I was thinking about my skin recently, and the loss of its powdery softness and silk sheet-like smoothness.

Then this bit of writing came through:

My dormant sex rolled over in bed and turned her back on the World of Lovers, as though she went to bed angry.

She holds rigid in her body the words, “No, I don’t want to be touched,” yet secretly sheds a tear because she does not really understand when, or why, touch went from a source of ecstatic pleasure and connection to a source of threat—something that wants to penetrate something that does not want to be penetrated.

Touch was once the sunshine to my flowering, to my effortless opening. Now it feels like a scout in search of a bounty I can no longer deliver, or a treasure I have lost. My feminine radiance and receptivity have been turned under like spent soil in a fallow field. Nothing blooms here. There are no fruits to bear.

And I no longer know my way around my own garden. The seasons have stopped at winter.

The only touch I now crave is of the heart: the holding in friendship, the holding in kinship, the holding in community, and in god. It’s my heart that craves deep penetration and a genuine ravishing, but I crave infinitely more than romantic love.

I crave only for my Self to be eclipsed by spiritual love, again and again. I want to be rendered useless by the thundering overwhelm of human emotion as I continue to grapple with articulating that spilling light and glory, that degree of tenderness and intimacy, that oblivion that leaves me crying yet laughing yet speechless in the face of this manner of truth.

Now that I know what this is. Now that I have felt it.

Has my ecstatic centre moved into a new compartment a few floors up?

Are there lovers here?

How will I make love now?

I feel like a foreigner in a new land where my old currency is useless. I once knew my price as a youthful woman with curls and limbs and tons of delicious ego. The world wanted it, and its desire made my coat shiny with feminine pride and confidence.

I never thought I would realize how brightly I shone.

I didn’t realize that one day my currency would devalue and that I would have to define my worth by an entirely new metric.

Will I find my company here?
Will the masculine meet me here?
Will it want to?
Can it see my worth now?
Can I see it?
What will we exchange?
How will we play?
What will we make?
Is my greatest love still to come?
Is my first real love still to come?

I hear “yes.”
I hear “the heart is your final frontier.”

And I know, I already do not miss the cloying neurosis of intertwined egos. The dance that casts only shadows.

Yet there is a love that casts light. This is the love I aspire to. This is the love I am in service to, and this recognition binds me in time eternal because I acknowledge that this is all there ever is and all there ever will be.

It is the desire I will always awaken to.
The longing I will always feel.
The truth I will always die to, and be birthed from.

Now how do I embody this? And who will be my partner?

~