Pale pink roses

Roses. A dozen of the palest pink, so pale at first glance I thought they were white. But the centers of the buds were blush. It was warm today, and when I got home from work the roses had partially opened. Their subtle scent immediately caught my attention, and when I saw the roses, I grabbed my camera. The above is just one of the many I took. It is a macro shot looking into the bud of the rose from an angle. There is something about it, about the lighting and shadows and the way the faint veins in the petals are visible, that really appeals to me. I thought I would share the beautiful pale pink roses with the rest of the world.

Beautiful Soul

I was fortunate to be her sister for all of her 38 years. She was a vibrant, extraordinary woman with a smile that never grew up. She always looked so vulnerable and sweet when she smiled, like she was six years old and sharing a part of her soul. Her last two years were pain-filled and exhausting, and now she is free. For this I am grateful, though selfishly, I wish she was still here.

I'd gotten lulled by the daily routine of my life, and forgotten its transience. If the only certainty in life is that we will die, and the time of death is uncertain, then it is best to live each day as fully as possible, lulled by nothing, taking none of it for granted.

Life, Death, and the Amaryllis

I am the dance of snowflakes as they tumble down a chasm. My nature cannot overcome the howling wind nor the inevitability of gravity, but I dance anyway. Is it the dance of life, or is it the dance of death? I do not know. I know only that I dance.

I packed two suitcases last night, one for the East Coast, one for the West Coast. I awakened from a bad dream at 2am. So much on my mind, so many trips ahead. California to see one sister who is dying, Massachusetts to be with another for surgery to remove cancer, and lo, phone calls at 4am, a third sister in a coma. The brain aneurism fairy visited her in the middle of the night. Frantic father, torn between two coasts -- the deathbed of one daughter, and now another. How sad, to have three daughters in their thirties sick or dying. He must feel like the biblical Job.


"How are you holding up?" a friend asked.
I answered, "The amaryllis on my windowsill is blooming."
A moment later I thought, How Zen.

Nectarine oralgasm

When he called, he thought I was having sex.

"I am I interrupting something?" he asked.

"No, no. I've just found the most orgasmic nectarine."

"Pardon me?"

"I'm at the fruit stand and I found this perfectly ripe orgasmic-smelling nectarine."

"An orgasmic nectarine, hunh?" He sounded dubious.

"You've never bitten into a nectarine and had an oralgasm?"

"A what?"

"Nevermind. I'll save this one for when I see you tomorrow."


Sunday afternoon I produced The Nectarine. I cradled the smooth-skinned fruit in my hand. It was room temperature and the flesh had just enough give to it. I held it to my nose and inhaled, letting out a low moan. "Mmmmmm," I sighed.

He quirked an eyebrow.

"I'll share, but I'm going to teach you how to eat it my way."

"Your way?"

"Yes. I promise this nectarine will be oralgasmic if you eat it my way."

He nodded and I held the nectarine up to his nose. "Smell it."

He inhaled deeply.

"Does it smell good?"

"Yes, very good."

"Now, rub your lips against it."

"What?"

"Just close your eyes, and rub your lips against it."

He did as he was told.

"Smooth, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Smooth like a baby's bottom? Smooth like my pussy?"

"Yes," he grunted that a bit.

"Touch it with your tongue. Slide your tongue over it, like you would if you were tasting me."

"Oooo-kay...." he said, but he did it.

"Now take a bite of it. Sink your teeth into it and suck the juices as you bite it."

He took a bite. It was a smallish bite.

"How does it taste?"

"Mmmm... very good."

"Now, run your tongue along the bite you made.... Feel that? Smooth and juicy?"

He nodded.

"Suck it."

He did. He made an appreciative noise.

"Not bad," I said, and smiled at him. "My turn."

I rubbed the nectarine against my lips. I smelled it. I opened my mouth and sank my teeth in and moaned as the juices filled my mouth. I sucked as I bit away the flesh and had a noisy oralgasm, moaning and sighing over how good it was. The best nectarine so far this season.

"Again," I told him, and held the fruit to his mouth.

I watched as his white teeth bit into the rosy skin, watched his lips purse as he sucked up some of the juices.

"Mmmmm..." I made the pleasure noises for him, my mouth watering, knowing what he was experiencing.

I watched as he flattened his tongue against the wound he had made, sliding it over the golden flesh. I pulled the nectarine away and kissed him, sucking at his tongue, licking at his lips, enjoying the combined flavor of man and fruit.

My turn again. I closed my eyes and slowly sank my teeth into it, savouring the feel of it on my tongue, loving the way my teeth sank into the flesh. I sucked at the juices that welled up around the holes my teeth were making. I bit away the piece and pressed my tongue to the wound, sliding it over the slippery smoothness, savoring the taste and texture. I moaned and sucked and sighed and chewed, and when I had finished my bite of the fruit he spoke.

"God, you're amazing," he said, his voice all throaty.

"What do you mean?"

"I'll never eat a nectarine the same way again."

"Good!" I said, and put the nectarine aside. I had something else for him to taste.


He must have been very appreciative of the lesson, because he sent me roses today. The photo above is one of them.

Flowers from CW

These are the flowers from CW that arrived at work. He used the same florist as KR did last month. Both arrangements are unusual and quite lovely. This one won CW lots of points from the women at work, and me lots of questions about him :)

Just your average blog entry

Last week a nasty cold fell on me like an avalanche, wiping out my voice, and filling my lungs. I left work at noon on Wednesday and it wasn't until Sunday that I could get out of bed without feeling dizzy. So I stayed in bed. A dozen long-stemmed roses in a gorgeous salmon-pink colour arrived to grace my room on Thursday, a bit of beauty to raise my spirits. This afternoon, more flowers, this time at work (a big no-no): an arrangement of orchids and interesting greenery. The card read "Stubborn wench--at work when you should be at home, in bed..." I added the parenthetical "with me" that he left off of the message, probably to save the florist embarrassment.

A cold front hit the Pacific Northwest at the same time. It was interesting to look at little drifts of sun-sheltered snow on vivid green grass. Such a contrast. The culms of the black bamboo seem so dark right now, the leaves sparser and less vivid. The holly trees are full of berries this year. Big red berries that show up so well against the spiky, waxy leaves. I really need to get out and take some photos. I've been wanting to for days, but I dared not go out in below-freezing weather, not with my lungs so full of crap. Perhaps this week.

I finished a naughty story yesterday, the seeds of which started months ago but which I just didn't have time to do right. I wanted to do a D/s story, but I wanted to get the nuances right, the psychology, the dialogue, the scenario. I'm fairly pleased with it, though I know some people think I will have ended it prematurely. I just don't feel it necessary to spell out what any reader knows is going to happen. That is the thing about erotica. You know the ending before you even start reading :) I doubt I'll record this one, there is too much male dialogue.

Plans for next month are shaping up. An upcoming seminar in San Fransisco just before my birthday prompted me to take some extra vacation time to spend with loved ones in the area. It should be a very full 10 days. Hopefully the weather will be conducive to photography. I may even bring my tripod.

The intensity level seems to be ratcheting up in some of my relationships. I don't know if it is a function of my stress-level or my customary availability during this period in my work. But I am being asked on several fronts when I'm going find a less demanding job, when I'm going to settle down, narrow down the list of people I'm dating, etc. I've got some great people in my life, people I enjoy so much and enjoy dating casually, no intimacy pressure or awkwardness, a fair number of whom are 'poly' people. And then the two most intense, rewarding, and frustrating relationships are with men who are monogamous, love me, 'wouldn't ask me to be exclusive' and yet aren't happy. I've offered to end the relationships. I've offered to eliminate physical intimacy and focus on what is important: relating. But that is not what they want. No, they want me available and all to themselves. And I'm floored. They are both good-looking, personable, financially-stable professionals that just about any single woman between the ages of 25 and 40 would gladly date. So why do they want me? Or why don't I want to pick one and settle down? Oddly enough, this is not good for my ego. And its definitely not good for my peace of mind.

There is so much love in me. I think learning metta meditation, learning to project that love out into the world, has helped to diminish some of that compelling intensity I bring to my deeper relationships. But not enough, I think, for one person to bear the force of it, of what they both seem to covet for themselves--my uniqueness. I am of the mind, however, to give one of them what he thinks he wants. And see how quickly he changes his mind. I don't think either of them is capable of valuing what being in a monogamous relationship with me really means. All of my intensity, my libido, my intellect, my spontaneity, my intuition, my emotions--everything I've honed in the past 2 years I've been single gathered up and devoted to one person, focused on one person? Heh. They would be intimidated.

They both deny it, but they would. I don't know why, but even when I try to be open and warm, I intimidate some people. Daily, prolonged exposure to me seems to make my partners feel insecure or overwhelmed or whatever. I am whole unto myself, self-contained and self-reliant. I don't need any one person. And men need to be needed. They need to feel they have a purpose in a woman's life, a reason to be: protector, friend, lover, provider. But no one person can be all things to another. Its a fallacy that monogamists the world-over have bought into and try to brainwash and socialize others into believing--that you're not whole until you find your other half. And two men I love think that their individual self-interest is jeopardized by the presence of other loved-ones in my life. They don't realize that it is not the others they have to worry about competing with for me. Its me.

2006: The year of love and friendship

In the past year, especially, I've learned the value of open and honest communication, and more, of putting myself out there emotionally and being vulnerable. My awareness of the world and my inner life has deepened with both therapy and my meditation practice. I've had some insights and put into effect some changes in my life and I've found that my ability to relate with others has increased dramatically. Yes, in putting myself out there, I risk emotional pain, but life is as transient and uncertain as it is beautiful , and I've realized that if I'm unwilling to embrace the possibility of negative consequences, I'm not really living my life--I'm playing it safe.

These flowers are from a friend I've made this year. A wonderful man of intelligence, wisdom, and kindness whom I never would have met if it was not for the changes I've made in my life this year--of my choice to take risks, to be spontaneous, to follow my intuitions.

A retrospective of 2006:
I am, mostly, well. 2006 was a tough year--My sister spent January through September in and out of the hospital and I did a lot of travelling back and forth to Massachusetts. She seems to have stabilized, but the medical estabilishment says it will be another year before they know what the lasting effects of the illness will be, and if she will require convalescent care for the rest of her life. We did not think she would make it to her 37th birthday, but she is a stubborn wench and surprised us all. Work has been awful--so short-staffed that I was asked to stay on even after I offered to resign because I was having to leave for MA for weeks on end and at a moment's notice.

And yet, for all that, it has been a great year, too. I've been dating some amazing men, completed two years of counselling/therapy, seen friends and family, and done a fair bit of travelling. I am participating in an ecstatic dance group, have been exploring tantra and intimacy, and I've been developing my abilities as a writer and a photographer with the encouragement of professionals in both fields.

This year my friendships have deepened, and I've learned just how secure a support system I have. I've learned that I don't always have to be 'strong' and that it takes more courage to lean on others than it does to be the one others lean on. I've learned that I can feel fear without embodying it. As a consequence of my sister's illness, which was partly brought on by self-neglect, I've come to the realization that I need to learn to live in and with my body--to fully inhabit it--rather than driving it, or using it as a tool. The seat of my self-awareness and the source of my connection with reality are my flesh and my senses, and neglecting to care for my body means that there will likely come a day when it is unable to furnish my needs.

And so, while I am not the sort of person who participates in the New Year's Resolution ritual, I am committed to making 2007 the year I make peace with my body, learning to inhabit it fully, ceasing to use it as a shield between me and a world whose attentions I'd become so averse to.

I am off to the Coast for the weekend for a quiet retreat in a little 1920's cottage, where I can recuperate from 50 to 60 hour work weeks to the sound of wild surf and blustry winds. I expect to sit by the fire, read, watch movies, and enjoy the opportunity to write and photograph.

Weekend in San Francisco

After a rather stressful day at work, I flew into San Francisco Friday night, rented a car and drove over to M's by 10-10:30pm. It was good to hug him and talk, and we neither of us got to sleep until 2 or 3 am. But of course I was awake by 7:30am, and of course he needs his 9 and more hours of sleep, so rather than wake him and make him keep me company, I showered and went out. Lucky for him I had my rental car... or I just might have taken his nice little BMW Z3 for ride.

The weather was peerless, warm enough that I didn't need a jacket, and there was not a cloud in the sky. I opened the sun roof, rolled down the windows, and listened to a jazz station as I drove up the Great Highway toward Sutro Heights. CD recommended the park to me. I climbed the hill in my little blue Pontiac G6, passed the Cliff House, found a parking spot on Point Lobos Ave, and strolled up toward the entrance to Sutro Heights Park. There be lions there, reclining on either side of the decomposed granite road. There are benches placed along the west side, and older people sat there, reading the paper and warming themselves in the late-morning sun.

It had rained a fair bit the week before I came, and I noticed signs of growth and renewal: new-green grass, plants pushing up out of the ground, bushes starting to bud. The air smelled so clean and fresh, and there was only the faintest breeze, barely enough to stir the folds of my skirt. Just past the gazebo I followed a dirt pathway that lead up into some trees surrounding a stone wall. The quality of the light coming through the tree branches was dreamy, lending an ethereal quality to my little tramp up a stairway. I came out onto a broad foundation overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Wow. Three big trees (cypresses?) dominated the east side of the space, leaving the rest of it exposed to the elements. I rested my palm against a rugged trunk and shook a stone of of my Birkenstocks. I liked the feel of it under my hands...rough and unyielding as stone, but living, a living being, this tree. I found myself wondering how old it was, how much it had seen, how many decades had passed for it to reach such an imposing girth.

As I wandered around the grounds I developed an appreciation for some of the specimens growing there, particularly this flower.

M woke up around noon and called me. We arranged to meet down at the Cliff House for lunch. I had a delicious shrimp louie at Sutro's Bistro, where they served these great warm popovers with a flaky exterior and an eggy inside. From there we walked down the hill to the beach and eventually sat on a bench and talked until the wind picked up about 4:30pm and it got chilly. We walked back up the hill and I followed him bak to his place, where we watched episodes of Ghost in the Shell late into the night.

I spent *hours* in bed on Sunday. I don't know when I last spent 10.5 hours in a bed. That is twice my usual daily dose. But it was nice to sleep in, and M did say that he would know his goal of geting my vacation off to a good start was achieved if I actually slept in. Which I did. Lunch was dim sum at a place that was insanely busy and we were the only non-asians in the building. From there we went to see Casino Royale. Went back to his place to watch more Ghost in the Shell and nap, and then went for sushi at Hana Zen, which was fantastic. I was going to head south to see my sisters, but as it was dark and getting out of San Francisco and onto I-5 is difficult enough in daylight, I decided to stay over another night, and leave on Monday morning. Since he had to go to work in the morning I was a good girl and went to bed early, then got on the road about 10am.

A long, relaxing weekend with one of my best friends was just what I needed. All in all a great start to a week's vacation.

Can you see the flower's singing?

No? It is clearing its crimson throat, preparing to raise its head to the sun and sing the nectar forth...

One of my primary goals when I entered therapy two years ago was conquering my attention-aversion. I've come a long way. I no longer cringe when my boss or colleague praises me in front of others. I am learning how to accept compliments with fewer attempts at deflection or self-deprecation. That feeling of needing to hide is diminishing in intensity. I've been putting myself out there--dating, writing, recording--and accepting the attention and feedback with as much grace as I can muster. Some days are better than others.

Recently I identified one of the triggers for my attention-aversion: the words "special", "talented" and "gifted". Most people associate "special" with good feelings. They like feeling special. Not so, me. When someone tells me I'm special, I feel suddenly wary. I find myself wondering, subconsciously, what they want.

I was at the local pub on Monday night, eating my favorite burger and sipping a beautiful microbrew porter. A commercial came on, and the voice-over actor said "What makes you special?" My reaction was immediate and vehement. My internal critic said "Nothing! I don't want to be special!" It shocked me. But I did not have time to examine it as I was in a social situation, so I marked it for contemplation at another time. I mentioned it to CD, and he reiterated that I was special, that I had such a gift for self-expression. I think he thought he was reassuring me, but his words made me choose to shy away from exploring it further. A few days later, in a chat, someone asked "When are you going to do another story? You have such talent!" Something in me cringed. I wanted to ignore his comment, but remembered to acknowledge it with a "thank you" instead.

Thursday night, talking with B, "special" came up and tears flooded my eyes--I felt suddenly, inexplicably sad. Trigger. And something about B's receptivity made it possible for me experience the trigger and trace it back. In that moment, eye-level with my psyche, I found it. She used to tell me I was special. Often. And like most children who fall prey to sexual predators, I blamed myself. I knew that it was something about me that made her want me. That something "special". And from that time forward, that word has been tainted, and any attentions ascribed to my being special or different or talented or gifted prompted instant withdrawal, an entering into "turtle mode".

Saturday morning I had conversation with B about what happened Thursday, abuut my understanding that I'm ready to process my aversion to "special", to lay it to rest and reclaim the word. And so I resolved to do so. But it was not enough. More was to come.

I rose this morning from dream-awareness, from that alpha state, cognisant of an internal dialogue-loop running in my mind "You've been renting space in your soul to a sexual predator for 26 years. Stop this."

Late this morning I spoke to CW. He's in Colorado Springs again. We talked for a while.
I commented to him that I'd noticed a change in him the past couple of weeks with regards to how he and I interact.
He asked what I meant.
I told him he appeared less bothered by my insistence on my independence, on my need to continue exploring and growing outside our relationship. He said he'd read some articles on gifted adults and it made it easier for him to understand and deal with me.
My knee-jerk response was "I'm not gifted."
He laughed. Loudly. "You most certainly are."
Remembering my conversation with B, remembering my intention to reclaim "special" and its related words, I stopped myself from arguing or withdrawing, and listened to him.
He said, "I stumbled across an article titled 'Can you hear the flowers sing?' and it made me think of you. I remembered you stopping us in the middle of the forest and saying 'Smell that? Can you smell the fungal mats growing?'"
I grinned, remembering his bafflement.
He said, "I have a better understanding of the challenges you face, not only with resolving your past, but in the present. I remind myself that you're not being intentionally perverse--that you are pushing at the boundaries that stifle you."
It was my turn to ask what he meant.
He said, "Social boundries, sensual boundaries, metaphysical boundaries. You are one of the most aware people I know. It makes you very sensitive to things most people don't sense. Including me."
Part of me was relieved that he seemed to have come to a place of acceptance. Part of me was wary. And then he said something that triggered me. Again.
He said, "Deny it all you want to, Kay. It won't change the fact that you are special--no--that you are exceptionally gifted."
Tears. Fuck. I cried and blabbered to him about my conversations with B, and the connotations that "special" carried for me. I wished very strongly that he was there to hold me. I wanted to press my face against his chest and breathe him into me. But he was in Colorado. So I forced myself to calm down and have a coherent conversation.

Later, he IM'd me a link to the article he'd mentioned, challenged me to read it and disagree that what it said applied to me.

And so I read it. The title resonated very strongly with me. The line in the article "no one else hears the flowers singing" resonated even more strongly. God, I know what that feels like, to experience the world differently than most. Sometimes it makes me despair, when I am excited by something I see/hear/taste/smell/feel and the ones I am with give me this dumb look and I try so hard to help them sense what I am feeling but they cannot. I think sometimes that is why I enjoy photography so much. Because sometimes I can get others to see not only what I am seeing, but how I am seeing it.

Anyway. Given some more time, I think I'll be laying another demon to rest, perhaps even embrace some more of the abandoned gifts that my shadow has been holding in safe-keeping for me.

feeling like a sunflower with a head so heavy it faces the ground

Today I feel like a sunflower with a head so heavy it faces the ground.

I am bothered by my awareness that I have become a walking contradiction in the two years since I entered therapy. So much of my psyche is in disarray. I feel like I've been exhuming bodies and doing post-mortem examinations. I've got an RIP pile for re-burial and pile for cremation and another for revisitation at a later date when I can handle it. And then there are the graves I'm walking past, not even ready to start digging those things up. Is it really necessary? Espedcially now, when my plate is so full?

A conversation with A. at a recent snuggle made me think. He is a life coach and we talked a bit about my feelings that I've gotten all I can out of therapy, that I'm tired of searching the past, that I want to think more about moving forward, and addressing where I am 'blocked' as I do so. He said that is what life coaches do. They help you figure out what it is that you really want, and help you to get out of your own way.

On the surface, I seem so calm, even after my fifth half-hour-long nose bleed in 8 days. J and I have talked about this, about my concern about this serene facade. Only he says it is not a facade. He said my true self is centered and knowing, that it is what is pulling me toward resolving the past so I can truly live in the now. He tells me that the chaos and the flaring emotions are the surface, they are the facade, and that the serenity that I usually feel and that others often sense is my core-self. He gave me a little pep talk about not letting short-term setbacks distract me from my long-rage goals. And he reminded me to be compassionate with myself. He asked me to go to meditation at the Buddhist Priory tonite. I almost said yes, but I'm so tired tonite. So drained. Somewhat sad. And a little scared.

understanding and acceptance

I find myself trembling on the edge of a realization. It is similar to that realization I had several months ago about questions and answers. That some questions cannot be answered, and that the answers aren't important--its the noticing, the asking, that matters--and the ability to let the questions go. Release.

And I am there now with 'understanding' and 'acceptance'. I am realizing I do not have to understand. I realized this as a result of my anguish over not understanding the suffering of those I love. There are things I may never be able to understand, no matter how smart I am, no matter how hard I try, no matter how many questions I ask.

If there is only one thing I have to understand, it is that I must accept that there are things I may never understand.

It sounds so simple, but its a tough lesson for me. I expect I will continue to struggle with it, but I've gone back to my meditation on practicing acceptance, and hopefully this time it will stick. In the meantime, there is nothing I would like more right now than to snuggle up to someone I love and trust and bask in the joy of just being with them. Unfortunately, all desired candidates are either otherwise occupied... or too far away.