Pathos, Eros, and Aramis

 [This will be posted as a Silken On Sex podcast episode in the near future]

The weather is California cliche: the sun is bright, the sky is a cloudless blue. The scent of California bay and eucalyptus waft by on a sea breeze. Children splash in the pool. Laughter bounces around the courtyard.

From my chair on the balcony I try to extend my senses, to feel something -- anything -- but what I’m feeling now.

Pathos.

I am doing my best to be present with my body, to understand how this pathos feels, not just emotionally, but physically.

Right now, it feels under-oxygenated. My breath is shorter, faster. It no longer fills my center. My muscles are tight. Twitchy. Restless. My shoulders ride higher, up near my ears.  I feel it in my gut, too, the tightness. An ache has settled in my chest, my eyes. It is a long list.

This is what anxiety and anguish feels like in the flesh.

In my head, it feels like being small and afraid in the face of uncertainty. Trapped. Cut-off. Cornered. I feel like I must act, must do something, anything. But what?

And so I remind myself to breathe.

Life is uncertain, and no amount of resistance to that fact is going to change Reality. Reality is mutable, transient, turbulent. Unpredictable. And yet, it is what it is.

Accept, my mind says. But my body betrays emotional resistance.

I figured that my sisters and I would grow old together, the three of us. The Three Musketeers. I thought we’d be hard-of-hearing old ladies sitting on the back porch swing, laughing until we had to pee, talking about the good old days with Grandmother, the rides down the hill in our little red wagon, and riding horses on the mesa in Colorado. I thought we’d go on vacations, bicycle rides for three, and scold grandchildren.  Then one sister died in 2008 after a long illness, and I revised that dream to just the two of us. But today, the likelihood of my baby sister surviving to my age is slim, never mind to old age. And I feel. A lot of things.

I know we all die. And I know it isn’t anything to be afraid of. I got that, really got it, when I was holding my grandfather’s hand as he exhaled the last bits of himself two years ago.  I understand the beauty of the life-cycle, the transitory nature of it, the glory of a life well-lived. You could say that I am at peace with Death.

But to die young, ah. To lose someone in the prime of life. To watch them hunch in on themselves with pain. The pain of living. Of breathing. Of being. I can handle it. Watching someone die from cancer isn’t a new experience for me. But I’m not enjoying it. It is very stressful on everyone. Especially my sister.

Underneath it all, I’m sad for me. And for her kids. And for our parents — who will have to deal with out-living another of their children.

Life is. And quite often these days, life is Pathos.

Eros and Aramis.

Citrus, cinnamon, and sandalwood: the scent of his Aramis cologne envelops me as Gabriel’s arms do. I rest my forehead against his shoulder and breathe him into me. He always seems to know when I’m in that place, that overwhelmed, anxious and impatient place. He hugs me hard, his arms forming a tight band that pops my back. A welcome release.

“You’re cold,” he murmurs against my ear. “How can you be cold? It’s over 80 degrees out here.”

“I’ve forgotten warmth,” I mutter back, dispirited and exhausted. And cold. I’ve been sleeping with the electric blanket on. In Summer.

He steps backward, holding me at arm's length. He starts to say something, but his eyes are riveted on my breasts. My nipples. Bra-less and cold, my nipples were already hard, but his nearness, the scent of him, have added additional length.

His hand reaches toward my right breast, thumb grazing the nipple. His touch sparks through me, little electric arrows racing along my nerve-endings, dissipating the fog of despair wrapped around me like a comforter. I feel!

Another brush of his thumb and I gasp and sway, my eyes closing. So good. So sweet. Pleasure is so life-affirming.

He steps nearer, his hand never leaving my breast. I can feel the warmth radiating from him. I tilt my face up to his, eyes closed, like a flower following the sun. My mouth trembles with a sad smile and tears well up under my eyelids.

“Make love to me,” I ask him, implore him. “Make me feel alive.”

He steps around me. Pulls the hair away from my neck and brushes my skin with his shadow.  A sharp, hissing intake of my breath. I feel that! Mmmmm… yes!

His arms encircle me, one around my shoulders, the other, my midriff. He draws me backwards, off the balcony, and guides me down onto the persian carpet. With feather-light kisses and touches he opens my blouse, exposing my breasts.

More tears at his gentleness. I need this.

When his mouth closes over my erect nipple, my entire body vibrates with erotic energy. My pathos subsides beneath a tide of Aramis-scented eros as I surrender to a new feeling: I’m alive!

So gloriously fucking alive!

*  *  *

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To Sir, With Love

Within an hour of his death, my cousin and I poured some whiskey and drank a toast to Granddad, a toast taken from the title of the book I'd been reading to him the past two days. To Sir, with love. May he rest in peace.


He was waiting for me to come to him, and his decline once I arrived was stunning in its swiftness. He kept his faculties the entire time, and he died peacefully at home, with loved ones at his side. It has been my role in this family to help ease passings, and perhaps because I have finally fully embraced that role, this passing was the most peaceful yet. I was in a place of love and acceptance, and every thought, every word, every touch was loving and grateful. Thank you for letting me take care of you, it is a priviledge, I told him, after he apologized for his incontinence and need to be cleaned up. Its ok, you can let go now, I projected my thoughts at him. I'll be here to care for the living.


My aunt home from work, I made sure he was comfortable, and then I lay down for a nap, my first bit of sleep in 36 hours. I was unsurprised when my aunt awakened me 90 minutes later to say he was gone. I rose and held his hand and watched the last of his breath leave his lungs and I felt so radiant inside. I could not help but smile through my tears, fully at peace, both with his death, and that of my sister.


The year began with a death and now it ends with one. Another few days and it will be Solstice, when the dying of the light is transformed into renewal. A new year, with new beginnings, and new endings. I can live with that knowledge, just as I can live with the uncertainty of details. Life is a brush that paints in broad, sweeping strokes. When I look ahead, I can see the outline, the dips and curves. But the details, ah, those are completed in the fullness of each moment -- and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Being sad

She looks at me from her frame, an antique art-deco frame, her head slightly tilted, her blonde hair tossed by the wind. At home, I can see her from my bed, and at work, from my desk. She is my hero and my reminder that life is too short and must be lived fully. She would have been 39 this year, on Halloween.

I miss her so much I ache with it, and tears make typing difficult. 9 months since Tammy died. I feel like some part of me is missing, something important, something I've got to find, to remember, to bring with me, to... something. I've been parturient with grief and now I feel it rising in me, seeking exit from my body. I've never given birth. I wonder, is it like this?

I feel sometimes like I've got to live the rest of my life and hers. She was fearful and fearless. She had huge courage and she accomplished great things and I feel I can do no less in honour of her memory. I think of her and smile. I remember her smile, that little girl's shy smile, and her way of laughing that made people feel included. I remember that day at Cannon Beach, the day I snapped that photo. I can close my eyes and smell the air. I can hear the birds, feel the chill in the wind and the sand in my shoes. I remember how thin she was, how little she ate, how easily she tired. And I remember how she had such enthusiasm. She was on fire. She wanted to live and go and do. But she never really learned how to 'be', my sister.

I remember her as a child, napping in the hammock under a pine tree my grandparents planted the year my mother was born. I can smell the scent that the redwood forest has, the scent that permeated my childhood summers. I remember the wind rocking the child in that hammock, and the way her hair stuck out in all directions and her mouth fell open just a bit as she slept. I remember the way her skin smelled of Ivory soap, and how her hair smelled of Breck creme rinse, and how her hands were always dirty. Tammy was never afraid to get her hands dirty.

And I miss her so much I ache with it. I raised her. She was my baby as much as she was my sister. And now she is gone, and that is ok. It has to be ok, right? I mean, we are all born to die, and she always said she'd never live to see 50 and she was right. She had a better sense of her own mortality than most. I got a taste of it in May and I get it now, get that Life is short, but more than that, get that My Life is short and it is meant to be lived fully and honoured fully.

And so I grieve, here on my bed, sitting cross-legged, looking into the photo, into the window of the past, honouring my feelings.... and being... being sad. And that is good. Tears wash away the strain of holding in the grief and that is good, too.

It's all good. Even missing those who have moved on to whatever comes next. Sometimes I forget to remember that. Miss ya Sis.

Sadness by email

My father emailed me. I always tighten up a bit when I see his name in my mailbox. He usually writes when he has something important to tell me and doesn't want to do it by phone because we'll both end up in tears. Even so, I tried to think positively, but the first line was a punch in the gut. My father's father is dying. Three months at most, they say. They found a mass in his lung and he doesn't want to fight it, not at his age. So my father emailed me that he is preparing to go stay with his father, and get him on hospice and care for him until his time comes. He said he's feeling very sad and low on energy--its been a tough year--and begged me to take care, because I'm one of the few people he has to draw on at this time.

How do you respond to that kind of news? What do you tell a man who has dealt with death and dying and illness in his children and siblings now facing the death of his father? I wasn't quite sure how to respond, so I just started writing.

It is ok to be depressed over Granddad. Its been a tough year. Sometimes I feel like shaking my fist at Heaven and saying "Enough is enough!" And other times, I feel like asking "Doesn't Heaven have enough angels yet?" But mostly, I recognize that in life there is only one certainty, and that is death. And while I am not ready to embrace that certainty for myself, Granddad is. And I respect that. And am willing to let him go. I remember how hard it was for Granny and Tammy to go. They wanted to, both of them, they were so tired, but we wanted them to stay. And in that spiritual tug-of-war there is no difference between winning and losing--there is just struggle and resistance. Truth be told I've not got much resistance left. I have learned Acceptance with a capital 'A'. Not acceptance as in resignation, but acceptance as in, this is how Life is, this is my reality, and I can waste my energy fighting Life, or I can accept what it throws at me and fight for what I can change, and for the differences I can make in the world.

I am glad that you can go be with him. Please do. I am sure he wants you there, but most importantly, it is where you want to be. Just know that you don't have to suck it up. Its ok to be sad, its ok to cry. Granddad understands tears now. He's developed an intimacy with them since his stroke, and in some ways tears are sacred and they've anointed him again and again over the years. Love will out, one way or another, and so will joy and sorrow. I love you.

Keep taking good care of yourself. Let me know what I can do for you both. I'll be here.

Even if I said the wrong things, I hope he knows I mean them in the best way. The sad thing is that today is his mother's birthday. Sad news to dispense on a day we remember her by, my tiny grandmother with her fuschia lipstick and silvery crew-cut hair. Miss you, Granny.