Anecdote Break

Today, I am tired. I don’t have words sparking out of my fingers as I do on my best days, but for the sake of consistency, and more importantly, for the sake of honoring my commitments, of walking the path as much as I can, when I can, I share with you a story of something that occurred in our home last week.

I pull my ass out of bed, and slog my way to the bathroom for my morning ablutions. Maya and Pua, always in tow. Maya sees a spot of blood on my gray jersey cotton pants and she asks, “Mama, is that poop?”

I respond, drowsily, “No. I did not poop myself.”

“Oh,” she says, understanding. “It’s enchilada?”

Pussy Spark

First, a recent history. A few years back, shortly after giving birth to my eldest daughter, I read Audre Lorde’s article, “The Uses of the Erotic.” Around the same time, or shortly before I had read Vicki Noble’s Shakti Woman and had generally conceived, from these readings and from my own knowing and intuition, that sexuality is not just the practical means for creating new little humans, as I was brought up to believe, but more broadly a creative force. It wasn’t until reading Audre Lorde that I began to understand this force in a way that was consciously experiential.

But suddenly, it opened up for me. I started to pay attention to experiences of arousal outside of explicitly sexual contexts. And thus the pussy spark was born. I noticed that in certain contexts, particularly amidst conversations fantasizing about future ways of living, being, dream systems for small and large society, especially thrilling ones would actually elicit a physical response. The experience is more like a cervical twinge, if I’m to be technical about it – but “cervical twinge” isn’t half as catchy as “pussy spark.”

It came to be a marker system for me, a mind-body-spirit barometer of sorts, complete with many different signifiers, including arousal of the mind, the heart, and the gut. These signals indicate to me how much energy I have to give to a project or an idea.

Ultimately, choosing to explore these signals and what sparks them has begun to carve out a path of rich, creative living. Sweaty palms, butterflies in the stomach, a tingling heart, pussy sparks and welling tears all indicate to me that I’m following that path. And the further I walk along that path, the richer life becomes.

Currently, I’m finding myself lit up by dark woodland fantasy, romancing the Other, knits with small stitches and unusual color combinations, and exploring vulnerability. What sparks your fire?

On writing, intimately.

Shortly after posting last week, I was laying my littlest one down for a nap and reflecting upon what I had written. The driving reason behind taking on this blog again, particularly in the loose and light way that I am, is to encourage a shift in my writing style. And to be honest, I didn’t know what I was looking for as I began, but there’s something about process that seems to shine a light upon those hidden desires.

And when I was reflecting last week, I felt an itch of dissatisfaction. It was my voice that bothered me, more than the topic. It felt like I was shouting, like I was standing before a bunch of people in front of a crumbling capitol building and speaking into a microphone. I dunno.

I know I can write like that. I know I can write speeches and feel decently confident about them, and I know I can write a damn good academic paper when I’m feeling it. But I really want to cultivate the kind of writing style that emulates a conversation between friends, over a cozy cup of tea.

And the other thing: I’m tired of writing from my head. Honestly, this is probably my biggest struggle in writing, and now that I’m saying it, probably the driving force behind my shouting voice too. I’ve been much too invested in saying “important” things, rather than things that are true.

Rather than “not writing from my head” – another mental exercise, oof – I’m going to practice writing from my heart, and my gut.

My valuation of writing, which stems back into some of my first memories (copying a Little Critter book down in my own scrawly hand lol) has always been as a thing of the soul. It is that connection, that soul craft, that I aim – no, long – to cultivate with my words.

Dirty Satisfaction

Today, I cleaned the hose of my vacuum. Not the hose that one uses to clean out the corners of one’s home, but that intermediary hose that reaches down under the vacuum and sends all the floor junk into the dirt canister. Maybe you know which hose I’m talking about.

I unscrewed the screws, pulled it out of its cranny, and stuck a silver chopstick right in there, pulling out balls and balls of fluff-dirt-lego amalgamations. They were delightfully antithetical to those yummy superfood bliss balls, and let me tell you, I got SO MUCH SATISFACTION out of that domestic, mundane task.

The kind of satisfaction one gets from pooping a large, overdue poop.

And yes, that really is the best-suited analogy for this situation.

And all of this has got me thinking about the culture of satisfaction in the post-industrial age. Sex, luxurious meals, spa days, “productivity,” these are all things lauded for the satisfaction they bring into our lives. But what about the satisfaction of maintenance?

The lingering high from cleaning out a vacuum hose, or pooping that overdue poop? The good-feels of cleaning out the super grody corners of the bathroom, the glow of the 32nd day of that 2 year meditation practice – or whatever. Some days, peeling myself off the floor and slumping into a warm shower can bring me that glory.

It’s not glamorous, but damn! It’s healthy and grounding and satisfying.

And it isn’t healthy to fixate only on the fast, new, and shiny. That’s imbalance, and imbalanced things topples under strain.

So here’s to celebrating the grimy and the grunge. Hip-poop-hooray!