In the past few days, I had the opportunity to experience my body in the throes of food poisoning (Note: do NOT read on if you cannot stomach stomach stories).
I’ve got some big news. I’m leaving Dallas at the end of December.
(pause, breathing in, breathing out)
At Dance Camp Northwest in mid-August under the eclipsed sun, I got a message. And that message said, it’s time to let go of the pain of your past and be Love now.
Something very woo woo and actually not all that revolutionary-sounding after the fact.
But in the moment, I remember weeping spontaneously, clutching onto the new bearded friend sitting next to me on the woven blanket, and feeling clear that something had changed. Continue reading…
This statement stopped me in my tracks last Friday.
As the snow cascaded down in Dallas, I listened to my new, vivacious friend Tiarra talk about her passionate conviction that her love making and her love of God are deeply intertwined.
And I realized how much I feel the same. And how I imagine most people wouldn’t realize what a strong, spiritual background I come from. Continue reading…
To the contrary, having dated women throughout graduate school, I was definitely more familiar than most with being close to another woman’s body. So it couldn’t have been just the mere fact of pussy that made that spring morning in Austin in 2012 so impactful.
Looking back, I think the reason it shook me down to my bones to see her pussy that day was that I had never really seen a pussy for the sake of just seeing a pussy.
For the sheer purpose of being present with another woman’s sexual body.
But, really, no one does this.
Initially the proposition seemed appealing. Attend a 10-day silent meditation retreat at the end of a tumultuous summer with five of my closest friends. Living in Dallas, we live less than an hour away from The Southwest Vipassana Meditation Center in Kaufman, Texas, a modest cluster of buildings on 34 acres of agricultural land that draws would-be meditators from across the country. For the last two years I have witnessed community members who have come back from the course and raved of the benefits. It seemed like it was finally my turn.
By Nikki Giovanni
I killed a spider
Not a murderous brown recluse
Nor even a black widow
And if the truth were told this
Was only a small
Sort of papery spider
Who should have run
When I picked up the book
But she didn’t
And she scared me
And I smashed her
I don’t think
To kill something
Because I am
When the news broke about the recent shootings in Dallas last Thursday, my heart froze. I found out when my friend Saul messaged me on Facebook.
“Turn on the news”, he wrote. “There have been attacks”.
Ever since grade school I have gravitated to leadership. Yep, I was that kid. The one who always got A’s, was quietly liked by most and ran for and got elected to Student Council President and Class President in the same year. I was 12. I still hadn’t menstruated. I wore big, horn-rimmed glasses and my hair was usually frizzy.
Being a leader began for me by watching my parents, especially my mother. During my years in Catholic grade school, Mom served as the head of our Brownie troop, the founder of our community prayer group, Founder and Editor of a newsletter on parenting and Director of the Adolescent Treatment Program at our family’s non-profit substance abuse treatment center in Richardson. It seemed to me that my mom could handle anything. I always saw her as a Superwoman. Continue reading…
This post was originally written on May 29, 2015.
I’d like to share something here about my grief process of late. Sunday, a very close friend of mine died in a car accident. No warning, nothing in her life indicated the end was near. A car hit her and she was gone.
You might think that Orgasmic Meditation – or OM for short – and grief have nothing to do with one another. But that’s not my experience.
When I read the news by text Monday afternoon, I immediately threw my phone down and crumpled to the floor. The news hit me, the way news like this hits. Like a stinging electric shock. Like my vision blurring. Like my skin prickling. As if it was coming unglued from my body.
But something marvelous followed.
My favorite line from The Princess Bride, my favorite childhood movie, begins like this.
“Surrender!” commands Prince Humperdink, as he and his henchmen surround a battered Westley and Buttercup as they limp out of the woods of the infamous Fire Swamp. With a poise that makes this scene immanently endearing, the bleeding, ragged Westley quips to the opponents who outnumber him, “You mean you wish to surrender to me? Very well, I accept”.
Also published in the October 22, 2015 edition of Elephant Journal.
It usually starts the same way. One of us has something difficult to share. It’s like a hot potato, difficult to hold. We toss it about, circling the conversation before eventually blurting some news to the other that lands like a burning coal we didn’t see coming. Ouch! Damage is done. And we spend hours on the cleanup. And then I think, if only he had helped me warm into it, the heat wouldn’t have burned. I actually like it hot, when I choose it.