the clear intoxicant emptied itseld of its previous container, into the hears and souls of these two lonely travelers, i felt my libido punding out a rhythmic tempo rap tap tap rap tap tap rap rap rap.

we walked back along a cliff lined shore, towards our temporary shelter on the hill. it was only natural that we stopped along a boulder strewn path and made our way onto the ground, and on to the top
of one another.