“How do I connect with a Muse?” It seems like a strange question, but since I write about the nine Muses in The Pillars of Dawn, I actually get asked this question fairly often. Usually, the question pops up when I’m sitting with artists, and the conversation rolls around to blockages.
I don’t believe in blockages, writers’ or otherwise, so I usually end up saying so and acknowledging my creative outputs are heavy, deep, and if uninterrupted can go on for hours/days without pause.
The short of it is, when I connect to the pipeline—it’s pours out, and it’s all I can do to try to keep up. (Funny note: my laptop is getting old, so when I’m on a really good streak and blazing out content, there are times when my keystrokes outpace my word processor and I have to stop for a minute and wait for my computer to catch up. Yes, I need a new laptop. It’s on the list.)
Artists in these conversations refer to this energy as the Muse. Inspiration. Graced with productivity, ideas, and source. I don’t disagree. I think of it much the same way, and I thoroughly enjoy writing about the Muses in my series with this power.
People mistakenly think I have some sort of “in” with Calliope, or something and ask me how they can get an introduction, or how to “snag” a Muse for their project.
That’s not really how it works. The best explanation I can think of to entice a Muse to an artist really boils down to the concept of true partnership. Enchant her with your energy, and prove you’re a good match for her.
Muses (energy) will partner with like energy (vessel). Like attracts like in this case, right?
While I can imagine myself, and the characters I write in The Pillars of Dawn as vessels—they (and myself) must be a match for the energy of the Muse in question. As seen in the books, pairing the wrong energy with the wrong vessel is catastrophic. It just doesn’t work.
As a storyteller, my match to a Muse energy is storyteller energy, right? So, what is storyteller energy? It starts with willingness. It begins with curiosity. Being open to answers that bring more questions, that breed more mysteries, which leave breadcrumbs of truth that lead to discovery. Quintessentially, story is a journey. If you’re not open to a sojourn down the scenic route—you’re not open to storyteller energy and that Muse will pass you by. If you have all the answers already, she’s going to go dance with someone else, because she wants to discovery the mysteries, too.
The same rule of inspiration applies to all forms of elevated and cosmic consciousness whether that’s music, law, language, mathematics, the sciences, astronomy, leadership, and so on and so forth. Like energy attracts like energy. Being open to the mystery, brings connections with higher consciousness in the field in which you would like to have a pipeline to inspiration and discovery.
The principle is pretty basic, also known as “The Law of Attraction”.
So, now you’ve got the Muse. You’ve managed to connect with a sense of curiosity, openness, willingness to create in this amniotic womb of the unknowable mystery in your chosen field. Now what?
Now that you’ve connected, you treat the relationship like a partnership—a true partnership. The connection is “at will”, remember? She’ll just move along if you’re puttering around trying to decide what to do. In short, put a damn ring on it. Commit.
What does that mean?
There’s a level of commitment required in this relationship to keep your Muse, and your inspirations flowing. Commitment to the work. Commitment to the process. Commitment to the continued relationship of Muse and Vessel. The second you decide you’re too tired to keep going, she’ll pack up and move onto the next Vessel. (You can win her back, if you work at it, but she’s going to make it hard on you.)
As a storyteller, my commitments look like this: When an idea comes, I make note of it. Always. Whether I’ll follow that breadcrumb later or not is another story—but I always make a note. This is why I have boxes of notes, scribbles on my hands, menus with dialog in the margins, sticky pads, audio recordings, and photos with captions for my files. The inspirations are popping in, constantly.
How do I keep them popping in? By living. This seems weird, but it’s true. The movie, Short Circuit, where the robot is struck by lightning, and he wanders around saying “Johnny Five is Alive”, “Need input”.
That’s my life as a storyteller. Short Circuit is a perfect metaphor for the human condition, and the life of a storyteller. I basically wander around saying, “Need input”.
Story cannot happen in a vacuum. It needs air. It needs experience. It needs contrast and depth. All of which I need in order to produce believable content, characters, and scenarios. My imagination is rich—but it has limits. I need actual tastes, textures, and elements to flesh out my worlds and scenes.
To that end, I try a lot of new foods, drinks, recipes and markets. I put a lot of strange stuff in my mouth. Some of it is delicious—some of it is retch-worthy. AND I WRITE ABOUT ALL OF IT.
I wander through textile stores on weekends and touch all the things. I rub in on my inner forearm, my check, and my neck. Furs, faux furs, leathers, cottons, blends, satins, weaves, and so on. AND I WRITE ABOUT ALL OF IT.
I walk into apothecary shops to taste and smell. I invite strangers into conversations. I get on the bus and people watch for hours in the city, with no destination in mind. I take photos of people at the beach. I loiter in the library for hours and make notes on the books people are checking out, and how they observe me in the corner, spying. I wander through Goodwill, and assemble outfits for my characters. I jump out of airplanes. I stop at the rock shop at that little beach town on the coast and pick up all the pretty stones and give them jobs in my scenes. I book short trips to places I’ve never seen. AND I WRITE ABOUT ALL OF IT.
Input. Input. Input. I am alive. I need input. All these details and inputs I’m gathering, cataloging, storing—becomes story-ing.
Hence the phrase on my business card:
Inhale Life, Exhale Story.
My commitment to my Muse is that I live big, and boldly, and often messily. I gather data. I ask a lot of questions. I make notes of hypotheticals, ponderances, curiosities.
In turn, she (my Muse) gets to adventure this world with me. She’s with me when I’m at the textile store, or skydiving. She’s with me when I’m drinking a new wine or flirting with the bartender. She’s right there when I’m wandering the jagged coastline searching for mermaids, and gathering shells. She’s even with me on all my worst dates. She is living vicariously through all my discoveries and experiences.
So when we sit down together, as partners, and I place my hands on the keyboard, tuck my legs up under my body and disconnect from this world—Aria blooms under my fingertips.
Vast spaces open up between this world and the next, and in those gaps characters emerge, conflicts abound, and adventure beckons. And all those scenes are fleshed out with everything I have tasted, touched, smoked, or swallowed, everything I have ached from, yearned for, bled on, laughed at, been broken by, lifted from, reached for, and have been inspired to express because it feels so very real.
Sometimes reality and my imagination cross over. They can get tangled and woven because so much of my life is put in my work. It takes time to come out of a writing binge and unpick reality so I can function as a normal human being again. This can be hard for people to be around; especially if I go straight from a heavy writing session to lunch with friends, I can be really disoriented for an hour or more.
But hot damn, was it fun while I was in there! Being plugged in is like flying! Even the hard stuff can be a total blast.
So you see, the commitment doesn’t end with just being open to the mystery and the discovery. The commitment doesn’t end with putting your butt in the chair to pour it out all out. The commitment is a life choice. It’s a way of living, for me anyway.
This life choice means I have a flourishing, co-creative relationship with my pipeline to creativity and I live accordingly. By nurturing this energy, I can rely upon it to support me whenever I sit down to work. By keeping this relationship fed and secure, I have total faith and trust in the power of the connection. It goes both ways.
A Muse is not there only at your whim, and to treat her as such means she’ll just move along.
She does not just make appearances when it’s convenient for you, say on Saturdays between 10am and 3pm. You either make her a part of your life, a part of your tribe—or she will run off with the cute painter down the road.
Respect her time. Listen to what she says, her voice is an equal element in your work and life, whichever field you are working in. Support her needs, and she will support yours. Make time to be alone with her. Make time to show her your world. Make time to play, adventure, and enjoy one another. Then when the inspirations start pouring in…get a notebook and pay attention.
Many of the writers in the groups that believe in blockages have habitualized those blockages. They have fortified those blockages so well, and cling to them so tightly that nothing is getting in. They must be dismantled from the inside out—and by dismantle, what I really mean is recognizing they are fictitious, and they will simply crumble.
FEAR. False Evidence Appearing Real.
Those blockages are fear.
This is the part that confuses me about blockages in creativity. What the actual fuck is there to fear about unlimited creativity?
Unlimited potential. Wow. Seems unreal, right? Except it isn’t. It’s totally achievable, and a mega ton of fun to boot.
So, moral of the story. Have fun. Play. Be sensual. Be creative. Be a good partner. Be curious. Be hungry. Be open. Be adventurous. Be loose.
All you have to do to “snag” a Muse is be living your life, and be open to the ideas that come. And once you’ve piqued her curiosity with your laughing, smiling, joy…she’ll scoot in closer, snuggle up against you at the keyboard and as you to tell her s story.
Then you just take a deep breath and prepare for an amazing ride.
Venus must be transiting a weird spot in my chart. Ordinarily I don’t let these conversations get under my skin or get me talking. But a couple of drinks and I'm suddenly blathering it all. We’ll call it a cosmic realignment and not revisit again, I hope.
I recently had a long talk with a couple of regulars at the restaurant about the challenges of living in isolation, and maintaining human connections to fuel my work as a storyteller. They always seem to have new questions about what it’s like to be a recluse, live in a woodland cottage, write books, and generally “do whatever the hell you want”. They are mystified by what they call my “obsessive independence”. They’re always asking what’s new up in my little glade, as if anything interesting ever actually happens.
I’ll call the nice elderly lady Gladys. She could pass for a Gladys. Which would make him a Duke, though I’m not sure why those monikers seem to fit for the purposes of internet anonymity. Gladys and Duke have been married for fifty something years, and by their own admission, have fallen in and out of love several times. “Marriage is hard work” they say, since they don’t know I’ve been married before, and would rather resign myself to a coal mine shift than do it again. I mean, never say never I guess. But the possibility is so staggeringly low it’s hard to imagine that scenario entering my life again.
Still, Gladys and Duke are far too interested in my love life, or as Gladys has rightly guessed--my absolute aversion to it. Further still, Gladys has been interested in my books, and recently discovered I write erotica under a pen name.
When Duke made a trip to the gentleman’s privy, Gladys took her opportunity to ask some personal questions.
I was surprised. Embarrassed, even. Yes, I get asked about my books and adult content by readers at inopportune and often inappropriate times (often when my mouth is full or I’m sitting with friends at a cafe), but she seemed genuinely interested and non-judgmental.
So I said, “You know, I’d really love to answer those questions in full, and as you know, I have no shame or embarrassment around the topic…let me write a post and you can read it on my blog when I’ve had a chance to think it over?”
So, here we are.
Yes, Gladys, B. Unbidden (Blush) is based on my life as a sybarite; some real, some imagined, some dreamt. It’s amalgamated. Yes, I do believe in deep abiding, passionate love and intimacy. Some believe that the oceans are Earth’s last uncharted frontier—I believe our human capacity to swim in the totality of Universal acceptance and love with another human being is the last truly unexplored horizon. Or, well, maybe it’s just my last frontier. I’ll ponder that.
Yes, I do a lot of research. Yes, some of it is sexy and fun, and some of it not so much. I could write a whole book on the various and prolific uses of lubricants. Seriously. Some information is too much information.
No, I do not believe in hell as an afterlife punishment system for exploring love and intimacy. I have no personal judgments about anyone else’s way of discovering/expressing love, or of their choice of partner(s), or of their journey/method/practices to reach their own forms of bliss.
How then do I reconcile the need to have a balanced life of love, romance and connection, with my reclusive lifestyle and isolation when it comes to needing those energies to create believable stories and write “vulnerable and sexy” erotica that made her “enjoy that feeling of anchorage within another person?”
“Where is the middle ground on obsessive independence and deep human intimacy? How do you feed them both?”
Damn. Fine. Questions. Gladys.
I wanted to really think about the answer. It’s not very sybaritic to keep avoiding the truth of a situation or of the feelings it evokes. Sybarite ways are to feel it all; the depths, the discomfort, the bitter, the sour, the rank, and yes, especially the empty places.
Damnit, Gladys. Thank you for the opportunity to dig a little deeper into myself and my responses. Here it goes:
Living alone allows me to focus, to imagine without interruption or pressure, or expectation from others. It’s a weightlessness of being, as if floating in a creative amniotic womb. I consider my alone time sacred creative space.
Relationships, as wonderful as they can be, are fraught with unsaid or even said needs, desires, distributions of power, negotiations of time, effort, responsibility—all of which can be totally and completely valid, beautiful and fun. Negotiations are necessary in the healthiest and most fulfilling connections. We are humans. We all have needs. Whether that’s the need to be heard, and seen. Or the need to leave your dishes in the sink and not be nagged about it—the same as the other person’s need is to have an empty sink, see?
Engaging in those negotiations, schedules, expectations, desires is NOT a creative amniotic womb. It’s effort that can feel either positive or negative, and is often exhausting and draining. At least my experience with it has been so. I often stagger out of an exchange feeling smothered or having been a smotherer. No fun either way.
Human intimacy and contact is a real need. Since we have already established my sybaritic patterning, I will admit sex, vulnerability, and contact are all part of that complex matrix of human desires and grounding needs for me. These negotiations are also exhaustive and effort laden. Another human being’s needs, wants, and desires must all be satisfied as well in order for the exchange to be equal and balanced. It must be fair or it’s not going to be fulfilling. That’s relationship work, and it’s often very gratifying, but it’s not a weightless creative space. It’s an active building and development space. (A different kind of creativity)
True intimacy is the matrix wherein trust, vulnerability and willingness come together and partners actively and lovingly hold space for one another to bridge the unknown. How incredibly sexy does it feel when you believe you are held, your uncertainty cradled, your needs recognized? Super fucking sexy, right? Holy moly, what a turn on. Wanna know true partnership? Work on giving and receiving that feeling. Not that I need to tell you, Gladys, you’ve been married half a century—you don’t make it that long without figuring that out already.
I’ll admit I write about relationships, sex, and intimacy in storyteller idealized forms. This can be dangerous as it can set a false expectation or unachievable bar. I further admit, I have adopted that style because there is something so cosmically beautiful in that elevated expression of love, especially when anchored into the human fallibilities and frailties. The contrast is breathtaking, heart breaking, and often just downright inspiring.
And goddammit, Gladys, I need some fucking inspiration in love and romance. Yes, even me. It’s way overdue. So I write it in a way that I hope to inspire myself to keep a very small flame lit, and to help others keep that flame lit as well. (A pilot light for love, if you will) When that flame goes out, we’re all in serious trouble. I write love big and bold and dirty and musical in order to keep the spark within me, so I can go about the day to day knowing that tiny spark can be ignited into a conflagration when the time is right—not before.
Now, all that being said, I appreciate you thinking of me where your grandson is concerned. I’m sorry he’s had trouble finding a “nice young woman to settle down with”. That sucks. I feel for him, I really do. But I am not nice, young, nor settlement material, at least not right now. Nice try, Gladys. And yes, he’s pretty, I agree. Still a “Thank you, but no”. Also, I’m also not sure he’d appreciate you showing off his facebook page (and shirtless ab pictures) to random weirdos like me at the bar. Lots of nutbags living out in the woods, just sayin’.
In conclusion: How do I find that balance? And what am I looking for?
The truth is, I’m not actively looking. I’m waiting.
The truth is--I am waiting for someone very specific. Which is why it’s been such a long dry spell. I want someone so specific that I’m willing to hold out indefinitely, and I’m also quite happy being alone if he never actually shows up. I generally don’t tell people the truth, because one of two things happens: 1) they immediately begin trying to set me up (with their grandson/brother/neighbor/best friend/or uncle who just got out of jail) OR 2) they launch into an unsolicited lecture on how I need to have less specialized requests in a partner if I ever want to have a mate.
“Thank you, but no” to the first one. And as to the second—I’m simply not worried about it. I’m not losing sleep about being on my own…quite like it, in fact.
It’s a true partner for me or nothing—and I’m contented as I am, so why settle? I'm not lonely or unhappy. I'm not lost or wandering. I don't understand other people's obsession with the fact that I'm delighted to fly solo, or that I have a set of standards on which I'm not willing to compromise.
The thing is, I’m a bleeding hopeless romantic at heart. It’s why I write the way I do. I’ve spent fifteen years trying combinations of characteristics in potential mates and deciding none of them work for me, except a very few quality traits that I cannot do without in someone I would consider a partner-worthy adventure. Turns out, those traits are a little rarer and more difficult to find. Not impossible, just uncommon. But they are absolutely worth holding out for, right?
I can live quite happily without a mate—but if I must have one, certain attributes are essential. My faith in him as a man, and my respect and confidence in him as a human are completely dependent on his possessing specific ethical and noble qualities. In turn, I would hope that I possess the same qualities to match, so that any challenges we face will not be in conflict between the two of us over integrity/core principles. I would need to be able to rely on the quality of his humanity in order to put my vulnerabilities in his care—and vice versa. He would need to be able to see me, and I him, and adore that internal cosmos…or we would be short-lived.
And why bother with short-lived romance? Le sigh. I’m over it. Got things to build and a world to rock…aint got no time for flash bangs. (they’re fun, sure, but distracting)
Beyond core principles and nobility of character—literally everything else is negotiable. I have no preference on age, education, appearance, profession, etc. and so forth. I don’t care about his packaging, breeding, or origin. I care about what he is. What does he stand for, even when it’s difficult or inconvenient to do so?
The question of balance is answered in what I’m looking for in a man. How do I find the balance between intimacy and independence? By choosing the right partner for me. My true partner. Someone who will recognize and be able to negotiate my sacred creative time and space. If we cannot work that primary need into the matrix, we just wont work.
Kids? You ask? Oh, Gladys, how I long for the day people stop asking me, “But don’t you want to have children before it’s too late?” as if my only purpose or value is measured by my ability to contribute to overpopulation. The answer is this—I am not unfulfilled by my lack of spawn. I do not feel less a woman for it. I do not hunger for motherhood, BUT I will not hesitate to step into the role if the occasion calls for it. There is no “too late”. The opportunity to mother can appear at any time and may happen completely from outside my womb. Children are a negotiation I will have with a true partner I have utter faith in, OR I will be prepared to fulfill the calling on my own in an emergency if needed. Thankfully, I will only have to endure this question and its expectations and implications of my value to society for a few more years. (I know you didn’t mean anything by bringing it up…you were probably thinking of your grandson’s future which is perfectly natural. No offense taken.)
When I’m dating, I never ask myself, “Do I love him? Oh, crap. Could I actually say yes if he asked?” When I want to know how I really feel about having someone in my life on a permanent, hard work, abundantly beautifully romantic level I ask this question.
“Athena, you can have a life of freedom, creativity, exploration, personal growth, family, community, and blissful adventuring if you leave right now. OR, you can have him. What do you choose?”
If what I know of him or have seen of his behaviors, if what I feel about him leads me to believe in any way that he is the consolation prize for my creative independence and freedom—it’s time for me to go. Preferably while he’s sleeping.
Only when I can honestly answer that I believe I can have a fulfilling life WITH him in it, and that he will make for a better adventure than I could have imagined for myself, I’ll stick around and make coffee while I wait for him to wake up.
I honestly don’t know what I would do if I ever found myself in a situation where I believed I could have it all. It would freak me out. I’d probably panic to be honest. I’m not sure I’d even know what to do with that kind of treasure.
The point is, when you get to be a hermit for long enough, and you love the way your life is playing out, and your road is open, loaded with opportunity and curiosities—it takes a very strong, special man to make you feel like there’s a whole other scenic route worth taking with him. And if he is capable of inspiring that risk, well then…why the hell not?
Until then, I satisfy the hunger for intimacy by writing about it and living in my imagination. It’s a pale shadow by comparison, I know, but it holds me in check so I don’t do something stupid like run off with the cowboy at the end of the bar then break his achy heart. I keep it locked down in everyone’s best interest, right? No need to be hurting other people in an attempt to fulfill desires I know can’t be met. Better to just tuck into the forest and only occasionally come out for a drink at the bar—but never when I’m ovulating, right? Better safe than sorry.
Anyway, damnit all to hell, Gladys. A couple of vodkas and I’m blathering away all the details I never wanted to talk about again. Well played, Master Jedi. Well played.
Long story short, too late…I’m in no rush. This transformation will take some time yet, and I’m in no hurry to be available to anyone. I’m happy. I’m fulfilled. And there’s a spark to be lit when the time is right. I need to clean up some personal messes I’ve made of my body and habits, and get my shit together. I need to put my tools away and tidy up my mind as I’m not currently in a condition to bring my best to a partnership table. I’ve got some work to do, and books to write…timing and fate will do what it does in the meantime.
Thank you, Gladys. Apparently, I needed this. I started out a little irritated, but once I got going it all sort of spilled and I do feel lighter for it. So, next time I see you at the pub, your Tsunami Stouts are on me.
P.S. Tell your adorable grandson to take a breath, it will happen for him. Probably when he’s working on his own personal mastery and not even looking for love. That’s how magic works after all, it manifests when you’re not looking right at the void. It’s likely when he stops aching for her to appear and just goes about his happy life, she’ll land right in his lap. Kismet. And it will make an awesome story.
Another day in the life of a non-glamorous literary grunt.
I’m adding a new category to the blogroll to capture these. It’s my hope to dispel any weird ideas people have about what a glamorous writer’s life looks like. My god, would I have chosen the writer life if I’d known about these before? Well, likely, yes. I’m not sure I really had a complete choice in the matter as the life seems to choose you, really. Still, it would have been nice to know ahead of time what these days might look like.
I’ll try to back link as many as I can, and use this category going forward to house #literarygrunt #amwriting #inhalelifeexhalestory
Then there are some days when you have to tackle the scene you’ve been dreading. You’ve put it off as long as you can. You know it’s going to wreck you to break a character that has become too real, too human. You know they’ll feel it, because you know what it feels like.
You know you can break them because you built their weakness into the arc. You know it will hurt because you’ve experienced that pain before. Pain you would never wish on anyone, not even someone you hate…certainly not on someone you love, even if they are fictitious.
Then you spend the evening afterward sitting in the bathtub sobbing. The water just wont stay hot enough to scald and numb. When the water goes cold you’ll sit on the floor of the hot shower and wonder why the fuck you ever wanted to be a writer, and why is your tea so salty? Oh, way to go, you cried in your tea.
Aftercare is important after these scenes. It’s psychologically taxing to put yourself in the headspace of both creating the break/inflicting the trauma, and writing the character who is simultaneously FEELING the break/trauma.
On days like today, I’m grateful to be single. It’s better that I can just do what I need to do and spare anyone the emotional waves. Scalding hot bath, lots of tissues, warm teas, lots of blankets, and a heating pad nest in bed to recover. (Good Scotch when I’m not on stupid diet).
Although I’m glad to not have to put anyone else through it, there are the animals to consider who camped at the bathroom door while I wept in the bubble bath. Dakota and Buttercup held space for me at a distance, and for that I was grateful.
The characters can’t evolve without the challenge. The arc cannot progress without the conflict. The more you try to avoid the hard stuff, the waterier your story will become. I don’t want a watery story…so some characters are going to have to bleed from the soul and then some.
Which unfortunately means, I bleed too.
Just another day schlepping words into books.
Sheesh. This month hit like an ice-road trucker turning into a skid. I came out of January with so much momentum and with so many intersecting deadlines scheduled to hit at once that I’ve been on high burn for three weeks to try and get ahead of what is about to be a pileup. Trying to mitigate the impact zones and coordinate some stagger if possible.
It might look pretty gnarly through March and part of April—but afterward it should level back out.
The Life Erotic Week Two: Nibbles went live last month. I’m happy to report the feedback I’m getting from male readership is especially encouraging. So far, the most powerful emails have been requests from people asking how they can inspire their partners to be more comfortable and to feel free to be themselves in the bedroom. Huzzah!
While I doubt I’m the most qualified person to answer such questions, I’m happy those questions are being asked. Folks who are openly, and willingly on the legitimate path to discovering those answers are in for some delightful intimacy with the ones they love—and I can’t help but be excited for them. YAY!
The branding merge of my two author names under one site and banner is nearly complete. My works under B. Unbidden were easy to transfer on the digital side. That does leave the question as to how to go about putting The Life Erotic into print format. A trickier process.
My original fears about people being confused and accidentally purchasing the wrong name and ending up with porn when they think they’re getting fantasy fiction appears to have been an unnecessary worry…so that’s a relief. Now I feel a little silly about fighting the merge for so long. Alas.
As far as my small publishing label, BlissQuest Publishing goes, this merge will make it significantly easier to manage business and needs without needing to jump back and forth on different platforms. It will also enable readers to find all my work in one place, rather than me sending them to multiple locations or shopping cart checkouts.
Speaking of checkouts—yes, the next upgrade to the site will include the storefront for book purchases, sculptures from my polymer studio, and the membership lounge. It’s coming.
The Coming Out:
No, I’m not gay, but it would be a huge relief to my dad if I were. No, my coming out is entirely related to preparing to step out of the forest. Eeek. I know. But I’m so happy all tucked in up here, right?
Yes, I’m wonderfully happy and fulfilled. However, the time has come to get in front of my work and speak for these characters. It’s time to give a platform to their voices—so, I can’t keep hiding. I’ve had three blissful, relaxing, beautiful years of solitude and rejuvenation. A cocoon, if you will.
Coming out of that cocoon is scary and uncomfortable, but necessary. The new form I’ll be taking is still in flux. I need to pick the skin that will feel the strongest, most supportive, and flexible to achieve the goals I’ve set for this emergence. There will be plenty more on this transformation on the VLOG and on my Instagram account.
So far, the coming out transformation includes some basic upkeep to my body that I’ve neglected for too long whilst in the happy glow of a three-year writing spree. Yes, that means losing weight, toning up, reconditioning my breath, and re-learning makeup and hair for public presentation. Day one in the camera made me feel like a Baba Yagga forest witch that stumbled out of the underbrush and onto a highway.
Stay tuned…and please feel free to offer some advice or ideas. I’m open to feedback.
The Elder Glade:
Spring is coming six weeks early. I’m really worried about the delicate leaves and blossoms trying to shoot too soon. If we get a late frost we’ll lose whole crops this year. Tillamook County has also endured massive flooding this winter, which has put large swathes of farmland under water.
Up in the glade I got a lot of rain, and the creek swelled, swallowing the island and overflowing the dam. Luckily the wellhead stayed safe, but there will be a lot of cleanup this spring when the sun starts to come back. I have a lot of downed trees and branches to clear.
I’ve also had to make some tough choices about which projects I take on this season. Namely, the beehives.
I’m going to be crushed by deadlines in the next six weeks, and will have to be really selective about my project load and finances—so ordering new bee colonies may have to be pushed back. Sure, you can order and house them after the season—but you run the risk of them not being able to establish before the winter, and there’s just not enough bloomage in my part of the forest to give them a mid-summer cache.
While going through The Elder Glade project load for the next six weeks I realized I’m going to have to triage some things off the list. It will be so sad to skip bees this year. I really love making the honey into mead and having a booming raspberry crop from the extra local pollinators, but, well…time.
Anywhoo, I’ll keep you posted on land updates again soon.
Thank you for all your continued support and encouragement! See you next month.
Apologies for posting this a bit early. I'm about to be avalanched by three intersecting deadlines--so if I don't put the video out now, it might not get posted until summer. So, here are the goings on in The Elder Glade and beyond for winter 2019/2020. I will try to back fill into the gap next video.
The previous seasonal videos made for patrons can be found in the gallery.
As the videos on my VLOG come out about my transformation there are some things to cover.
I have not always been clueless about beauty routines and polished speaking performance. Those skills are way back in the old pool—the archive, so to speak. They are perishable skills, however, and I’m a long way gone from having those memories or practices handy. This remodel will hopefully pull some of those old skillsets to the foreground so I can remember how to use them. Something as simple as being able to twist the curling iron the correct direction while looking in a mirror—who knew that was a perishable skill? Or speak at a podium without chewing my lipstick off.
The fun fact about hermitage is that you get all the focus time you want and need. My time in the wild has done exactly what I needed it to—anchored, re-wired, gave me inspiration, peace, and tremendous amounts of personal joy and fulfillment. In doing all that, I also dropped skillsets, habits, and practices that would have kept me in an old frame of mind. I needed a new, fresh, unencumbered way to think and write.
To that end, I really stopped paying any attention to my face or body. I made minimalism look extravagant. Living fully in the riotous joy of spirit and creativity meant, not caring a fig what I looked like while doing so.
Coming back to the real world is heart-wrenching, scary and exciting all at the same time. I did my first video and got the first real look at myself on camera after a three-year hiatus from care. Wow. I look like I’ve been living with wolves, really chubby wolves. Chubby wolves with no concept of moisturizer.
On the bright side, I’m in such rough shape it should be easy to see progress fairly quickly, so, small blessings. I know, appearance is such a shallow metric—I don’t disagree. But bringing forth the interior lightning to wear on my external persona will, I think, add a whole new level of maturation to my evolving human story. So, I’m looking forward to what the end result will be.
There used to be a time in my life when I was comfortable in a slinky red evening gown at a black-tie dinner on a Friday night, then camping in my Sorrels and the mud on a Saturday night. I didn’t struggle switching back and forth. Then I mostly fell into the camping in the mud and it’s been three years. I’m not sure I’d even remember which fork to use at a fancy dinner.
October 2020 will reveal the transition from inner to outer—and I’ll go from there.
The questions I’ve been getting are inevitably around my hermitage. Sequester was a choice. I have made efforts to actively participate in human interactions at least three times a week. Part of that was to ensure I wouldn’t isolate to detriment. I can easily lock into my imagination and forget to come up for air.
These are the most common questions about my situation.
“Don’t you get lonely?”
Not really. I have a fabulous extended community to reach out to when I need connection. I have a house full of animals, and a forest full of creatures. I also have a brain packed with twelve books worth of imaginary characters who visit frequently. Right, Liam?
On the rare occasion that I do get lonely—rarely. I make a call to catch up with a friend, or go into town.
“Don’t you need internet or cell phone service?”
Yes, and no. I need internet to put my work on line, and manage my communications—but I drive to town to handle that. I need internet on a functional level—but I don’t need the internet to feel connected. I certainly don’t need the time sink that is sitting for hours on end surfing aimlessly at filler videos when I should be getting chapters written.
Do I miss aimless surfing? Hell yes. But giving up internet access in home has allowed me to write four new books. I miss streaming services for television and movies, that I truly miss.
No cell service is a bummer for sure, especially in the world of texting and snapchat when I want to touch bases with people I love. But a landline works, and gets the connection job done.
“How do you live without electricity?”
I have electricity. I have all modern amenities minus cell phone signal and internet. Oh, and cable. And before anyone asks, yes I also have running water and flushing toilets.
“How do you date or meet people if you live that far out?”
I don’t date, but not because of distance. That’s a whole other post for another time, but part of it does tie into the very nifty filter of not having cell phone service. On the bright side, lack of cell access very quickly weeds out the non-contenders. It’s brilliant. Had I known the “I only know how to have a relationship by text” guys would be so easily deterred—I’d have dropped cell service even when I lived in the city. It’s been a huge relief not to have to deal with those fellas.
Still, lack of services and my distance are not actually what keep me from the dating pool. I’ll have to be well into my third glass of wine to have that conversation, though.
“What kind of wildlife do you have?”
I have a herd of elk that pass through the yard regularly. A racoon. Several obnoxious blue jays, hundreds of birds, including a large heron, and an eagle. There are trout and salmon in the creek, coyotes in the den up the ridge, a black bear down the road, and I’ve seen several wolves and a cougar as well.
This area also has beaver, pack rats, rabbits, deer, all sorts of squirrels and mice and gophers. There are nutria, mink, great Pacific Northwest lizards, garden snakes, newts/salamanders, and dozens of types of spiders and crawly critters.
“Would you ever live in the city again?”
Good question. I won’t say never. The beauty of being a writer is that I can do it anywhere. I choose to work out here because it’s peaceful and has minimal interruptions.
My options are always open. I don’t think I’ll ever willingly give this place up, that’s for sure. Even if I split time in a city—this will always be my sanctuary and retreat. It’s haven.
“What is your next big project at The Elder Glade?”
Putting in the new chicken coop and the bridge across the creek. Those are my big projects for the homestead this year. I may only get one or the other this spring and summer—but we’ll see.
After that it will be leveling land and planting the orchard. I’m really looking forward to the day I can pick my own peaches and eat them on the deck overlooking the water.
“What’s the hardest part of living out in the woods?”
There are constant new sets of challenges. Keeping the house and animals safe. Navigating Mother Nature’s curve balls (land slides on the road, storms ripping trees down onto the power line, critters causing structural damage, and so on).
Aside from the Mother Nature challenges, I think convenience of access to amenities has been the toughest. Being an hour from anything means you have to do all your big shopping in one trip. If I forget something, say, dishwasher soap. Then I get all the way home and realize it’s a two-hour round trip to go get it. So I try to keep a fully stocked supply cabinet. If I forget dishwasher soap, I throw together a powder mix of baking soda, and Borax to hold me over until my next trip to town. Worst case scenario, I run back to town…like if I forgot the limes for a margarita. That’s worth running back to town for, right?
Getting ready to set out on my nine month re-configuration. Stay tuned!
And while you're at it, check out some of Mabelyn Baladez's amazing body products at MB Botanicals.
If the origin of the series and the foundation of the principle behind this series is interesting to you, then read onward, my friend.
I began writing erotica twenty years ago as I was hell-bent on discovering and owning my personal empowerment sexually/emotionally/physically. I struggled with the dichotomy of being a woman and thereby over-sexualized, and I was working through sexual trauma, shame, oppression, and so on. What a strange society we live in that provides such conflicting messages as overt sexualization and abuse-mixed with shame and oppression.
I started writing short misadventures of my attempts at discovery. Those eventually turned to heartbreak, and then were relegated to shame. I posed for Suicide Girls, then declined the contract. I picked up roles in film, theater, and in literary clubs that opened the conversations further by choosing erotica groups or taking on roles that required sexual expression. I even spent a year interviewing strippers in Portland, Oregon. Oh, the stories!
But throughout, I was writing shorts, poetry, and Letters to Lovers I’ve Never Met. I called them tidbits, landing points, and curiosities. These snippets were collected on napkins, spare sheets in notebooks, and scribbled on the backs of menus, or in the margins of my journals.
The tipping point came when I met a catfish. Yes, a catfish. It happened online, and the opportunity was ripe for a series of conversations around the topic of unfettered female sexuality—no holds barred—no shame—no judgment because there was literally nothing to lose. We’d never meet, so we could discuss everything in great detail.
For several months we spoke daily, and I sent him clips from the notebooks, journals, and tidbits.
An amazing thing happened. The collections of stories began to take shape. The language I’d struggled to find, the words I’d longed to target began to pull together. Finally, what I’d been trying to say for twenty years began to coalesce.
The conversations with the catfish came to an abrupt halt, as most of those stories do; when I wanted to meet him, he was gone like morning mist. Poof. All the better, I’m sure. What I’d needed was complete and it was time to sit down and pull my works together, catfish or not.
The resulting curation of all my erotic works coming out of the closet, so to speak, was the introduction of the Nome deplume, Blush Unbidden.
Blush is able to articulate the complexity of female sexuality and yearning in a way that is utterly different from male-centric porn, or slush factor sleaze. (Not to say that male-centric porn, and slush factor sleaze don’t have a place—only, it’s overdone, and lacks the feminine element.) Blush speaks in emotional anchors, very human vulnerability, humble curiosity, and unabashed wonderment. She’s real; both fragile and powerful,
and oh so very hungry to know all the delights of the world.
In the process of redefining the voice I would give Blush, and what type of journey or arc I’d throw her into, I had to sit down and truly frame out what erotica meant to me as a woman and an author.
What does erotica mean? What does female sexual empowerment mean? How does that work in our modern dating/relationship dynamics? What guardrails for health and safety need to be mentioned or respected? Where will I refuse to go? As an author…what is my writing safe word, as in, where will I reach the edge of the adventure?
It ended up being a much more in-depth process than I’d expected. By the time I was done putting the framework in place, #metoo was in full force and the media attention and backlash against women speaking out about sexuality and sexual abuse was so intense I stepped back. I was too tired to take the topic head on in the middle of the storm, but I fully acknowledged that if we’d had a better understanding of female sexual empowerment, female erotica, and autonomous voice fifty years ago—we might never have needed a #metoo hashtag.
Right about that same time the photographer I’d booked to work with for artistic nudes to accompany the next release passed away. Simultaneously, I’d received several emails from readers of the first installment of The Life Erotic, stating that the material had made them weep.
“I ugly cried.” One reader told me.
I was devastated. No one wants an ugly cry in the middle of their sexy time. It was so not what I had aimed for that I thought for certain I had botched the series horribly. I boxed up the notes, put the manuscripts in the archive and locked it all away.
FIVE YEARS PASSED
I continued to write shorts, tidbits, and Letters to Lovers I’ve Never Met, but I tucked them in the archive and focused all my energy on my other series under my given name, Athena. The Pillars of Dawn is a fantasy fiction series, which not unsurprisingly has quite a lot of adult sexual content in it.
Then I had an unexpected conversation with a reader who finished Scold of Jays, and who had also read The Life Erotic Week One: Reawakening.
In a nutshell she said something along the lines of, “I love how you write Fable’s scenes. The sex is so hot, and it’s so powerful. It’s part of the story, not just put in to be porn. She has no shame. I can’t remember what it’s like to have sex like that with no shame. It made me ask myself and my partner some hard questions. It made me think of that other series you write about the erotic stories. When is the next one of those coming out?”
I told her I’d stopped writing The Life Erotic because they apparently made people cry. I was more than a little frustrated with my inability to hit the right emotional note.
She seemed surprised, “Really? That’s what I loved about it. It made me have an emotional release AND a sexual release. I cried because it made me believe again.”
If I said I was stupefied, it would still not adequately express my feeling that moment. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t believe what she was saying. When she left the coffee shop I sat mindlessly at my laptop, dazed.
Believe is such a powerful word. Too powerful for my simple little short stories. Too powerful for my little provincial clutch of tidbits.
Then I got hung up on the word “Shame”.
Gah. Shame. The destroyer of intimacy. The bane of connection. The foul stink in the rose garden of…well, you get it.
Shame has no place in erotic content, or in intimacy, or in relationship dynamics that are reliant on trust. I could go on for a thousand pages on the damages of shame in the context of sexuality—instead I will say this:
Shame is a control mechanism. It is only used by a partner to destabilize or disempower—and it is only used by ourselves to repress or subvert impulses, desires, or wantings. The only purpose shame has in the world of adult content is to curb, corral, or alienate.
(The only appropriate form of shame I can endorse is as a form of punishment for abuse, criminal behavior, or to enforce standards of ethical boundaries, as in—shame only when ethics are violated.)
Shame is a punishment. Period. And not to be a ghostly or even weaponized force in the most vulnerable and exquisite parts of our relationship dynamics, and use of our bodies.
Wherein consenting adults participate, there is no room left for shame because the pleasure of such unfettered freedom and shared ecstasy leaves no oxygen for the cruelty that is mortification.
Her conversation spurred me to go back to the source material. I pulled all The Life Erotic boxes out of the closet, and opened the digital archive. I was so motivated by the idea that women out there are still held back from their most liberated sexual expressions by shame (and a plethora of other topics) that I dumped all the work on my living room floor and started sorting the notes.
Shame as a whole goes against literally everything Blush Unbidden stands for. All that she is is reliant on willingness, freedom, wild abandon, acceptance, and joyful curiosity. It’s impossible to be a hedonistic sybarite if you’re bound by shame.
It wasn’t just my frustration for my fellow ladies that spurred me on to revisit the material. It was my sadness for how this viral toxin that is shame affects men as well. The global and cultural disconnect around the autonomy of the female body, the lack of acceptance of all shapes and sizes, the confusing yet glorious profusion of differences in our sexual desires and expressions, genders and identifications has made the idea of finding true intimate connections a prospect with less viable probability than winning the Megaball.
I hate to say it, but I think sometimes men are flummoxed about how to date in this new arena. Without the traditional binary standards to comply with, AND what is perceived as a minefield of danger, they get squeamish around the feminists, and flinchy around anything that doesn’t smack of reliably traditional (Even though most of them will heartily agree that the traditions are already mostly obsolete). They still struggle with how to navigate in these new waters.
They don’t want to be accused of #metoo, or #rapeculture, or #creepers – but unfortunately, many of them simply don’t know HOW to approach women without setting off all the alarm bells, and they are petrified of being mislabeled and never recovering from the stigma or the shame themselves.
So where does that leave all my fellow ladies? High-centered and sexually frustrated. It’s no wonder that the Fifty Shades of Grey books were so fantastically successful. The conversation of female desires, and yearnings were at least being approached (well or not is debatable) These proclivities that were, to some, shame based--were finally topics of mainstream conversation. (To be clear, bondage and BDSM are not meant to be shame based or toxic, there are actually very healthy outlets in those sexual genres). It was an exciting, titillating, panty-soaking explosion of a feminine dialog that had been too long withheld.
For my take on it, Fifty Shades was a start, but it’s still miles from being a healthy, holistic, and fully liberated approach to female/male sexual empowerment AND an enriched human partnership within the realm of sexy vulnerability and trust. Still, it was an icebreaker, so, good on ya, E.L. James.
So where does this all lead The Life Erotic?
Merging brands and coming out from behind the pen name is a risk on lots of levels. However, the topics of female sexual empowerment, feminine gratification, and erotic freedom are very dear to me as a person and as an author. These concepts bleed over into my other series and genres. It’s a platform I can’t seem to avoid, and wouldn’t want to even if I could. It’s time to talk about it.
In the last twenty years the world has changed significantly around the topics at hand, but in many ways we are still stunted as a culture, and backward in our ways of understanding women, pleasure, and desire. It’s probably safe to say men try to legislate the female body BECAUSE of this disconnect.
Coming out of the closet is a step toward my own freedom, and the freedom of my fellow ladies as well. And let’s not dismiss the very real truth that when we as women are truly free to be ourselves in the bedroom and in relationships, and in the eyes of the law—then so too are the men in our lives freed to be themselves without the weighty burden of imbalance.
Dear men of this world,
Wouldn’t you love to know the woman in bed with you is there because she wants to be, yearns to be, aches to be filled by you—as deeply as you can go? Wouldn’t you love to know she feels freedom, from her sinew and helix all the way to her toes, and in that awareness—she longs for you? No doubt. No questions. No hesitation—she wants you? In the moment, she is yours because she gives herself willingly and would fight to prove that willingness if anyone questioned your motives? Would you sleep better at night knowing the woman you love would ferociously protect the quality of your nobility just as fearlessly as you would protect her from harm?
It boils down to engaging in the dialog. Blush Unbidden and The Life Erotic is here to create conversation. When women told me The Life Erotic Week One: Reawakening made them cry, I had to do a lot of questioning to tease out that snag.
It kept coming back to trust, vulnerability—and being seen. Let’s be totally honest—those three things alone are like the hottest aphrodisiacs on the planet.
I don’t mean, “you have pretty eyes.” Or “You’re so hot.” NO.
I mean being seen, truly seen, all the way to your pulsing aching center kind of seen. Yes, I have cried with relief and pent up pain when I felt seen for the first time in a very long time. (Made for a super awkward date ending to be sure).
Blush sees her lover this way. She also sees herself this way, and in the course of the series arc realizes she doesn’t like what she sees in herself, and sets out to correct the parts of herself that she doesn’t want to live with anymore so she can be a more independent woman, and an even better lover to the man she adores.
The tenderness she shares with her lovers; the unbridled passionate hunger, and her trembling timid courage fueled by desires make her an excellent mouthpiece to tell the story of coming into an unfettered female sexual freedom in a world where the rules are literally legislated against such profound independent and personal feminine sovereignty.
The sybaritic platform is the perfect stage for B. Unbidden’s explorations of liberty, autonomy, and thirst for life in all its gritty and glorious experiences. She is both a poet and a warrior, and I am profoundly blessed that her Muse has allowed me to attempt to scribe Blush’s journey.
I can only hope I do her stories justice. I deeply hope I can entertain, inspire…and arouse. So, without further ado….
The Life Erotic Week Two: Nibbles
It’s been a pleasure to watch you growing up these last few years. It’s been a privilege to watch your parents sort out the larger humanitarian questions and fundamental concepts around your spiritual and emotional education. You’re a beautiful young man, with a wicked dry sense of humor and a glowing compassionate heart. You. Are. A. Treasure.
What can I possibly say on the matter of becoming a good human being? What milestone is the metric to which that comparison will be made again and again as you go out and participate in the world at large?
I worry that claiming my version of “good” will imply all others are “not good” so from now on I won’t call it good or bad. I won’t intend male or female binary statements in the qualifier of the following, but will say instead; we are all, all of us, attempting to live our most noble lives and achieve our best character expressions with what we have been given or have learned.
The first step, I believe, is discovering and empowering your personal nobility, which is neither male nor female. It is neither good nor bad. It is however, yours and yours alone. It is specific to you. Some will call it honor. Be wary of that label, honor. It is steeped in toxic gender histories and a multiverse of religious interpretations. One person’s banner of honor is another’s claim to cruelty or oppression. (See honor killings, war, female sexual oppression, familial obligation, and so on—all falling under someone’s claim to honor).
Honor and personal nobility can be similar in nature, but your personal nobility is self-made. It is neither inherited, or absorbed by conditioning. Neither is it subject to the control dynamics of others, or the baggage of obligation. It is yours, designed by you, practiced by you, owned entirely by your own will. Personal nobility is able to evolve, learn and stretch to include those new learnings. Honor can be rigid, breakable, and it is often flawed by near-sighted logic failure.
Another way to look at the difference is that personal nobility requires questioning, upkeep, and at the very least occasional evaluation from which new personal revolutions emerge.
It should also be mentioned that while someone may attempt to impugn your honor or place value statements on what they believe your honor should be—no one can impugn your personal nobility, save you. You are the only judge and measure by which your nobility is quantified.
It is similar to integrity. It is inherently intertwined with the fabric of your character and will, if you choose, never be totally separate from your decisions, actions, and the weight of your convictions. The answers will always be what you can or cannot live with. What you can or cannot abide by. What you can or cannot affiliate yourself with. What you can or cannot own to be a part of.
So now you’ve got Personal Nobility, your molten metal core. Now what?
I’d like to tell you the world is a safe and peaceful place. Instead, I will tell you it is magical, dynamic, exhilarating, terrifying, and gloriously inconsistent. It is breathtakingly diverse, magnificently unpredictable, and there is nothing quite like drawing breath each morning and knowing the profound gratitude of having this blue planet playground to explore. What are you waiting for?
With personal nobility as your axis of gravity, all else is moving. There is no right or wrong moment to engage, except those dictated by your core. The complexity of this world is so fierce, so passionately interwoven—it is nearly impossible to take a step, draw a breath, or blink in the rain without causing an action upon the quantum reality in which you are trying to become fully realized—so the trick to being a human….is to remember that we are all human. We are all in a perpetual state of becoming.
I’ll step inside here to say, as a writer I get to bring a million types of characters to life with my words. I get to paint with broad, flat strokes the images we think we humans make—but the truth is, humans are so immensely complex, so infinitely faceted, that you could spend a thousand summers trying to understand them, and they will still surprise you in the most unexpected ways. Some will break your heart with cruelty, and others will destroy you with raw beauty—and you may end up thanking them both in the end. See? Unpredictable.
I can only say from my own experiences, but in matters of human complexity my experiences with evil, bigotry, -isms, hatred, xenophobia, and all the darker aspects that we are both capable of, and exposed to simply by being—do not stem from a vacuum of goodness. No, they exist, flourish, even thrive on fear.
Fear seems to be the inception point where the darkest qualities of humanity emerge and wreak havoc on communities, evolution, relationships, nations, and the greater part of our shared collective experience. Fear is the primordial goo in which our primitive selves have still not learned to grow legs and walk. You could say fear is the root of all evil—but I would argue that it is the stew of all HUMAN darkness.
You are not exempt. I am not exempt. No one is exempt from fear. It may manifest as narcissism. It may show itself as violence. It may bloom into being through control dynamics, toxic behavior patterns, and oppression. You have the capability of being in fear, and the capacity to spread fear.
The antithesis of fear is love.
Love may be the most courageous thing you will do in your entire life.
Loving even those people who don’t seem to deserve it, is an act of courage.
Now, let’s be clear—loving those foul bastards who commit grievances, acts of cruelty, fear, and violence—loving them doesn’t mean you have to invite them over for brunch and serve them on your best china. I mean, it might. That’s up to you. It’s a call your inner nobility will make.
What I mean by loving those who do us injury is, not reflecting their fear back to them.
Does that make sense? Love in the most powerful acceptance of totality is knowing they are flawed, terribly, awfully, pitifully so—and not letting that knowledge rip you up inside. It’s about not letting their torment in. Love them but LOVE YOURSELF MORE, and they will take their fear and go elsewhere. Reflecting their hate, or fear, or violence will make them more powerful, like condensing a sunbeam through a magnifying glass onto an ant---only you’d be the ant and you wouldn’t even know it.
That same reflection process can be used in love and acceptance for a similar, often more potent effect.
How you ask? Well, I’ll let you know when I get that part nailed down. See? I’m still human, still working on my process too. I still yell at the asshole who cuts me off in traffic—so, all I can say on the matter is it’s a theory in progress, but the greater practice as a whole shows exciting promise.
I will tell you this though, the part about love being the most courageous thing you will ever do—that part is 100% true. Strangely, one of the most difficult people to love is ourselves. How odd, right? I mean, we are wired for survival—and love is part of survival. We need love, and yet the vast majority of this human population secretly (or not so secretly) loathes their own company. Most people hate their body, their hair, their voice, their actions. How heartbreaking. We live in fear of ourselves, and reflect that fear upon anyone and everyone in our immediate circle.
I might go so far as to say the most radical act of courage left on this planet is genuine self-acceptance and love. Even I don’t have that courage yet, but writing to you makes me realize I need to get on that.
Love in romance, partnership, community, family, and friends. Love for your world, your animal companions, the stars and the sky, the oceans and forests—it all has the ability to blow your mind. The first time you stare into a person and see them, really see them, and love them for all their flawed imperfections, in fact, because of their imperfections—the first time you fall into that kind of love it’s like seeing the face of divinity. If you don’t believe in god/goddess—that moment might make you question what infinity really is.
Perhaps the answer is that love IS divinity? But we’ll wax long and theological someday when you’re old enough to have a dram with me and ponder the nature of totality.
Until then, I truly wish you the greatest adventures on the quest for your own answers around the living expressions and experiments in Fear and Love. I wish you compassion, curiosity, an open-heart, and a willing spirit. Good luck, Firefly.
As to any nuggets for the journey I will throw in these gifts from my teachers.
Learn and understand the differences between moral, ethical, and legal. Your inner nobility may look like an elaborate knotwork between them all. You make your own lines. They are yours to draw now. That’s what becoming an adult human is. You draw your lines, live in those lines, then reevaluate and draw them again.
Ethics uphold the rights and autonomy of all involved to the best possible degree.
Morals should be ethical, but often are not. IE: It was once morally acceptable to own and keep slaves. It was also legal, because the moralists who believed in slavery, legislated it. But it was never once, even in the smallest fraction ethical. See?
And you would think that legal would be both moral and ethical, but it is not always the case. The law has a lag time, and is often affected by moral judgements or honor pronunciations of religious affiliations that are long out of date. IE: It was once legal for a man to beat or rape his wife—it was also morally acceptable. But it never was, nor will it ever be ethical.
Knowing the differences in these codes will help you define your own. You get to be the one who decides if you are moral, legal, or ethical so long as you keep in mind you are working with humans, and we are all trying to get to a better version of ourselves. We don’t have it all sorted just yet. Be patient. Work on your own nobility, and let others design theirs.
In the words of my old DM in the RPG group I played with. “You’re either lawful, chaotic, or neutral. Unless you’re Athena, who decided to write in ‘None of the Above’.”
To be fair, I think the exact wording on my character sheet was, “N/A. These over-simplified tropes fail to accommodate for the complexity of character range in a myriad of complicated opportunities. I refuse to be forced into a cardboard character profile…” Or some such similar rubbish like that.
Anyhoo, the point I’m trying to make is this:
You are not only one or the other. You are not only this or that. There is no you or them. You are a human, and therefore contain multitudes. You become what you do. You become what you say. Your actions define your character, over and over again, and your character is defined by the nobility you design for yourself. You do the best you can as often as you can. And when you can’t, you don’t. Then you try again the next day.
You’ll mess up. We all do. I mess up all the time. I lose my temper or get scared and snarly.
Say you’re sorry, and try to do better—that alone will put you miles and decades ahead.
The good or bad of it is only what you allow yourself to own, and what you resolve to improve upon.
When you leave your parents’ home, you can no longer claim their nobility or flaws as yours. When you join society as an independent, you can no longer blame, shame, or give away your responsibilities.
That part when you pick up your own baggage and make your own way…that’s the part when you get to decide if you are a good/bad/ man/woman/person or N/A.
Adulthood is only earned when you realize you can’t blame your upbringing anymore. Adulthood is only earned when you step out from what you were taught, and decide for yourself what the answer should be—then remake yourself accordingly. That might mean making amends, apologies, or requests for forgiveness. Adulthood happens when you are grateful for what you were given, appreciate the foundation upon which you were begun—but you’re ready to take the human story farther than those before you were ready or able.
Your journey into adulthood begins, but it may take years for you to realize the feeling of being “adult”. In the country we live in, boys and girls are sent to fight and die in wars declared by men who’ve never bled. Adulthood isn’t stamped upon you with an age verification license, and access to a military grade semi-automatic rifle.
Adulthood is granted when you ask, think, question, and consciously CHOOSE for yourself. Others might not agree with your choice—it is yours all the same, and your right to it just as sacred. The right or wrong of the choice, the good or bad of it—that’s for your nobility and the ethics committees to sort out. The point is, adulting is making the decisions and standing prepared for the feedback.
Adulting is actively exercising your autonomy. Good or bad is up to you. I happen to know you, and have utter faith in your version of what good means, so I won’t lecture on that. Know you have my confidence, and you also have my respect and compassion when that goodness tilts or wobbles, because it might. I will adore you anyway, and your community will help you sort out a wobble if it happens. As hard as it is for some people to be honest about, I will be blunt and say—humans wobble. It is part of the journey.
I’m sure I’ve forgotten all the important things. I’m guessing I’ll think of something suitably useful and marginally brilliant only after I hit the send button, but that’s just how these things go, I guess. I hope you’re able to find some of this useful. Keep what works, and discard the rest. You know how to reach me for chats when there’s more talking to be had. I’m part of your community, always.
Perfection is overrated, and often at the expense of originality. Aesthetic beauty can be bought. That which is genuine has no price. Compassion and forgiveness neutralize nearly all inner turmoil. Dreams and visions are just realities that have yet to materialize for those who will love them into being. So, keep dreaming, keep loving.
And at the end of the day, this Universe is spiraling toward entropy—so don’t take it all so fucking serious. The joke is totally on us. Enjoy the ride.
Good luck to you, Firefly. Thank you for being ready and willing to take on the world for us who have so blithely bungled the whole of it. On behalf of all of us, I’m sorry for the mess you’re inheriting. That being said, I hope with all my heart you find the adventure of a lifetime in the process.
There is still room to sign up for my 2020 Planning Workshop. Class starts at 10am on the 19th, and includes lunch and supplies. We’ll be mapping out your goals and setting up an easy step method to get you to your dreams.
Shoot me an email for reservation information. email@example.com
In other news, I have already mapped out my year, and created continuation goals for the next three year. As most folks know, I LOVE JANUARY! Here’s a previous post on my adoration of mapping and goal setting.
I’m a geek for challenges and organization—so this month has been a deep dive into what I really want in the next few years, and how to go about achieving it all. I’ll post more on this after the workshop.
Also, stay tuned for more information on The Elder Glade Market.
New Elder Glade Menagerie Member: Dakota
In other news, I adopted a large German Shepherd/Husky mix this month. Her name is Dakota. She’s such a great animal; super patient, affectionate and gentle. Unfortunately, she’s currently at the vet with a series of issues. I’ll blog more on this as I’m able. It’s been a very emotional, stressful event, and I’ve been having a hard time finding words that are somewhat neutral and compassionate around the details.
Please say hello to Dakota!
This update is just a short and sweet check-in to get back on track. Please feel free to write in with requests for future content.
Have a lovely 2020, folks! Be safe—but dream big.