Writing Life
I haven't been writing here. I haven't been writing for my blog. I haven't been writing much at all. I am starting to really notice this. I am beginning to wonder where my writing has gone. Has anyone seen it? Maybe it's down at the goovy cafe in the center of town where the floors are wet and grimy with snow and the place smells of roasting beans and the crisp winter air carried in on winter clothing. Maybe I misplaced my words in the bags of holiday ribbon and wrapping paper hastily shoved back into the recesses of the attic closet. I may very well have forgotten them that night at the hotel with all those whispered endearments.
It's isn't really true that I haven't been writing at all. See, I've been falling in love and dealing with the incredibly complex and intense ramifications of releasing five years (that is not a typo) of Sexual energy run in a very careful and particular circuit so as not to shut down while not sharing either. Suddenly, the circuitry is blown wide open and I find myself like . . . a cat in heat . . . a sixteen year old boy with testosterone poisoning . . . a lecherous older man gawking at girls for just those few seconds too long . . . a twenty-year old girl aware of the power a shake of the hair holds over the men in her vicinity . . . a forty-five year old woman reclaiming, redefining, reinvigorating, re-establishing Sex (and then, of course, Self, Passion, Pride, Power) and Love (and then, of course Knowledge,. Wisdom, Law and Power). Yep. The whole she-bang. A complete overhaul. Something new is being birthed while something that has always been within me is being permitted to take on form, gesture and tone. The entire world is re-sensualized in a way that can be . . . .distracting, awesome, intense.
It's all been a bit overwhelming (to say the least!) and much too personal to share here. I have been writing. And I certainly have been doing my Work/Play. It has been ecstatic and wild. It has been devestaing and intense. My words have been poured into love letters, poetry, Morning Pages which go on well past noon some days, or emails to a few very close friends who have graciously listened to the stories of my love-struck sexual r-evolution with patience, humor and tremendous kindness.
I have been writing--a bit. I've been writing classes and workshops. I've been doing some editing here and there on old writing that screams to be presented between book-covers. I am entertaining angst over whether to seek publication or self-publish. Each has its benefits and pitfalls. Meanwhile, I am writing copy for my new websites and writing rituals for local community. Once in a while a chant comes through. New prayers bubble up to the surface. Spells and magic are woven in wyrrd.
I am writing.
I am just not really writing here.
Not right now.
I'd like to get back to it. But right now, I am feeling incredibly vulnerable as I explore the contours and textures of this relationship to my Beloved and to my own Identity as a Sexual Being. This hardly feels like the appropriate place to share such intimacies. It is a funny line for me to draw--me, who shares so intimately here all the time. But this, this is different. Talking too much about L. and my own r-evolution, feels like talking too much about the inner workings of my Trad. There is a line where Mystery is held in highest regard. It is a line I cannot cross. There is a line where writing/talking can become exhibitionist. That's the line. Right there.
I suppose the fact that I have written this much means something. Perhaps I really am integrating all of this new Everything into my body, life, practice. Perhaps I really am sifting out the internal grist from the glistening gems.
In the meantime, my daughter at 13 is a sometimes delightful, sometimes stupefying hormonal soup. My son is in dire need of strong masculine (I mean sports, wrestling, "pick yourself up and dust yourself off") energy. My son is in need of more socialization. And I?
I am in need of long swaths of time in the temple with my lover, with someone else watching the children and concerning themselves with schedules, grocery lists, and the vagaries of daily life.