new shampoo day 2

It's the 2nd day after washing my hair. My hair feels fabulous and there are no oat bits left.

I remade the recipe with a couple of variations on the cornstarch theme. I think that will work much better.

I'm dancing tonight. I'm quite excited about it. I really hope there are people there....

new shampoo day 1

Well.... I had a lot of oat bits in my hair today. And I brushed it after putting on a black shirt. Uh huh. So... I think this batch, since it did so well with my hands, is going to become a body wash and I will try the recipe again but with cornstarch instead of oat flower. Also, I could probably half the amount of essential oil and still have very happy hair.

My hair, oat bits aside, feels fabulous and sniffing the awesome lemony-lime while falling asleep with a wet head last night was pretty fantastic.

new shampoo

Last week, I tried new shampoo and conditioner. It promised to make my naturally wavy hair all curly and stuff.

The new shampoo smelled so strongly of chemicals that I could barely stand to be in the shower with it. And it made my hair straight. Not just straight. Straight and excessively greasy. And it got progressively worse. It didn't actually *clean* my hair.

So I dumped it.

I found a recipe for homemade shampoo on the internet and based on that, here is what I've done, to be tested tonight:

I had an empty 400 ml bottle with a pump. This is fantastic.

I added to it 2 tbsp baking soda, about 6 heaping teaspoons of oatmeal (ground to a fine flour in a coffee grinder), and about 60 drops each of lemon and lime essential oils.

I tested it on my  hands, after adding water and vigourously shaking it. My hands smell like awesome and my skin feels like awesome.

I'm pretty optimistic that this will be my new all in one hair wash product.

Oh, and the best part? The cost of making it was almost zilch. If you only added one essential oil or no essential oil, you'd probably be looking at about $0.25 a bottle.

So take that P&G and.... well.... okay. I know Proctor & Gamble won't care one bit if I never buy their shampoo again. But I care. And hopefully you'll be brave enough to give it a try too.

(I also have a recipe for laundry soap that I LOVE, and whenever I run out of toothpaste (we have a very large stash) I will try making some homemade toothpaste that doesn't taste like bad. Apparently the secret is mint essential oil. Who knew?)

For Michael and Clare, whatever island you may be on...

An old friend of mine has very recently become engaged. This is quite exciting.

I met my friend one day in Wellington, fairly randomly. He complimented my pants.

Years down the road we still write letters. We did meet once, a couple years after the original meeting. It was awkward. I still think he's awesome.

Today I was greeted with the joyful news that he is engaged to a wonderful woman. I suppose I say this rather presumptively - I know of her via the world of social networking. She has a beautiful smile. More than that though, she has a beautiful energy that I can sense, intrinsically tied to the energy of my beautiful friend.

He has had other relationships over the years, and traveled with at least one of them, but she has truly been the only one with such a bright, lovely light.

I am very excited for both of them, and wish them a very long life together full of light and love.

Bellydancer for hire

I have a gorgeous new dance costume made by an awesome designer in Giza (you know, where the pyramids are).

If you know anybody who's looking for a bellydancer for hire, drop me a line at jbarrett@sasktel.net

If you're looking for more than one bellydancer, check out Al Amar Dance Theatre for information on the company I dance with.

And if you're a dancer looking for an awesome costume, check out Adel Mahmoud Abdo Mohamed's work. He does custom costumes, the workmanship is excellent, the timeline between ordering and receiving costumes is speedy, his customer relations skills are supreme, prices are reasonable... and the best part? It fits like a glove. I don't need to do any alterations at all.

only 70 pages to go!

I decided to write something every day, even if it's totally crappy or lame.

Today's a crappy and lame day.

I'm retyping a thesis (just over 100 pages) because the document, for some dumb reason, is corrupted completely on my computer (although I suspect it is elsewhere and they just haven't noticed yet...).

I am taking a break. By typing.

Lame.

Tomorrow my husband is taking me somewhere to do something. He won't tell me what. The last time he surprised me with a date we ended up starting out by going to a shooting gallery (my first time, totally awesome), followed by a night at a strip club (also my first time, mixed reaction). The strip club was odd. There were women dancing who had no love for their work, fake boobs... etc. And then there was one who looked like she was actually having way more fun than anyone else in the room, no plastic surgery or fake anything. She was incredible. She put on a very, very good show. I'd watch her perform again because she put on such a good show. The fact that she got naked was actually irrelevant - she had incredible pole skills and was very entertaining. Most of the others though, they probably shouldn't be in the industry. They didn't look like they were having a good time, and they're probably smart enough to at least do something like stock store shelves at night. They weren't unemployable.

Anyway, I have to get back to work now.

My Mum

I've been thinking a lot about what to do for mother's day this year. Mum suggested meeting in Regina. I think that would be a blast! If we meet on the Friday after work, we could just hang out or go for a movie. And on the Saturday we could do some shopping at the Sears Bargain Centre (aka my alltime favourite discount cheapo store) and then go for another movie. Maybe even 2 movies if there are any that are good. And we could go to the book store. And possibly the Bulk Barn for some road munchies. And then on Sunday morning, after a lovely breakfast somewhere, we can head home with most of a day left so that neither of us feel rushed to do things like housework.

My Mum is amazing. I don't just want to hang out with her because there are things to do that I think would be fun. My Mum is creative and when we talk we figure stuff out. Sometimes it's major stuff. Sometimes it isn't. We also tend to have quite a lot of fun together too, I suppose because neither of us are particularly afraid.

My Mum also has a beautiful smile and a truly joyful laugh. I appreciate her honesty. And her style. I wanna be as funky as my Mum when I grow up!

My Mum is the most awesome woman I know.

I love you Mum!

coping mechanisms

The other day I got to eat lunch with my husband. This is rare because we do not usually work anywhere near each other. He was going to stop at the booze store on the way to give a co-worker a lift home, and asked if I'd like anything. No thanks, I said. I don't think drinking would be at all good for me right now.

My husband is aware that things have been strange with me for quite some time. I have been aware only more recently.

I have cried for no reason at all. I have been miserably sad.

And yet I have also had some of the best times of my life. But.

It's usually not a good sign when I'd rather stay in than go to my dance class. I love my dance class. And part of what I love so much about it is that it is orderly, organized, and occurs at a set time every week. This means I have the joy of anticipating it. I know I love it. How many days now? Is it Wednesday yet?

I need that structure and dependability. And it has to be something I LOVE with people who I either love or don't speak to. What do I mean by that? The women I dance with are amazing people. They are my soul community. Together we speak the language of dance. And it is incredible, uplifting, intense, spiritual, physical, and greatly enhances my sense of self worth. On the other end there is the yoga that I have periodically done. It is the same but without speaking. It is my time to spend an hour and a half in conscious movement with strangers, completely silent. I'm not there to make friends. I'm there for the group body movement and calm mind. And to get really, really sweaty. And afterward? I feel amazing.

I started dancing in Saskatoon because I needed to get out of the house. I figured I'd pick something I liked because even if I ended up disliking the people (it's happened - case in point being my first bellydance teacher, from whom I still managed to learn quite a bit even if we weren't really on speaking terms at the end) I still love the dance and could grow my skills.

I started going to yoga for very similar reasons - a desire for physical activity and a desire to have something to do on the weekend.

Last weekend I went for a drive. It was long. I picked a road that ended up going nowhere but it was dirt and mostly free from traffic. It was a good road for crying. I listened to music of the lovely Shelley Foss and cried and cried and cried. It was Saturday morning.

What was I missing so strongly? What did I need?

The answer was and is simple.

A month or so ago my best friend moved to Africa. I think it's been longer, actually. And I didn't hear from her at all for the first 4 weeks. When I called her, I discovered it was because she'd spent most of that time in hospital. And other things, just as bad, matters of the heart. They're not mine to blog about. But we talked. And the call was only dropped once. And we talked for a long time.

But that's been it. And we used to talk almost every day.

We used to get together on the weekend, usually for the purpose of going shopping, often followed by lunch. This came to be our Sunday thing, until she found a church that fit for her, but still we talked.

I am currently searching for an additional best friend. I may have found somebody. She is a very different person than my far away best friend. I think that being her best friend will require a high level of independence, self-worth, and possibly sociability in groups. All of this is just fine. And I think I'm up for it. But I have to confess I'm also afraid of getting my hopes up. I don't have close, intimate friendships with people on a constant basis. I have very close friends who live far enough away that we mostly write to each other and occasionally get a weekend of time face to face. I have one intimate relationship, and it is with my husband. Romantic too, as it should be. But otherwise I've always kept people at arm's length.

By now somebody's probably wondering how I feel about my friend moving to Africa. The answer? Totally excited for her. Especially as soon as she gets healthy and things start going right. She's met some good people there and it sounds like it is exactly what she needs. For her, I am very grateful for all of that. It is time that things start going really well for her. And I am never one to turn down an adventure, even if it's not really my cup of tea. I've left friends on a whim a few times. Australia, New Zealand, southeast Asia...

And that's hard too, especially the being alone part. Sure, you meet people. But start hanging around with somebody and then go somewhere else, apart, and there's a pang of loss of companionship that burns in the soul. Traveling, if nothing else, is extremely good for soul searching. I wrote a lot of letters. Took a few pictures. I even bought myself a guitar to keep myself company at night. (It was quieter than a drum.)

What are my quality coping strategies?

When I'm angry, writing or making art is often effective. Or digging in the garden. This only works in the spring before it's planted....

When I realized I needed quality companionship outside of the house, I declared Sunday date day with my husband - we'll take turns picking something to do. Last weekend we went to the beach. This weekend it's his turn. Weekend after that is mine and we'll probably go to the zoo.

Dance is definitely a coping strategy, but something I much prefer to do in a group.

Riding my bike also gives me good perspective and thinking time, but is not something I should do if I am crying as that makes my perception of traffic around me fairly sketchy.

Walking is when I do my best thinking. I carry a notepad these days. I can't write letters while I walk (but oh if I could....) but I can make lists and plans. Walking is also good solitude time. But it's not really that solitary. There's a rabbit I meet almost every morning on my way to work. And there are always robins and dogs. Their owners usually try to keep the dogs heeled, but occasionally I get to greet one. In the winter this happened with a golden retriever. I reached out with my hand, as I always would. I was wearing my sock monkey mittens. This thoroughly confused the dog, who began to bark at my mittens. Which caused me to use the hand in question to puppet the mitten. Poor doggy!

I also grow things. Summer is the best for this - there is *always* something to do in the yard. And the best part of planting vegetables is going out on a weekend morning and picking what's ripe for breakfast. Awesomeness. Plants inside are pretty good too, but flowers and houseplants require very little attention. Veggies usually take up a bit more effort.

Housecleaning is good if I am anxious and do not know why. This is usually a very effective way to get the house really super awesomely clean. Anxiety makes a good scrubbing pad. Housecleaning never fixes or solves anything but it's an outlet for that awful anxious energy and it gives me time to think and try to figure out what's wrong and how I can fix it.

At Your Leather - a note to a friend

At Your Leather

I put something on your facebook
for you to read at your leather
It might help explain why we both feel so emotional.

And yet it doesn't.

I don't know what blockages I'm releasing.
But they surely must be emotional ones because there are no words.

Am I hanging on too tightly?

Or am I just afraid of that dark abyss that lays beyond my desire to cry because everything feels worthless, useless, stupid, idiotic, angering,
and
leaving me feeling like a waste of space?

Whatever it is, I'll take the solidarity that I'm not totally alone on this.

Thanks for being honest.

Love,
Jen

The Book

I got through some writing last night. I'd forgotten how much I'd already done. It's intimidating because I'm holding myself to a much higher standard than usual - the kind that's pretty much make it publishably perfect or don't waste my own living space. And the fact that once or twice a year I think I can be that person, well, that's pretty amazing.... but the rest of the time, what the heck? Really?

on dark little hovels

It's been a few days. I think I'm brave enough to open my book and do some writing. And by my book, I mean the novel that's been very poorly neglected. In fact, maybe you didn't even know I was writing it. Well, now you do. Great. Giving myself expectations to live up to that aren't mine now.

The question at hand was why dank, wretched, dirty little hovels make for the best creative space. The answer is surprisingly simple: When you have absolutely no distractions, no material wealth, and very few standards to live up to, it is shockingly easy to see beauty and feel love in those dark places. Every little thought, act, feeling, reaction - it all feels like more somehow. When you're not sure where your next meal is coming from, it's actually easier to stop and smell the flowers. When you don't know if you'll have a roof over your head the next night or not, well, it makes it a lot easier to wait for the train home while sitting somewhere out of the way on the platform. And if you're told that only (insert racist slang term for local native peoples here) sit on the kerb while having a snack, and you're the kind of person who feels injustice at that, the remark makes it easier to just stay sitting. (Don't y'all see that I'm clearly not the kind of person you can put a label on and walk away from? I'm asking you by my non-interaction to engage with me on a soul level because that's where I'm at and that's how I'm seeing you right now and it would be just oh so amazing if you'd deign to come down here and show me who you are underneath your skin...)

There was a giant centipede on the front step. Its body was slowly being eaten by ants. Welcome home.
Inside everything was sticky from the humidity - the walls, the dishes, the countertops, chairs, tables, even somehow the bed linens. The bathroom was in a permanent state of funk, the shower curtain long ago ceasing to be of the realm of the living. A gentle, hot breeze wafted through the open window. Sweat greased the edges of the writer's hairline and pooled on her lower back, stinging her fresh tattoo. She reached into the fridge for some yogurt-ish dairy-like snack. The container was covered in a layer of slippery moisture. She was grateful it was plastic and not paper.
The apartment was shared space. Last night while she was reclusive in her upstairs bedroom (the bed smelled of mould) the dining area of the apartment had been overtaken by a fellow from New Zealand, a mate of his from the island, and someone from South America he'd met somewhere who claimed to be a shaman. She'd declined an offer to join them with wine, attempting to stay the course of being faithful to her writing instead of the so-called sins of the flesh. (Or was that pleasures of the flesh?) When she awoke hours later from her nap to discover it wasn't midnight and the party downstairs was full of obnoxious stories being told, she wished to reconsider her decision. In the end she decided that she was feeling far too self-conscious to possibly pull of the dramatic entrance required of such an incredibly late arrival to the party. Also, she had no gifts, and was under the impression that it was uncool to arrive at a party with a shaman and not bring gifts, even if she thoroughly doubted his shamanic abilities. Whatever the case, party demonstrated that he did have the ability to tell a story and captivate an audience, which is at least half the gift.
The island was paradise, but for the purpose of her mission it was not nearly run-down and dirty enough. Mission? To work on a book started in what felt like a prior life, so very long ago. This mission was about to be interrupted by the arrival of her ex-boyfriend, who, she was quite certain, had only decided to follow her to such a remote place in the south Pacific with the intention of repairing their relationship. She was adamant that this would not happen. The fact that he'd planned to stay for nearly the whole month put a severe damper on her plans to write. The island was too small to hide from each other, especially given they had so much in common in terms of interests.
The space she'd been hoping to find for writing, the ideal space, would have been much more run down, dirty, more hovel-like. The kind of space where she wouldn't feel bad cracking a cold Cook's Lager at 8 a.m., or not showering every day, or wearing out the same pair of island shorts and white shirt, now just a little too dirty from being worn every day. The book demands that kind of atmosphere.

*******

My profile picture on this blog was taken by said ex boyfriend on the island of Rarotonga. My book is still largely unfinished, but if it ever does get finished, I'll let you know. In the meantime, I invite comments as to why I feel the need for dank little hovels as the best creative space...

Why Jen and skirts don't love each other

I had a very good comment from a friend in the Church yesterday who said Blogger said her comment was too long to post. Boo blogger!

But in Jen-speak, the gist of it was that particular items of clothing are worn ritualistically (really, it is a ritual to get dressed up for church)to show reverence for the Divine.

I can respect that a whole lot more...

and in further discussion with said friend discovered that my issue is actually not so much with the policy as with my own feelings of vulnerability. Apparently wearing a skirt makes me feel vulnerable, a feeling that can be overcome with the presence of my husband - literally within arm's reach. Otherwise, the vast majority of the times that I've worn skirts (dance performances excepted) or dresses, they've been over pants. Or shorts. But usually pants. Sometimes capris.

Wearing skirts makes me feel hideously uncomfortable. Wearing skirts over pants is just about the most awesome thing I ever could have come up with and have been doing for most of my life.

There was quite a bit more soul-searching than that involved in what I replied to my friend. The fact that I know she's going to consider what I said and give me a real answer, and not a canned Church policy answer, is probably why I consider her such a good friend. And I am very curious to hear what she has to say... and to find out what the Church might think if I showed up with pants under my skirt.

Assuming I get over the other reasons why I stopped going to church...

appropriate clothing

I was daydreaming on the topic of things that are and are not appropriate to wear to work. I draw the line at backless shirts that show bras, and lace shirts that also show bras, even if they're only lace in the back. And as much as I might want to, I'd never wear a strapless anything to work. One of my favourite summer dresses is strapless. I might wear it as a skirt to work, but not as a top.

This then brought back a memory. A what was I thinking kind of memory.

I was in church. Specifically, a Relief Society meeting. I'd worn my little black dress because it was the only skirt-like thing I owned that was clean. I should add that there is an unwritten rule (at least, I think it's unwritten) that women are only allowed in the chapel in skirts. Anyone who knows me knows that this really, really, really pisses me off. This is dumb. I didn't own skirts that weren't part of dance costumes until I started going to church.

On this particular day, as mentioned, I was in the little black dress. It had little black sleeves. It was a button up dress. It was also particularly short. When I sat down and crossed my legs, you could see entirely too much leg for church. Which I realized But Eff Me, seriously, with what happened next.

The "talk" was begun with a "reminder" about the nature of appropriate clothing to wear to church, especially how our skirts should not be too short.

I have no idea which sister gave the talk. I don't care. I don't even know if she'd seen me. But do you know how I felt? I damn near walked out. If you're going to make a misogynist rule about women having to wear skirts in the chapel, in my not particularly humble or non-hostile opinion, you've just lost the right to have any control over those skirts whatsoever.

Maybe next time I'll wear the little black skirt with the laces down the sides. And maybe I'll find a shirt with a lace back and wear a flourescent bra underneath it. Maybe I'll put my hair in a mowhawk while I'm at it and wear a thick layer of sparkles on my eyes. And to top it off you know I'd have to break out the 5-inch stiletto heels and fishnet stockings.

I don't disbelieve that my church means well, and as anyone who has seen me at work and read past dissertations on how I don't own anything sexy unless a vaguely tight wool sweater counts, clearly I am about 95% conservative in my dressing habits. And I'd have to say my clothes are pretty nice too. Even (especially) my pants.

That said, the Church can take its outdated, misogynist Bee Es and keep it. Far. Far. FAR. away from me. God gave me female genitals. How I choose to portray that in society is between me, and God. I'm not going around burning my bra, or advocating for anything that would get my picture in the DSM.

In fact, I'm not even sure why this is still an issue in the Church. And I know I'm not the first woman who's expressed discomfort at having to show up somewhere in a skirt. Unless, of course, it's a miniskirt. In which case I'm delighted you invited me!

Blogger for iPod? It won't let me type a post... :(

blog help?

I wonder if any of my tech savvy mates can give me a pointer... I saw on a friend's page a word box with um... words.. in it... and some of 'em were bigger than others indicating more frequent usage in her blog posts and... I want something like that. OR maybe it was tags. And I don't tag stuff. So I don't know. Who wants to fill me in? In the meantime, I have a date with some passionflower tincture and my bed. 3 cheers for morning showers.

Wednesday morning, birthday week

Visions of costumes and a song I have always wanted to choreograph dance in my head. I like it.

http://www.oriental-dancer.com/productDetails.aspx?type=product1 is a link for some costumes I love, designed by Mohammed Gomaa. (apparently the picture I wanted to post is too big for blogger. Sigh. Go look yourselves, it's worth it.) I love his work. I find it to be leaps and bounds above the rest in terms of sheer creativity. And I want one of the costumes he has listed on Facebook because it matches a pair of earrings I have. Which is maybe not entirely true. I want it because it also happens to be one of my favourite colours. And I love the design.

Sigh.

I think I will end up working with royal purple and royal blue this year though, because those are the fabrics that I have. And the song I want to work on? It's my favourite Shakira piece. I've improved it a few times. Here's a link... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5BzkbSq7pww

Makes me giggle.

http://crappypictures.typepad.com/

grief

Grief doesn't come when it is convenient. It doesn't wait or even sometimes announce itself properly. Like a ghost, instead, it tickles the corner of our peripheral vision. It waits. And then it pounces, or hits like a ton of bricks. A physical response to grief tells us that we are feeling something. Call it bad, utter shite, feeling like balls, just generally bummed out, or my favourite: feeling like the blackness has swallowed you whole and you will never get out.

Maybe a song or a piece of art brings out an emotional response you weren't expecting. Maybe it's an interaction with a person, 3 or 4 lines you can't get out of your head, a scenario, repeating itself, an instrumental crescendo, breaking into silence.

What's in that silence?

White space. Me.

And.

Oh my.

Oh wow.

Oh boy. Apparently I'm grieving.

Realizing this as I'm walking down the hallway is potentially awkward. But the location of the hallway is important: I work in a hospital. And for whatever reason, probably because so many really awful things have happened in my life in hospitals, a hospital corridor full of people feels like a completely safe space to feel grief and maybe even cry.

Where do I feel it? My upper neck, in the paraspinal muscles, just out of reach of a good stretch. And in my lower back, my upper gluteus maximus muscles, and lower glutes, which have demanded more than their fair share of stretches today.

The who and what is a little more difficult to pin down. I'll give myself 4 more minutes to make a list and see what I come up with.
1. Grieving the craptacular endings and splits with ex boyfriends.
2. Grieving the loss of my party self.
3. Grieving the changes in my relationship with my husband in that we are now both grown up, satisfied with life and wondering, now what?
4. Grieving the lack of my own child.
5. Grieving the loss of my Dad's leg, but also feeling incredible gratitude for his current quality of life being so great and that he's doing so well.
6. Missing my grandparents.
7. Anticipatory grief.
8. Wondering how life would be different if Uncle Chris were still here.
9. Grieving the loss of my cat, a reality that won't hit until I'm at Mum's house.
10. Wondering if everyone I love moves to Estevan to die. Don't like that thought.
11. Grieving the loss of a few friendships and family relationships due to drugs.
12. Grieving my current lack of life goals.
13. Grieving how far we live from our sisters and brothers. And parents. (But not wanting to move - I love where we live.)

I guess that's it.

Wow. Okay.

So here's what I've learned:

Giving grief names/designations helps it feel remarkably better.

thoughts on religion

This morning I thought a lot about religion and our weird disconnect from anything that is actually holy. It is not just cultural. Back in the day, during the Crusades but even before then, we decapitated and dismembered our understanding of and connection with the divine and wandered around like Kali with skulls of the divine, formerly worshiped, draped from our bodies like jewels, blood running down our legs and dripping into the earth. Fertilizer.

If not fertilizer, what becomes of us?

I can't tell you that the divine is entirely a man-made construct. I don't believe it is. My faith tells me that it is the great I AM, the great LOVE, an easy explanation for how the complex life forms on our planet have evolved so perfectly. (I am not a creationist, let's just get that straight. I believe that creationism is a man-made construct devised for our control.)

Genetically we have been birthed to perpetuate the cycle of abuse toward our concept of divinity, toward our God and Goddess, or various incarnations thereof.

In our summer dance show, we veiled and wrapped the Goddess. We mummified her to symbolize our shame of her, something that is a learned behavior passed on at a cellular level, like all forms of abuse, from a time period more immense than any of us can properly comprehend. Hundreds of years. We can say "hundreds of years" but our brains do not have the ability to actually grasp that time frame.

When we came out to give her wings, but then cover her, hide her, bury her, stash her away, I had a hard time not crying. It means something to me. Deeply.

I am not against the patriarchy. It is an integral part of our sociocultural matrix and I am just fine with that. But I do realize that its prominence came to be by a cycle of abuse perpetuated continually against our divine, as manifested by our faith.

One of my students expressed that this connection with the divine is more easily observed in animals because they haven't been enculturated over the years to disconnect. I see truth in that.

I believe that we are all divine instruments if we simply open our hearts and souls.

This does not make me a slave, a servant, or obedient. It does make me a person in harmony with my perception of divinity.

My divinity, my perception of God, Goddess, I AM, LOVE... it is a physically felt knowing that there is something extracorporeal that I am connected to. I do not believe that it is something I am different from, however. It is also not existing entirely in my head. Perhaps it is simply the great cosmic consciousness, a felt knowing that everyone and everything is connected on an energetic level. I believe that completely. And when it sways one way or another, it takes on aspects of a personality; when it is easily anthropomorphized, then we are able to give it names like God and Goddess.

These days after so many years of being told that we need an authority figure to direct our connection to the divine, I believe we are paralyzed. I believe this is a direct result of hundreds of years of multi-generational trauma inflicted upon us by efforts like the Crusades, the Inquisition, and the imposition of the patriarchy as a hierarchical structure to which we must be obedient.

No loving God would tell us that we must be obedient to a person or a structure of people. Our individual uniqueness makes it clearly obvious that obedience won't work for most people and in many cases it crushes our most beautiful gifts.

Where does this leave us?

Intergenerationally traumatized from being told that what we know to be real (our personal divine connections) is a fallacy. We have been told that the divine will answer our prayers. Yet nobody tells us that if our prayers are unrealistic or too specific, they will get us nowhere without our own interventions to accomplish them. We have made the divine into a person, categorized with rules, in order to attempt some understanding of him/her. We have decided that the divine requires a gender. Requires compartmentalization.

We communicate with the divine through a carefully ordered structure. Much obedience is necessary to properly ascend to our own levels of divinity.

What a bunch of bullshit!

Yet, in a traumatized paralysis on a cellular level, is it any wonder that we seek and find comfort in the excessive, nonsensical structures of fundamentalist religion? If we have not worked to heal our relationship with our divinity, is it any wonder that we are okay with perpetuating the cycle of guilt, shame, and an obedience which implies our worthlessness?

Why do we need to ascend to heaven? Why can't we simply transcend in a multi-faceted way that allows us to experience heaven here and now?

Matter is energy, according to a much simplified version of Einstein's theory. This means that scientifically we are all connected. There is a cosmic consciousness. Our thoughts are transmitted in our brain somewhat energetically - nerve conduction works similarly to the principals of basic electricity. None of this is rocket science.

Let's heal the trauma, shall we?

And while we're at it, I'd like to address our horrific disconnect between spirituality and sex. I see them as one and the same, as intricately connected. In my spiritual world, sex is a physical manifestation of a deeper connection we all share. (This does not mean I think we should all go out and have sex with everyone we meet!) It is an intimate expression, or should be, of LOVE. Of course, as I well know, it can be simply a physical act, with about as much meaning as a handshake (gold star for anyone who can tell me which famous person I just paraphrased). But it shouldn't be. It should mean something. It should mean that the heavens and earth come together for one brief moment and infuse us with stardust. After all, sex is the ultimate act of creation, when energy translates on a physical level to mass.

I feel my connection with the divine most strongly when I feel sexy. This has nothing to do with our cultural preconceptions of what is sexy. I can be naked, covered, in public, in private; it doesn't matter because it is an internal feeling. It is not an external perception. My connection to the divine excites me on a carnal level.

I think I'm all done now. Feedback is welcome!