Rocking

In my dream, I was rocking. At first, I was just rocking in the darkness. I had no idea why I was rocking, just that I was. It was a nice rocking feeling, comfortable instead of scary.

And I thought about the last time I'd felt myself rocking like that, and the next thing I knew, I was sitting in a boat on a lake, cradling my sister, reading to her, knowing I had to do something soon, or she would die. We rocked there, tied up against the dock, and I tried to shine every ounce of love into her, and I spoke of hope and healing. She was shivering, wrapped up in that blanket, even though it was 90 degrees outside and the sun was shining. She leaned her head against me and sighed, and nodded off....

And then we were young girls, rocking in a hammock under the redwoods. She was asleep against me, her mouth slightly open, her little rosebud mouth, and her hair was tousled and damp with sweat. I dropped my foot down and pushed, and we rocked a little harder. The air smelled like oaks and cedar.

Then I woke up. I'd forgotten both memories, but they are fresh in my mind now. Bittersweet gifts from my subconscious.

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.

The delight of surprise memories

Life is full: rich and colourful, dark and painful, replete with abundance, plagued with scarcity. For all these reasons, I've not posted to my blog in too long. I have several thoughts started, but a scarcity of time has prevented me from completing them. I will, though.

For now, though, I feel an urge to post this: Earlier this week, two memories surfaced for me. They were good memories. Memories of my mother, and my maternal grandfather. I was talking to 'Doc' (Bob) at HypnoFantasy about the possibility of doing hypnotic scripts. I told him I did not know much about hypnosis and wanted to understand it better before I attempted to hypnotize anyone else.

At some point in the conversation, I felt some internal pressure, some resistance to the idea of hypnosis for some reason, and I took a moment to examine it. And when I did, I suddenly remembered why I've always found it so easy to meditate, to fall into trance--I remembered that my mother used to hypnotize me and my sisters. WHAT?! I felt this little jab of panic as my old distrust of her surfaced. What did she say to me, when I was in trance, what suggestions did she make? I've no idea. I'll never know, because she is dead. I have decided to trust that the suggestions she made to me were intended to be beneficial. It is difficult for me, this trust, because she demonstrated so little in the way of maternal feeling, and I have so little childhood knowledge or memory of her.

But I found it inside me to trust that when he hypnotized me, she meant well, because I carry that memory of her brushing my hair when I was a child. I remembered the pleasure of the brush scraping lightly against my scalp and pulling gently at the roots of my hair, running down my back, and the waves of gooseflesh that ebbed and flowed with the rhythm of the brush... I remembered the sun on my face and on my skin, warming me as I sat naked before her, my knees pulled up under my chin. And I remembered her voice, her beautiful, mellifluous, soothing voice, saying my name. And I was grateful for that one memory, and I held it until it glowed, and I basked the light of my mother's love once again--and the pressure, the resistance to the idea of hypnosis, faded. My unconventional, counter-culture mother helped make me the woman I am today. And I like who I am :)

The other memory was of her father. He died the same year she took off and I have very few memories of him. But I was talking to someone about voice-over recording, and microphones, and I suddenly remembered Grandfather. He had a radio show! I could feel laughter burbling up inside me as I remembered. He, too, had a wonderful voice, which he learned put to good use as a missionary evangelist. He was one of Aimee Semple McPherson's students, having graduated from Life Bible College at Angelus Temple in the late 1920's, and she had a radio show. So did he. Even during the years he battled cancer, after he retired from the pulpit, he was on the air. I remember that he had taken over one of the closets in the guest room, the one that had the pull-down door to the attic. I remember him sitting in that little room stacked with books and papers, with the big microphone in front of him and the reel-to-reel tape machine running as he sermonized, his voice resonant and his blue eyes blazing. He put the 'charismatic' in 'Christian', Grandfather did.

So here I am, by some cosmic convolution, sitting at a desk, surrounded by books and papers, with a big microphone hanging in front of me, spinning tales on sexuality in my mother's voice for an audience that likes to be hypnotized. It makes me smile. There is something fitting in that.

Walking down memory lane

I spent my birthday with a special someone, walking through the misty Henry Cowell redwoods, revisiting my childhood. Not a mile from the house where my mother and I spent our childhood summers is a place called Roaring Camp. All summer long they run old trains on narrow gauge tracks up to Bear Mountain and back, and down into downtown Santa Cruz. Hearing that train whistle brought back a flood of memories. As did that scent of oak and redwood and humus that filled the air. It was fun to feel the decomposed granite of the pathway crunching underfoot, my legs longer and my feet larger than when I walked it last, but each step rolling back the years. I managed to will back the rain long enough to enjoy the 1880's village there, to toast the marshmallows that MR bought, and to walk the mile circle through the redwoods. I missed the sounds of birds, but it is winter still, despite the fact that the plum trees are blooming. I know I was suddenly childlike in my enthusiasm for being there, in that place, but MR was great about it. He even offered to let me drive his Z3. Pity I didn't have my license with me.

I'll be off to the airport soon, returning to the life I left behind in Portland 10 days ago. CW and Cyn and the others have missed me and I've missed them. And my bed.

PMS and feeling rather Domme

It appears that I was PMSing this weekend, and did not realize it until Sunday morning. Two months in a row. Grr. I hope this does not become a regular thing. Being on the Pill is, as I predicted to Dr Lewis, causing PMS. The rapid drop in hormone levels as a result of ending my cycle is acting as an amplifier for whatever I am feeling at the moment, making it more of a challenge to remain rational and in control. Especially when I do not realize what is happening. I am always feeling very sexual at the end of my cycle, and there is something about PMS that makes me more aggressive. I actually called Chris yesterday. Thank god he was not home. I have a feeling that having sex with him just because I wanted to fuck would have been a giant step backwards for me with regards to my quest for the union of emotional intimacy and my sexuality.

I'm feeling much calmer now, but still sexually keyed. I'm feeling very domme. I have this urge to tie a man up and make him beg. It is interesting to learn what makes a man malleable, be it pleasure, pain, or fear. I think men reach the surrender point sooner than women do. Women are more flexible, but in many ways, they are indomitable. They will surrender, but there is something you cannot penetrate, something at their core you cannot touch. I think it is this place from which women draw the strength to bear the suffering of childbirth, and it is this core that makes women so elusive and so difficult to 'break'. But men, now, men are wimps when it comes to pain or any kind of suffering, and they tend to surrender to the illusion of submission much more whole-heartedly. In my experience, it is a lot more work to dominate a woman than it is a man. Women don't often buy into that illusion. If they are going to surrender, its going to be to the real thing. So you'd better be a real Top, or its just play-acting, and something in her will despise you for your weakness.

Lots of memories lately, of my years at college and women and sex, and MR. Poor MR. Or lucky MR, depending on the perspective. He did look scared when I found him in Kat's bed. And I made him pay, yes, he was tied up and begging until he was hoarse, not because I was jealous or angry, but because he felt guilty. He felt he'd done something wrong, and therefore he had, and he wanted to be punished, and we both knew it. What an amazing thing, that line between pleasure and pain, and the thrill of comingling the two. Mmm, yes, it has been way too long.

Silly-goose

The sky is winter-pale, but bright. It is damp and cold, but I see the signs of spring... my primroses are in flower, the osmanthus is shooting, the christmas box outside the dining room window is blooming. It smells so clean outside and the air is refreshing. The mist clung to my eyelashes as I walked down to the river this morning and fed old bread to the birds.

Geese are such pushy creatures, and today they called up memories of that summer with Grandmother, in Santa Cruz, when I went to feed the geese and they charged me. They were so tall--their eyes looked directly into mine--and I fell backwards, clutching the paper bag of stale bread. Of course they dove for it, and of course, I was terrified by all those birds surrounding me, their wings flapping, their beaks diving for me. I got up and ran to the car and they followed me -- I still held the bag. I remember them surrounding the car, looking in at me, their beaks opening and closing...

Today I know to toss the bread away from me and keep it coming fast enough that they don't come after me. And I am done, I walk quickly away, and watch them from a distance.

I think sometimes that I react to people the way I do to geese.

Since childhood, I was overwhelmed by people, by their apparent desire for what I had, and it seemed that they pursued me, even to the point of delving inside me, pecking and pulling at my soul. I would huddle in that saferoom of my mind, relying on glass to protect me from what frightened me.

Today, I am still on my guard with people, but I try to give willingly what I think they want. Sometimes I give until I am empty, and then I distance myself, and observe. Will they want more, I wonder, even when I have nothing left to give?