Open Diary: Day One

September 12, 2010 at 10:19 pm (Uncategorized) (, , )

This piece is more than just a way to talk to Scin while I am out of town. It is a way to explore a particular form of writing that is memoir-like in style, mixing fact with literary elements. I am enjoying playing with this medium and hope you like it as well. 

It is 9-11 and that is not lost on me. It never is this time of year. But, the Gulf of Mexico is calm, people are few, and having a quiet beach to roam moves my mind to other things. 

I think of you. I think about the fact that we began this journey together nearly a year ago. And, I wish you were here. After all the months of short visits, long leavings, and the past couple of months finally in the same place, any leaving is hard. It seems wrong in some way to be anywhere trying to relax and enjoy things without you. It is what it is, however; and mom is clearly glad to be here. So, the mission of the trip is being met. Still, I miss you.

Last year while I was here, I wrote about learning to float. Really, I wrote about trust. This year, my mind is on all the many forms of trust.

I think of the trust between us. It still amazes me how I trust you so—trust you with my feelings; my affections; my deepest thoughts, fears, dreams, secrets. I trust you with my body in ways I have no other. I trust you with my life. I have trusted few. None so deeply as you. It takes a lot for me to trust, as you know. I spent my life trusting only myself, my instincts, my own learning and experience, my own abilities to cope and problem-solve, and a few carefully chosen, close people. I had to learn, by experience, to trust people again. This is how we all learn. I had to learn, by experience, to trust God. As you know, that trust grows, in many ways, each day. I know how hard trust is for you as well. The trust you bring me, I know, is not a thing you give easily. It is a gift. I cherish it. I recognize the largeness of it. And, I respect it.

Looking out at the vastness is that is the Gulf, it is natural for the mind to turn toward the smallness of our daily lives. The blessings we receive each day come to mind almost as a consolation of the difficult things—a kind of reminder that, even in the uncertainty, there is much that is given. Much that is good. Much that is better than good. I watch the sea after the sun has gone down. The water moves in shades of blackish-purple, grayish-pink, and deep indigo. A crescent moon hangs low and shimmers silver on the darkening water. 

As we have talked of faith, of the forces that shake it, the events and forces that revive and increase it, I think of the things we are taught. Our battle, we are told, is not with governments, principalities or people; it is with darker, unenlightened forces. I watch the changing water and ponder these things. We are like the water. We, too, can absorb and reflect both the light and the dark. These simply manifest differently in our solid bodies than they do in the water. In the water, the light is so clear, as is the lack of it as the sun goes down—clear, deepening blackness. Like the normal human doubt we feel when we are walking on shaking ground. We do not fully trust the ground to remain firm. At times doubt is good. It keeps us from becoming too comfortable or careless. But, if we are not careful, doubt can overwhelm us and become a state of being—a state of pessimism and lack of belief.

The things with which we struggle now, the uncertainty, the things we cannot see but which work on us, are like the sun behind passing clouds. They are temporary darkenings that seek to increase our normal doubt and uneasiness. Circumstances are simply the darkness trying to move us into the blackness where we cannot clearly see all the evidence that we are being cared for, that our needs are met, and that we live in a benevolent universe that responds to us. The difficult times are, indeed, the dark night removing the evidence of light from the water. But, the sun does rise. The light does return. And, we can carry the memory of the light within us, shine it outwards until it begins to shine as real as the sun. We can hold a torch into the darkness.

That light comes from the things we know. That we have been given much. That even in the difficult times, there is evidence every day of all we have been given. I look upon the moving water and know that this vastness teaches me much about the movement of the light and the darkness. I know that I need to continue to focus on what I can see, on all of the things that evidence I am being cared for—perhaps learning new lessons in preparation for something else—but being cared for nonetheless. I need to remember that there are things that are mine to do: that trying to be the best person I can be, trying to be responsible and accountable for my own thoughts, words and deeds, and seeking to do the next right thing, are mine. The rest is in hands larger and more capable than mine. It always has been. It is mine to remember that. In that, normative doubt and fear cannot become the lack of faith that brings about a deep undoing.

I am going in now. I will attempt to sleep. I will miss you as I have throughout this day. I will talk to you before we both retire in different beds, in different towns not unlike we did before. When we talk, I will remind you of my love for you, my trust in you and in us, and my trust that we are being cared for, that all will be well. I cannot help but think of all the ways that our journey together has already served to increase my overall faith. I am aware that as I grow in my own sense of self, I grow in my love for you and for us. There may be much I do not know. There may be much that is so uncertain the possible outcomes are out of the range of my sight. But, I do know this. I know from experience that when I am on the right path, obstacles are removed, things beyond my control are resolved, and the things I need come to pass—usually not in the form I envisioned, but they do come. We are part of all that comes to pass. We were brought together in a way that deserves consideration. I do know that this path is not only a good one, but the right one. And, I know there is no one I want to walk it with me but you.

In the morning, the sun will return. The water will be so clear, again, that I can see my feet pressing gently into the soft sandy floor. So, clearly that I can see the way in front of me.

NOTE:  This work is published here as proprietary and may not be reproduced, distributed, sold, or otherwise utilized outside the posting on this site without the express permission of the author; these works are the sole property of the author writing as Androgynonamous or DreadPirateRobert.

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Thoughts On Coming to Own My Butch Cock: Part II…Walking Between Worlds

August 24, 2010 at 2:09 am (Walking Between Worlds) (, , , )

In my first installment on this topic, back in March, I wrote about two aspects of the use of a synthetic cock, and my ownership of it as a part of myself, that I believe are essential. Primary of these two concepts is the fact that the activity of penetrating my partner in such a way is not male emulation as it is often viewed by those who frown upon the idea and/or do not understand it. It is, however, an inherent part of and expression of the aspects of my nature [and personhood] that the gender-binary language would label as masculine or male-identified. It is an extension, in a very real way, of my shaft-driven, sexually aggressive, and—for lack of a better description—masculinized clitoris. I have discussed, in other offerings here, the fact that my genitalia have never been responsive in the ways typical to most females, and that, prior to finding a partner who understood me and my body, I thought there was simply something wrong with me because things that so clearly aroused and satisfied other females either annoyed me or served only as arousal stimulus. My clitoris responds more like a dick. And, my cock has become, as I said, a very real extension of the smaller cock-like organ that is my clitoris. This leads to the other aspect of coming to own my cock that I discussed in the first blog on this issue—the fact that, from the beginning, there was a sensation of it being, somehow, part of me physically, mentally, and emotionally. In that piece, I wrote:

… there was only the feel of her legs at my sides, her heels pressing my buttocks, the sight of this life-like cock moving inside her.  There was only this embrace. The feel of the silicone balls against my clitoris. The sound of her responsiveness: her breath at my neck; her breast beneath my tongue.  The explosion of freedom between us.  The wonder of her wrapped in both my arms, tightly. It was as if I began to grow some kind of synthetic nerve endings and became attached to the thing—this appendage both me and not me, part of me and not part of me.  This thing we share is not male emulation…It is simply one of many ways to penetrate her, to join with her, to be in communion together.  It is the loving—and exuberant—expression of a deep desire to please her, to enjoy her, to be as close to her as possible.  And, it is one of many ways to express my very real need to be both inside her and outside of her, to be free to touch her everywhere in every way I can.  It is my butch, baby boi cock.  And, I like it. I like what it does for me and for her. It is mine.  Part of myself.  Part of my identity with her, with us.  It is mine and I own it…and so does she.  It is part of who I am and always have been—finally finding freedom.  It is a deep embrace, indeed.  Not only of her, but of myself as well.  And, it is good.

There has been an evolution of this experience that, several years ago—and even several months ago—I would have scoffed at as even being a physical possibility. In the past in fact, when I heard or read others say it was possible, I had sworn they were full of shit, that it was not neuro-physically possible. For some time now, I have known that is not only possible, but it happens on a regular basis. This evolution is the growing ability to come through my cock, so to speak, without there having to be a particularly direct stimulation against my clitoris. From the start, I was able to come due to the stimulation of my clitoris by the cock itself. And, I was able to do so quite vigorously and satisfactorily.

In fairly short order, however, I found myself coming when the position of my body as I penetrated Scin did not provide a direct stimulation of my smaller, masculinized organ. The first time this happened, I was pleasantly stunned and exceedingly happy about it. Scin was thrilled. We immediately set about seeing if we could make it happen again. It was a long night. And, it did, indeed, happen again. I was, though, surprised…and, I must admit, more than a bit confused. In many ways, it did not make rational sense. In the literal sense, the synthetic cock is not sensual or sentient—it does not feel, does not experience the neurological underpinnings of mentality or emotion, nor is it cellular in its connection to me. Yet, it was.  

Being a friend of the scientific method, I felt we should explore this phenomenon in order that I might get a better sense of exactly what was happening and how it was happening. Scin was happy to help. We tried all sorts of pleasantly stimulating and satisfying positions and activities. We were able to achieve truly enjoyable orgasms, together, in all manner of positions during which there was little stimulation of my actual genitals. Blow jobs were no longer simply arousal foreplay. We found that hand jobs worked as well. My ability to come with my cock has become a regular event and occurs in all manner of sexual activity—as if it is, physically and mentally, a part of me.

What is even more significant is that this ability immediately and effortlessly translated to my soft pack as well. Early in our relationship, the soft pack was a wonderful tool for foreplay. I would pack for fun and Scin would rub my crotch, stoke me,  and play with me in an array of teasing and taunting situations. It was marvelously naughty and exciting. After I began to come when we were fucking with my cock, we discovered—much to our mutual joy—that I could come with the soft pack when she sucked me off or engaged in a vigorous hand job. Because Scin likes, very much, to watch me engage in all kinds of auto-stimulation, we have recently discovered that I can come jerking off with either of them. There are those who would say that it is all in my head, that it is a mental experience only. And, they are wrong. Just as I was wrong before I experienced it. I have a simple way of describing the experience.

It is very much an extension of my own genitalia as well as my overall sensual experience. Sensuality is physical, emotional, mental and—for some of us—in a way, spiritual. It is vibratory. It is excitatory. It is of the physical body, and thus, tactile, visual, auditory and feeling-based. It is organic. The relationship between me and this synthetic organ is a connection that is all things sensual in nature. It is vibratory as the action of my cock inside of Scin moves down the shaft and into me. It is visual as I watch it move in and out of her, and see the effects it produces within her. It is auditory as I hear the sounds we make together—the sounds of our fucking, our sliding and moving into one another, the expressions of arousal and the inspirations and expirations of satisfaction. It is fully tactile as we pull and push into each other, grasp at each other, increase pressure, penetration and contact in an effort to be closer and closer still. It is as physical as physical can be—the sensations, the arousal, the engorgement of blood, make my own woman-dick larger and harder.  It is exciting in the same ways that her hand or her mouth on my boi-clit is exciting. It is all the same. Yet, it is different. It is different in the way that the orgasm I have when she sucks me off on my own clit is different from a hand job. Yet neither is more or less physical or real than the other. Coming with my cock is as real as any other body-oriented way of coming. It is feeling-based. It is emotional. It is mental and physical. It is as I described it from the beginning:

…this appendage both me and not me, part of me and not part of me… her legs at my sides, her heels pressing my buttocks, the sight of this life-like cock moving inside her.  There was only this embrace… It is the loving—and exuberant—expression of a deep desire to please her, to enjoy her, to be as close to her as possible.  It is part of who I am and always have been—finally finding freedom.

NOTE:  This work is published here as proprietary and may not be reproduced, distributed, sold, or otherwise utilized outside the posting on this site without the express permission of the author; these works are the sole property of the author writing as Androgynonamous or DreadPirateRobert.


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Random Thoughts On Humanness: Hump Day

July 28, 2010 at 11:51 pm (Hump Day: Mid-week Musings) (, , , )

So, it is Wednesday again. And, there have been some things to ponder in the goings on of late. For example, Scin and I both have strong feelings about finding a place of worship with which we are comfortable and in which we can be ourselves…appropriately, of course. So, we tried a local church when she and her son were down in February and we went back again once we got her basically moved into the new house.

Now, this place [nameless as we don’t know who reads me…] describes itself as open and affirming. And, indeed, they are that. However, our experiences with them have raised within me the following question: is there a point at which acceptance becomes a form of discrimination? And, then, if there is a place in interactive exchange where acceptance becomes a brand of discrimination, where is that point; what defines that line in the sand of interaction? I should, perhaps, explain.

The church has a clear open and affirming stance and everyone is highly supportive of that. They reach out almost aggressively–which, itself, is uncomfortable. We were showered with acceptance. We were invited here and there and met with introductions to the point of feeling as if we were the long-lost survivors of a ship wreck, suddenly rescued and were being seen in public for the first time. I began to feel like an oddity. This feeling was increased by the fact that they are so affirming that there is a LGBT group within the church that holds social events that are also meetings for planning this, that and the other thing. In addition, time is set aside for “studying” what it is to be same-sex oriented, how that relates to being a child of God, and/or how it impacts our lives to be Gay or Lesbian. Topics and the gatherings themselves are all about being queer. This would not be so bad except that these events are essentially segregated from other church events. It is very much as if we and the acceptance of our ilk represent some kind of project. It is as if we are special in some odd way that is not so good. I was waiting for them to start passing out special hats and ID bracelets. Add to this the almost boundaryless way of greeting and inviting you in and it begins to feel very strange.

Scin and I gave it our best effort at church and at the LGBT cook out thingy. And, we even went to the minor league baseball game with the group. However, we came away from all these events feeling uncomfortable. We talked about feeling like a project. We talked about the almost needy and desperate lack of boundaries these people displayed as they reached out to bring us into the fold. We discussed being recruited, how it feels like they are trying to beef up the congregate and reaching out to the queers might be a good way to keep the doors open. We talked about not wanting everything to be about being gay. We talked about how what we want is to be seen as fellow humans, as people who just happen to be lesbians. We processed feeling like we are special and not in a good way when everything is about our sexual orientation. All of this set me thinking about layers of discrimination. And, it set me thinking about the possibility that we were not the only ones being sold short or minimized by that level of so-called acceptance.

I wonder. Do we not minimize and distort the range of human diversity and individuality as well when we single out a group with such acceptance that we segregate them from the greater community? Is not that level of acceptance as harmful as identifying that group as somehow wrong or unnatural or evil…or otherwise less than others? And, do we not harm any hope of true human equality if we elevate the minority at the segregation of the majority? If any group accepts us by focusing on and agrandizing our sexual orientation, does that not minimize our overall human commonalities and individuality as people? My gut feeling is that the answer to all of these question is a resounding “yes.”

I may be wrong-headed here, but I believe that there is a point where claiming acceptance of a group only serves to further separate them from the “family of things” [as Mary Oliver would say]. I cannot speak for others, but I can say what I have strived for and desire as a person of same-sex orientation. What I want is to be seen as a fellow human being on the path of being an actualized human being and doing so in the greater community of other human beings. My sexuality is not the only aspect of who I am; it does not define me any more than having green eyes or being right-handed defines me. It is a biological fact of my personhood the same way as those other aspects of self. It is not all that I am. To single out that aspect of my existence is to lessen all the others. It also, sadly, lessens my heterosexual fellow humans; it reduces them to being merely heterosexuals as I am reduced to being a lesbian. This a natural outcome, however, of the human tendency to focus on differences rather than commonalities.

It is, actually, part of our biological preparedness for survival to discriminate, to distinguish differences, and to notice when things are possibly amiss. Biologically speaking, it is part of the hard-wired visual, olfactory and auditory survival instincts we were given to identify things in the environment such as resources and threats. It is also a facet of the serotonergically linked process of herding. It is a necessary set of abilities. However, as we have evolved as a species, the need for this ability has changed. Intellectually, and psychologically, we have been slow to adapt to the changes. We do not discriminate between safe nuts and berries anymore; we discriminate between types of people.

For me, the task of equality for all humans is about creating opportunities for all of us to learn more about the process of being human, of becoming people, and all the many ways that is, always, both a universal and individual process. And, how wonderful that is. There is more in our experiences as humans learning to be people that is common, and bonds us as such, than there is difference. How truly miraculous it would be if we could advance ourselves a little bit toward recognition of this.  I do not want to be seen as special in some way that ultimately makes me feel freakish. I would like to be part of a community of people who see me as they would see themselves, not as a person who is lesbian. I would like to be seen as a person with many facets, qualities, strengths and limitations, gifts and likes and dislikes. Is that not what it is to be a child of God? I don’t know. Perhaps I am mistaken.

Regardless, these are the things I have been thinking about. Maybe I have more questions than I do answers. So, next Sunday, we will go some place different. I know the right place is out there and I feel sure we will find it. At the very least, we know what we don’t want and that is half the discernment process. We are looking for common ground, not special ground. 

NOTE:  This work is published here as proprietary and may not be reproduced, distributed, sold, or otherwise utilized outside the posting on this site without the express permission of the author; these works are the sole property of the author writing as Androgynonamous or DreadPirateRobert.

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Freshly Cut Grass and Sawdust

June 19, 2010 at 9:44 pm (Uncategorized) ()

It appears that our friend G [Can I Help You, Sir] has started something…and my wife-to-be [Scintillectual] and her BFF [Femme Fairy Godmother] picked up the idea and threw their two cents into the fountain. So, I figured I might as well do the same. There is nothing like a good wishing well. So, thanks to G, I have entered into the “things I love” category. I have kept a journal for years and most of the pages are filled with gratitude lists. I’ve not kept it up well lately because I have not felt much like writing about anything–not my norm–and I’ve been a bit pre-occupied. But, it is something I do in my head throughout the day. It makes me feel good and is part of my daily dialogue with the universe and myself. So, I thought it might be fun and helpful to do it here once in a while.  And, the first thing on this list is a big thanks to G for swatting us all into this direction.  Who knows what treasures we will find.

Things I love:
The smell of freshly cut grass; really icy sweet tea after cutting the grass. All sorts of jazz. Laughing. The smell of lumber and sawdust; cheeses of all sorts [except the ones with mold because they will make me anaphylactic]; really good steak; the highland and uillean bag pipes. While we are on the subject: I love my kilts [I have two] and the way a sporan sways when I am walking–there is something about the way a kilts lays, the pleats in the back  and the sway of a sporan that make you stand straighter, walk taller, and feel like you are the hottest, manliest boi for miles.

Good food eaten in a nice restaurant with a good atmosphere and good music. Time spent with my friends–sometimes there is nothing better. Christmas mornings and Dad’s french toast. Folk and roots music. The way Scin smiles and the deep light in her eyes. Working with wood in any way, for any reason. Working out. Watching the birds at their feeders. The smell of rain. Gently pressing my cheek into Scin’s cunt, savoring her, then quenching myself in her welcoming. Long, hard thunderstorms. Really well written prose. Scin and I tucking her son in at night.

Scin’s cooking. Cherry or peach cobbler. Playing around with my guitar. Hanging out with my brother. Trying to become a better photographer. Drawing. Working in the gardens. Getting to see my extended family once in a while. Gem mining. The sound of Scin’s laughter–well, really the sound of her voice, period. Board games. Irises. My dog; I love my dog. I love my parents and my brother. Sleeping with Scin: feeling her next to me, the sound of her breathing and the feel of her breast in my hand as I fall asleep. Each day a new beginning–the promise of growth, being surprised, and things at which to marvel.
And, I love the ability to be able to do this. To stop and be with myself and the good things that inhabit my life. The ability to be grateful. And, chocolate covered peanuts.

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Hey Daddy: Walking Between Worlds

May 25, 2010 at 12:07 am (Walking Between Worlds) (, , , , )

As relationships grow and evolve, it is fairly normal [and often healthy] for there to be moments of discussion about the relationship—the need arises to reflect, to process, to seek greater understanding and closeness. Recently, Scin and I had one such conversation. It is a discussion we have revisited because it is an important one. The topic reflects significant foundational aspects of the connection between us, the love we share, our respect for and understanding of each other, and some fundamental underpinnings in our sexual interactions. There had been an interaction developing in our sex life in small waves and ripples which became one giant wave in one particular evening. What occurred between us was an exchange that many people would refer to as Daddy–Little Girl role playing.

Except, it isn’t really. This, in fact, was the point of the discussion.  We had observed that what was occurring between us was not the classic Little Girl–Daddy exchange we read about all over the blogsphere. We knew what it was not. We needed a better understanding of what it was. Especially since, for both of us, it was—and is—highly erotic and…well…hot.

And, especially, since we had discussed and were clear about my discomfort with many of the exchanges we read about so often. I have always been uncomfortable with anything that smacks of age play or that even comes near a mimicry of pedophilic power-over and sublimation.  Much of my discomfort comes out of my experiences in the fifteen years I spent as a therapist treating the people no one else wanted to treat—the indigent, broken beyond broken, forgotten of our society. Another factor is the nebulous, not fully formed memories from my own childhood. I do not judge others or judge what works for them; but, I respect my own comfort zones as much as I respect the space and predilections of others. So does Scin. Thus, when things like “you are such a good girl” or, “daddy is so pleased with you…” began to fall out of my mouth and produced the responses both of us experienced, it was something we felt we should talk about and explore.  There are a few dynamics we discovered as we talked.

Firstly, it is important to put the exchange in its proper context: that being, there is no context really. What happens in both our verbal exchange and our sexual posturing is not role playing. There is no creation of a scene. There is no adoption of a particular persona for the sake of sex play. It is an organic expression of our personalities and the intimacies of our relationship that seem to simply occur between us—naturally, without any real forethought or confabulation. The sexual dynamic seems also to be a kind of extension of our natural playfulness—as in: to be full of play; pleasantly humorous or jesting. We play. We jest. She calls me “baby boi.”  I call her “baby girl.” These are terms of endearment that fit our personalities and identities. So, that said, there is a particular factor that has significant impact on our sexual expression. 

The primary factor is that I am finally in a place where my two-spiritedness is not only understood but fully accepted. I have never felt quite like a girl. Never. I was never comfortable around other girls. I understood them not at all. They made me nervous and I never felt like one of them. I understood boys. I felt at home with them. And, once out of sight of my mother, I would take off my shirt, hang it out of my back pocket and run around playing with the guys. I preferred them to girls—except I liked to look at girls. A lot. In some strange way, I always felt as if I was a boy, but that I wasn’t grown up yet. I knew there were differences between myself and boys. I knew I had parts like other girls. But in some place in my mind, it felt like I just had not finished growing yet. I was dismayed and nearly destroyed when I started having periods. I felt as if something were dreadfully wrong—and it was my fault somehow; I had in some way failed to make a proper decision to develop as a boy; I had failed to get it right. As if there were a choice. I am, by traditional social standards, a woman with intense male energy. I greet the world and people in it with a sort of masculine spiritual demeanor. People unconsciously respond to me as if I am male. I confuse straight women. They respond to me as they would a male and it throws them off. Men respond to me as one of the guys. And, yet… 

I am also possessive of traits that are seen as traditionally feminine. I am highly nurturing, gentle in general, fairly compassionate—and passionate, about a lot of things—and capable of a great loving kindness. But, I am prone to be aggressively protective. I am also very practical, linear, rational and mechanically inclined. When I was tested, I was almost equilaterally right-to-left brain oriented. So, what do you get when you put all of this into a very androgynous body packed full of male energy? You get a daddy. 

And, Scin is very much a woman who responds to this kind of male presence. She is, in many ways, a daddy’s girl—a fully grown woman who, beneath all her self-assuredness and independence, wants to be cared for, fawned over a little, and wants to please and be accepted. The girl in her loves to laugh, play, engage in silliness, dance and sing. She is also very much a grown woman. She is filled with a sexuality that is confident, powerful, sensual and unselfconscious. She is mature, competent, professional, and a wonderful mother to her son. She has a strong sense of self and is kind and nurturing. She is also strong-minded, willful at times, and is used to taking care of things—used to having to compensate for not getting the kind of caring, nurturing acceptance and support she needed. And, it is not easy for her to be submissive. It never has been. She is a marvelous blending of aspects. These qualities create the main factor that responds so strongly to the daddy traits she sees in me.

In all of this, she and I both are lesbian to highest degree. We express a butch–femme dynamic not because of some philosophy, but because it is simply who we are. It is the blending of energies in me that she has always responded to—that and the fact that I accept them in myself, embrace them, and have learned to live in and enjoy my female body.  For me, the eroticism does not come from a place of desiring a little girl and wanting to sexualize her. Rather, it is something much more powerful and significant. I do not see her as a girl. I see, all at once, all the aspects of her girl-like self manifested in the personhood of this sexually powerful woman. In many women, the little girl is hard to find; she is long gone, murdered by her experiences. Scin wears both her girlhood and her womanhood as she does all things: out loud and proud. It is hot indeed. And, I say to her: show daddy what a big girl you have become.

And she shows me. It is everything good and pure and naughty and nasty. It is edgy and profoundly intimate. And, it is so largely because there is no assumption of false roles. We are simply being who we actually are. Relating to each other as equals who understand and accept each other.  There is something highly erotic about being fully seen and understood. There is something intensely sensual about being loved. That bareness is stimulating indeed. But, there is more.

There is trust. The trust it requires for her to feel a desire to give herself over to me, to release all control and allow me complete access to her, is indeed a powerful force. That she can be so vulnerable—something she does not do easily—and know she is completely safe is highly erotic for her. And, for me. For me, it is the blending of all these attributes that is so sexually charged—the innocence of trust, the child-like openness to be cared for, to be loved, in perfect balance with a mature, confident sexuality. See, this is a big part of it. The safety in the vulnerability. The act of choosing to be fully open and present with your lover, your mate. She knows I will never harm her, that I will nurture her and lift her up even as I penetrate and explore her. Likewise, I know I am fully safe with her. The old no-fly zones are gone. This mutuality of trust and openness is at the core of the submissiveness and dominance that moves within our sexuality. It is not role playing. It is not contrived. It is fluid. 

We move easily and effortlessly between the relinquishing of control and the expression of it. In either case, it is just that—it is an expression of control rather than a use of it. It is both instinctive and conscious. We do this from a place of deep and abiding love for each other. Yet, the energy, the dynamic itself, does not change. Mine is still a highly masculine energy that submits to her when she calls me “boi” and tells me what she wants. She is still the same woman, girlish in all the best ways, who opens her legs and herself to me when I ask her to do so. What occurs between us is not a role playing of any kind. No matter who is doing what to whom, it is an expression of energies, a fluid and organic movement of trust, desire and love, into sexual acts of endearment. When I call her baby girl, she answers because she knows it is one way I express my love and acceptance of her. And, when she says “hey daddy,” I answer not because it is play time, but because it is part of who I am. 

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The Woman I Love: Through My Eyes

May 18, 2010 at 11:54 pm (Through My Eyes) (, , )

She is my baby girl:
She delights in small, simple things. Cuttings of blue hydrangeas centered on the table. The playful antics and loving cuddles of her cat, Simon. Any opportunity to freely, and with girlish joy, become lost in spontaneous dance in the kitchen, the hallway, wherever the music moves her.

There is a child-like excitement to her laughter; it is sincere, uninhibited, and fills the air around her like sunshine in the park. She is ticklish in certain places and giggles shyly when I find them. She falls asleep with the ease of a newborn. She breathes deeply the peaceful sleep of a child. Watching her sleep is one of the most tender things I know and is the best remedy for my own sleeplessness. Her skin is as smooth as the day she was born, like soft satin flesh everywhere I touch her. There is a wonderfully wicked smile that crosses her full lips when she is up to something and the game is afoot; that smile makes me weak in the knees. And the pout she flashes me when she doesn’t get her way—or thinks she won’t—runs through me like liquid fire. She is my baby girl. And, when Daddy is home, she is denied nothing. 

She is my best friend:
From the day we met, almost 27 years ago, there was a bond between us that seemed to have always been there, like the favorite place you sneaked off to as a kid and only half remembered until you stumbled on it years later. I have always been able to tell her anything. Throughout my life, there have been few people I have trusted, but I have trusted her with things I have told no other—she remembers even the old things and they are still between us. She was, for years, the only person I felt safe enough with to fall asleep first, to cry if I needed to, or to laugh and play in silly, child-like ways. I hold nothing back from her and never have. She was the only person I would watch The Wizard of Oz with; otherwise, I watched it alone—this is because she is the only person I would allow to see me cry when Judy Garland sings Over the Rainbow.

I can laugh with her about anything—even things that hurt. Even when I feel broken by some thrashing from the world, we find a way to laugh. And, I am healed. When I chased her around the house like a teenager in heat and caused her to break her toe, she never once blamed me. She even laughed and tried not to cry. She plays in the snow or throws ball with me and her son. She indulges our boyish games and giggles like the good sport she is.

Through her deep brown eyes, she sees me. And, always has. Her understanding of me is quiet, unintrusive and gentle, like my reflection in the mirror of a softly lighted room. She accepts me as if she is receiving something both commonplace and unexpectedly given just to her, like moon light falling through the bedroom window. She shows herself to me and knows I will keep her close and watch over her. She holds my secrets and my dreams like keepsakes hidden in a wooden box. And even though she knows how well I can handle myself, how strong I really am, she protects me as if I were a baby cub. She is my oldest and dearest friend. I am her sweet baby boi and woe to anyone who tries to hurt me. 

She is my lover:
She walks with the slightest sway in her hips—it is subtle, like the grown up remnants of a cheerleader’s trained and youthful strut. I purposefully walk just behind her so I can watch her and admire the strength of her legs, her ass. She pretends not to notice so that I can feel as if I am stealing glances, but I know she knows.  She has the breasts of a teenager; her nipples rise firmly at the touch of my tongue. I find myself thinking of this when she is talking and become aware I am staring. She feigns annoyance, points to her face and reminds me, “I’m talking up here, honey.” She smiles to herself when she thinks I am not looking. She bares herself to me completely and I am made one with her through her giving and my receiving. She touches me with an honesty I have never known with anyone but her—her touch gently breaks me open to her like Spring breaks the earth and brings forth bright blooming things.

Her lips are like strawberries, full and firm and sweetly soft. Kissing her is such an expression of intimacy and affection that it takes my breath and returns it to me kindly. I know and attend to every sound of her arousal, every change in her breathing. We breathe each other. The connection between us is a live wire crackling on the ground around us. Her mouth parts and I am joined with her. Her legs open and the depth of her is revealed to me. She wraps her legs around me hard and tight and I am made whole. Her hands reach for me, grasp at me; her nails pierce my skin and I am brought forth into her. She comes in waves like an ocean of ecstatic love and I am cleansed. She takes me into her mouth as if I am a gift—her head moves up and down on my boi-clit and I am made large and strong and complete. I am at her mercy. And merciful she is. She is relentless in her giving. She moans and gasps at my arousal, at my hand pressing the back of her head, my fingers pulling at her hair. Strings of near obscenities and romantic ramblings fall from my mouth like a storm. I come into her and she absorbs me gladly. In all we do, there is a joining of more than bodies. This is not simply loving recreation; it is re-creation. We are raised up, burned to ashes, and born again. 

She is my baby girl. I am her butch daddy. And, I deny her nothing. She is my best friend and, as such, she shows myself to me. She reveals herself to me. She is my lover. I am her baby boi. And, she denies me nothing. She is the woman I love.    

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Walking Between Worlds

May 9, 2010 at 10:43 am (Walking Between Worlds) (, , )

Moments in the Story of Us

“When love awakens in your life, in the night of your heart, it is like the dawn breaking within you. Where before there was anonymity, now there is intimacy; where before there was fear, now there is courage; where before in your life there was awkwardness, now there is a rhythm of grace and gracefulness; where before you used to be jagged, now you are elegant and in rhythm with your self.”                    John O’Donohue, Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom 

There is a rhythm to everything in the universe. Atoms. Molecules. Days. Seasons. People. Relationships. All things spinning and vibrating in the rhythmic connections that become ourselves, the world around us, the world within us—and the worlds we create together. Now and then, if we are lucky, we find a person whose rhythms and ways of being complement our own. If we are really lucky, our ways of being and moving in the world meet and awaken something deep within us: a place of knowing both our self and the other so intimately that it is like some ancient recognition only half remembered. It is as if we look into the mirror of the other and see our inner self more clearly while, at the same time, fully seeing and accepting that person as well. There is recognition and understanding. There is grace. There is belonging and fullness. The love that grows in this place is almost unspeakable.

It is in this kind of connection that we create the relationship of the three: the individual self; the individual other; and the third whole made in this union—the relationship itself. Because the two are whole persons coming together to make a living union, there is no needy desperation; no possessiveness; no competition; no manipulation; no fear of the other’s personhood. Each person is not only free to become, but is encouraged to do so by the grace of the relationship. In the path to the other, the self is fully present, not diminished; in the path to the self, the other walks closely beside, hand in hand. It is a hand-fasting of interdependence and loving empowerment in which each person is made a better, stronger, more fully actualized self. There is rhythmic giving and receiving, lifting up and being lifted, connecting and reconnecting as each member grows and the union deepens. It is not forced or contrived; it simply is. It is the nature of the two in an almost innate communion.

These relationships are rare. When we find them, we have found something akin to the miraculous. Often, we stumble on them and, in our fumbling to not fall, we fail to see them. They are such rare things, we do not register what we see. Or, we are simply ill prepared to fully grasp them. For Scin and me, it was there even in the beginning. There is no doubt that, in some ways, we saw and registered what was there between us. But we were young and ill prepared. Because we had the good sense to preserve, at least, the friendship, we are able to be here now. Beginning again. Recognizing and preserving the anam cara.

These are the things I thought about as I sat, again, in the large aloneness that is Logan airport waiting for my return flight home. I drank coffee in the main concourse and resisted the urge to call her and tell her to turn around. I reminded myself that I had to go home to work. I thought of all the things that served to bring us to this place, this decision to explore what a second chance might bring us. Each day of this journey convinces me that everything each of us has been through has, in some way or another, given us what we need to be here now—to be both ready and able to walk this path as whole people who choose each other.

As if we were on some shared vision quest, some common right of passage, we were given experiences and lessons that prepared us for this coming together. What we have found in this reunion has been, at once, surprising and yet not so surprising. From the beginning over 26 years ago, we had an immediate bond, a kind of recognition as if we had met before. We had instant sexual chemistry; but there was more between us. We shared a quirky, often dry humor. We liked the same movies, writers and music. Intellectually, we were clearly well matched. We were even kind of geeky in the same ways. We were different enough to be interesting and individual, but alike enough to bond us deeply. And, that butch-femme energy between us was like a static charge in crisp air. We were like orange and blue on the color wheel. And, in our time with others, we have learned things that make us careful and attentive to what we have. So, it is not a shock that those bonds have remained; nor is it surprising that new connections have grown out of the underlying networks of attraction.

There is an easiness to being in the same place daily—like stepping into the warmish ocean, gently pushing off and floating without effort. There is a hardness to leaving, a dull edge that seems to push painfully against me like being pressed against a wall in a crowded room. Each coming together brings us closer. We fall more easily, each visit, into the rhythm that we are becoming together. It is simple to enter that ebbing and flowing of daily activities that make up a life shared.

We never run out of things to talk about or laugh about. We naturally move through our days as if we have always been here—making breakfast for ourselves and her son, assuring that homework is done, each taking on tasks that suit us, waiting for the school bus, going about work and play like two people who belong together…as we do. We are so right for each other that even difficult things are handled with a knowing presence and caring attention. There is no real discord. We do not bicker. When issues arise, we seem to just talk and move through them as if they are simply part of the room, things we acknowledge and arrange as we need to in order that they fit. There is no desperation. All that comes our way seems to exist inside the rare respect and admiration for each other that covers us. We live together in an almost instinctive, quiet awareness of what we have been given and its value is preserved without strain. We simply are. What we are together takes its place around us like air. There is almost a scent, a fragrance, to the we that walks among us. We wear it with comfort. Each visit is an increasing of the we. Yet, unlike most of the relationships we have known before, there is no loss of the I. In fact, we are each made more—the understanding, acceptance, respect and regard that binds us makes us, each, better and more free to become. It is simple and affirming to be in this uncommon abiding.

It is not simple to leave it. We cope in our own different ways. There is, to this too, a rhythm. In that 48 to 24 hours before I leave, changes come. Scin turns slightly inward. The tendency toward insomnia that leaves me in her presence returns and I walk the house, write her notes, inch myself close to her and watch her sleep. The passion that drives our intense love-making becomes softer, less fevered. There are more elongated embraces, more frequent reaching for a hand to hold, fingers to entwine. Long looks are almost avoided. The protection from the wrenching of separation begins. In the car, driving to the airport, we talk. We say things we need to say—all the while, touching constantly, holding firmly to a finger, a hand, a thigh.

This time, she could not walk me in; she needed to be home when her son got off the bus. I watched her pull away. The leaving was like the unmedicated removal of an organ. Something in me breaks each time I leave her. It is fully mended only by the sight of her again, the touch of her skin on mine, the restoration of what has been severed. It is like a bruise that will not heal.  I am still whole, but not whole. Still myself, but a self in some kind of exile. We are in limbo and connected only by the sound of our voices on the phone. So, I am here now. She is there. We are voices in the ether. Somehow, this is a fitting living metaphor for what we are together.

This thing between us is greater than anything either of us have known before, except with each other then and now; it is simply deeper now and more mature. It is not just bodies touching, it is souls reuniting. It is bodies, minds, and spirits walking in the air of a union finally made real. The ancient thing half remembered is recognized and fully realized. It grows and becomes more with each returning, each separation, each day of creative connection. I reminded myself of these things as I waited for my plane. It was this knowledge that made me able to board the plane and come home. It is this knowing that sits with me here, makes it possible to move through this time apart. Soon, there will be no more leaving. Soon, there will be only the evolution of a life more fully shared.  That day cannot come soon enough. 

NOTE:  This work is published here as proprietary and may not be reproduced, distributed, sold, or otherwise utilized outside the posting on this site without the express permission of the author; these works are the sole property of the author writing as Androgynonamous or DreadPirateRobert.

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The Mind of a Poet

April 16, 2010 at 7:41 am (The Mind of a Poet) (, )

To those of you who read me fairly regularly, I must apologize for failing to post any poetry for the past couple of weeks.  I did not post any the last week I was with Scin and then, I was swamped after I got back.  I had not written anything new, nor had I taken the time to search existing poems for the right one to post.  I am sorry I have been lax in my work.  I am trying to get back on track with writing and choosing posts.  And, this week’s selection is a new poem.  I hope you like it.

Evening Fire

It is dusk. The evening cry
of dove song moans beneath
the chatter of other birds, distant
traffic, scattered muffled voices. 
The air smells of fresh-cut grass,
a promise of coming rain as well. 

I think of you in this stillness.

Today, the irises began to bud.
A rabbit sits still in the yard
nibbling at a patch of clover.
Dry, cured wood burns slowly
easing the chill with hot embers
glowing deep red, bright orange.

 I long for you in this gloaming.

I will sit with the falling night
like a friend, tend the fire as it fades
to slumber and tomorrow I will build
another—the fire without as the fire
within, the pit high with dry tender,
flame alight with wanting—a burning

beacon to light your way home again.

NOTE:  This work is published here as proprietary and may not be reproduced, distributed, sold, or otherwise utilized outside the posting on this site without the express permission of the author; these works are the sole property of the author writing as Androgynonamous or DreadPirateRobert.

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Hump Day: Mid-week Musings

April 14, 2010 at 8:20 pm (Hump Day: Mid-week Musings) (, , )

Where You Least Expect It…

More than once, I have discussed some of the issues, frustrations and complications of reinventing myself in my mid-forties and career shopping in this strange and delicate economy.  Meanwhile, each week I have continued my basic routine: daily searches of job boards, City and County jobs, postings in the local paper, etc.; completing  job applications; and, running myself ragged trying to work at whatever odd landscaping jobs I can get.  I am sure many of you know that serious job hunting is, itself, a full-time job.  Trying work at something in the process can be overwhelming. Oddly, I think the manual labor has actually kept me from becoming completely exhausted.  I know that it definitely has kept me from coming unglued as I fret over securing a living wage before I run out of all my savings and lose my house.  I have been going at this pace for over two years…and without much light at the end of the tunnel showing itself.

Each week, I have faithfully applied for an average of six jobs.  It is often more like nine or ten in a week.  Sometimes, I apply for several in one day.  Often this is the case as, most days, there are not a lot of jobs that I could actually apply for with any credibility or hope.  I usually apply for jobs that are applicable to my skill sets and overall experience–in other words, management jobs, non-profit or other program directorships, human resources related jobs…or, just plain retail, low-level management jobs.  This week–Monday, in fact–I branched out and applied for a job that is not at all related to anything I have ever done.  It is a job I have actually thought about for a long time.  You know, the “wouldn’t-it-be-groovy-if,” kind of job.  I applied on a kind of lark.  Oh, what the hell?…why not?

You see, I have been going about this thing in a very methodical and practical way for a long time.  Applying for things for which, either, I have previous related experience or for which I have similar skill sets and which I could quickly learn.  For example, at the end of last week, I even applied for a job with the local Employment Security Commission.  This is a State position.  They wanted someone with either social work or counseling experience [that’s me], or staffing experience with a focus on hiring and interviewing [again, that’s me].  I thought this was perfect since I have both sets of skills and experience.  The folks at the ESC thought it was a great idea for me to apply–who better to assist others with finding a job than a person who has all the required skill sets and has been job hunting for over two years?  The application deadline was last Friday.  I have not heard a word from them.  This is the case with most of the jobs for which I apply.

So, Monday when I saw this other job, I was intrigued.  It is a fitness trainer position with a local center that has its own training program and trainer certification process.  For some time now, I have thought that it would be really neat if I could somehow become certified and work as a fitness trainer.  Afterall, I was a good counselor largely because I am really good at empowering and motivating people.  And, I love to work out.  I could spend my whole day in a gym and be in hog heaven.  But, I had no real way of becoming certified and I figured I should focus on what I know and apply for things similar to what I have done. 

For some reason, however, when I saw the ad in the paper, I could not pass it up.  So, I hammered out a cover letter and emailed it along with my resume to the email provided in the posting.  It was not much more than an hour later when my cell phone rang.  The guy was calling to set up an interview with me!  He was even calling on the same day I applied!  I nearly fell down into the pile of river rock I had been arranging.  I have applied and applied for countless jobs for which I am either over-qualified or perfectly suited to and I have not had so much as a phone interview in months.  Then, the job I apply for largely for shits and giggles turns out to be the one for which I am going to interview.  Go figure.  Or, as my mom would say:  who would have thunk it?

While, all along, I have had faith that things will work out, for the first time in some long months now, I have some real sense of a possible turning of the tide.  And, not directly because I finally have the opportunity interview.  The reason I feel some sense of light breaking after a long night is, also, more like a kind of faith thing.  It is not the interview itself; it is that the interview is for a job that seems completely nutty and far-fetched.  It is the opportunity out of the blue.  It is the road not even considered a real course, let alone traveled.  It is the least expected option in a universe of more reasonable options.

It has been my experience at many points in my life that, when the next right thing comes, it is often the last thing I expected–that when the best thing that could happen actually happens, it turns out to be something I had given up on entirely or never even imagined.  And, it comes quite unexpectedly.  Usually, when things are darkest.  Or, when I have settled into settling, become content with being basically content.

An example that I think best describes the kind of serendipity–and, perhaps, synchronicity–I am talking about is the reunion Scin and I were able to bring about in our lives.  Sometimes, the thing you think you lost turns up in a drawer you thought you looked in a hundred times; or, it was in the pocket of your favorite jeans all along.  Sometimes, the thing you think you really screwed up presents itself anew.  Sometimes, we do get second chances.  Often, when we least expect it. And, in many cases, it ends up being the next right thing. The best thing that could ever happen. The thing, in our slumber, we dreamed of but never expected would happen. 

Sometimes, the phone rings and we answer.  We answer, recognize the voice, and we speak our truth–boldly, bravely, and with heartfelt intent.  “I’ve been thinking of you for a long time and have been trying to find your new number.  There are things I want to say to you.”

And, the response we get is:  “I’ve been thinking of you too…in fact, I woke up in the middle of the night last night and had to get out of bed to write about us.”  Sometimes, the phone rings.  And, we answer.  And, it changes our lives forever.  For the better.

Sometimes, the phone rings and we answer.  And, a voice says, “I received your resume and I was calling to see if you’d be interested in an interview.”  Sometimes, when we least expect it, a bell rings. A door opens.

NOTE:  This work is published here as proprietary and may not be reproduced, distributed, sold, or otherwise utilized outside the posting on this site without the express permission of the author; these works are the sole property of the author writing as Androgynonamous or DreadPirateRobert.

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The Spirit of Things

April 4, 2010 at 11:40 am (The Spirit of Things) (, , )

A Matter of Faith:

It is Spring.  All around us, there are the signs of a world in regeneration–a coming alive of all things after the winter waiting time, a resurrection of all that lay in slumber during the dying time.  We feel it too.  Our awareness and experience of this rebirth varies from person to person, yet the need to feel connected to the process, to the coming alive within and without, is present in all of us.  We reach into the dirt, cultivate and plant. Or, we buy cut flowers.  We tend our yards.  We go to the park and walk. Or, we pull the motorcycles–or bicycles, or both–out of the winter storage and we ride.  We open our windows.  We sit on the porch and drink in the growing sun, the blooming around us, the birds and squirrels and, yes, the rabbits.  Whatever we do, we are on some level aware that the change has come, that we too are waking and are renewed.

This is an ancient process–the basis of all ancient religions that celebrate a way of life based upon the belief that all things are connected, that we and the earth, its cycles and processes, are essentially tied to one another in an endless turning of generation, birth, death, regeneration and rebirth.  It is no accident that the believed resurrection of the Christ occurs in the Spring.  It is all literal, metaphoric, allegoric and psychologically powerful stuff.  No matter what else is happening in our lives, most all of us feel the instinctive, subconscious pull of the process of rebirth.  We feel lighter, more energized and tend to be better able to cope with and move through the other things in our daily lives in the presence of all that is Spring.  For many people, this is the basis of their faith.  It is for me as well, but not in the conventional ways you might expect.

Without getting too involved, let me say that my concept of God is…well…nearly heretical in the eyes of some.  No doubt there will be more about that as I write here.  But for now, I will simply say that my view of God is bigger than dogma, religion, or the common anthropomorphic ideas of God.  My view of God is living and breathing and rooted in physics, the commonalities of all religions, the cycles and processes of the universe around us, and some basic universal truths about the human experience.  And, it is rooted in my personal experience. Things others would view as synchronicity, serendipity or plain old happenstance.  My experience of God changes as I change.  While I do not believe in the currently popular view of God as some puppet-like magician simply waiting to give us whatever we ask for, I do believe that God moves in our lives.  Within us.  In cocreativity with us.  I am panentheistic.  And, I believe the action is internal.  I also believe that what we think about and turn our mental energy to, we manifest.

These are things that have come up in discussion of late between my friends and I, and between Scin and I.  People wonder how I can continue to have faith that all will be well, that forces are moving around and within us, that God is active, and that more will be revealed when I am dealing with such difficult circumstances.  As are the people close to me.  People ask:  how can you believe that a loving God is taking care of you when you have been job-hunting for over two years, your health concerns are unresolved, your mom’s house still has not sold, and the things you need do not seem to be appearing?  These observations are correct.  There has been struggle and uncertainty.  In addition, Scin and I are struggling with significant circumstances:  financial concerns, securing housing for them so they can move, difficulties related to being apart–for now–and trying to plan, while also trying to keep faith that somehow all will be well.  Struggle abounds.

So, my response to all of this is simple, really.  My entire life has provided me with examples of the care I receive from a benevolent universe and an active, present power greater than myself.  Greater than our conceptions.  Greater than doctrines.  If I look back on events that at first seem to be bad, not what I thought I needed or, for that matter, wanted, I can see how I was saved from something worse by things not going as I thought they should.  I can see how events were unfolding in ways that led to other things, that were better in the long run, that–once more was revealed–carried greater gifts for me than what I expected.  Also, good things happen every day.  My reunion with Scin is an example.

This, to me, is the action of God in communion and cocreation with us.  This, to me, is like the metaphor of Spring.  All seems dark, dead and stagnant until Spring comes and we see that things were at work, doing wonderous things, unseen and in their own time.  Spring is the point in the year when what was unseen becomes revealed.  Much of the action in our lives is this way:  internal, unseen, connected to other forces and processes, and is obvious only at the moment of its flowering.

Now, you could say that what you have read here is simply the expression of the obvious influence of perspective, of how one chooses to view things over which one has no control and how one mentally processes events and daily life.  And, to that I exclaim a resounding: yes; you are correct.  And, isn’t that what faith is–belief without tangible evidence, conviction without immediate proof, a set of beliefs to which one is committed, a mindset?  The issue is not simply the mindset, but how one comes to have this perspective and to be committed to it.  Experience, in conjunction with willingness to examine and interpret the experience, is the origin of the mindset.  I believe we are, indeed, transformed by the renewing of our minds (Romans 12:2).  By the way, this kind of thinking–as some of you know–is the basis of Eastern traditions, Pagan traditions, and, interestingly, behavioral science and the majority of physics.  In fact, there is a vast compilation of science to suggest that “mindset” or expectation–that is thought–is a physical force.  So, perhaps, faith is not conviction without evidence.

For example, if we study light as particles, that is how it behaves; if we study it as waves, that, too, is how it behaves.  Expectation, or the perspective of the experimenter, influences the thing being studied.  Thus, how we view our lives influences the unfolding of our lives.  Similarly, how we view God, or view our spirituality, determines how we experience our spiritual selves and our lives.  This perspective, like Spring, is a turning–a shifting of our view, an expectation from which is birthed the evidence. 

So, yes.  I have faith the things are going to be, both, as they should be in the scheme of things, and OK as well.  I believe that I will continue to have what I need, if not always what I want.  I believe that, like the bulbs that were lying in wait, there will be important gifts and growth in my struggles.  I believe that this time of uncertainty carries within it the seeds of the new, as yet unseen, budding of myself, others and our lives.  I believe that Scin and I will have the things we need to build our lives together.  I believe our reunion and the growing thing that is our relationship is a gift.  I receive it gladly.  I believe that things move and unfold in our lives in ways that work toward what is suitable to our individual selves and provides us with opportunities for our best interest.  And, I believe more will be revealed.

Finally, I believe that my role in my spiritual walk is simple.  It is mine to do what is in front of me, to tend to what I can and take responsibility for my choices, actions and my life.  It is also mine to tend the garden of my thinking–to be mindful of my life, my thoughts and perspectives, my actions and my participation in my relationships to my spiritual self, others, and my God.  It is mine to tend to the turning of my sight.  It is also mine to view myself as a valuable and to believe in myself as I am and as I am becoming.  If I believe that God is in all things and all things are in God, then God is in me as well and I need to trust the tools, talents, and abilities I have been given–and trust they have purpose.  I view others in the same way.  We are all connected, all part of the spirit of things.  We are all waking, slumbering, and waking again.  Each day, we are all being reborn, resurrected.  It is Spring, eternal.  That is enough for me.

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