I started jiu jitsu yesterday. Was it yesterday? It already seems like a long time ago. Okay, the day before yesterday – a legit long time. I’ve had four classes since then, and one ‘one-on-one’ with an instructor. I love it already. In fact, I think I loved it from the first minute someone choked me out (well, almost choked me out).
Well, it’s six weeks since I wrote that opening paragraph. I’ve been a bit busy, eating, sleeping, and breathing jiu jitsu (and thus also judo). While I was immersing myself in it, I was dutifully neglecting everything else in my life, doing two classes a day with extra gym sessions and skill practice. I mean, after all, I was busy…learning jiu jitsu. I love it more than ever.
Beginner’s luck led me to the perfect academy for me. The longer I’m there, the more I like it. The performance level (at all levels) is high, the professors and coaches are great, and the whole place has more of a team/family feel than the larger, corporate places. Of course, I’m just a white belt, so what do I know? But I’ve been around athletes, competitors, and martial artists for a long time, and I have a little bit of a sense for such things.
It’s just incredible to me how strong and flexible everyone is, at all ages. When I say everyone, I mean everyone, too; a bunch of beautiful, feminine women train there, and they are as strong, fast, and lethal as anyone. The pure, simple, undeniable physics of jiu jitsu brings true equality. I’ve watched the kids’ classes (as I arrive early and stretch in preparation for my class), and I do declare, it is nice -refreshing, even- to see a group of young American children who do not appear dull-eyed and obese. Our kids look happy and appear to be having fun and learning at the same time.
Okay, this is not an advertisement for my academy, it is the first blog associated with my new jiu jitsu career. It is the chalice into which I pour the many impressions and thought and feelings I’ve had since starting. Hold it; that would make this entirely too long. I need to (like any white belt does) calm down and focus on the basics.
Basically, it may seem improbable (or even crazy) that I am even starting out on this lifelong journey. Martial arts is a practice, a lifelong pursuit with no defined endpoint. It takes focus, dedication, and no small degree of strength, flexibility, and willpower. Well, I will be sixty two years old in a month. I will be competing with athletes from forty years and up (in my class) and of all ages (in open championship tournaments).
How is an “old man” supposed to be able to hang? Gym strength and yoga flexibility may not be enough, at any age. Drive and determination do not matter when faced with a rear naked choke. Skills in striking arts is simply not applicable (at least in my current context). Sometimes I wonder what these young, fit professionals think when they see grandpa starting out at the far-left side of the lineup, I get it; it might seem crazy, especially to non players, non martial artists. The players (a common term for jiu jitsu practitioners) might get it; they have felt the allure and challenge of the practice and might realize people of all ages are susceptible to its siren song.
So, yeah, I’m an unlikely judoka (or jiu jitsuka). Sure, I’m a bit older than optimal for athletic competition. None of that matters. I’m having the time of my life, and I will learn and prepare for competition (or actual defense usage) like my life depends on it.
As time progresses, I’m sure I’ll have more to say on this subject – lots more, since I am a loquacious and prolific fella. But for now, I’ve got to practice some Granby rolls and develop my training plan in preparation for the next tournament. For now, I’ve got to live, sleep, and breathe jiu jitsu.
Today, I stood up and took part. Today, I met people who are (in some essential ways) like me. For a man without a tribe, meeting people of what seem to be ‘my tribe’ was reassuring and powerful (my ‘tribe’ is actually Gaians, people of our planet). Standing up and being part of change, instead of advocating it in words or personal actions, was more than powerful; it was cathartic. So I just had to share some of my fractivism moments, feelings, and reflections with you, Dear Reader (all three of you, LOL).
See, I am kind of a loner. I sort of don’t fit in…anywhere. I don’t currently enjoy sharing life with a lover or partner, so much of my ‘practice’ is simply working to be one less angry person, one more person picking trash off the trails, one more person who will let you into the flow of traffic, or help you if you need help…one more person smiling and singing songs of peace and love. That has been enough up to now.
Thus, I typically spend a lot of time pedaling, going to yoga or the gym, and hiking. I spend a lot of time drawing and singing and in meditation. I spend a lot of time researching and writing, studying and learning. Yet (pardon the crudity) it’s kind of like a dog licking his own balls; he does it because he can, it keeps him content, yet it doesn’t make any change in the world. I ain’t biting anyone, but I sure ain’t been helping in any concrete ways, either.
In our apathetic nation, people have little time for or patience with altruism, with service, with helping implement change. It seems so futile at times; an oligarchy that doesn’t care, a government that doesn’t seem to represent the people, the proven idiocy of our elections, and possible futility of our votes. Still, I hold out hope. So does my fractivist tribe. We are perhaps the fools, those who think we can actually make meaningful change in the world. We are the dreamers.
As I marched (well, sauntered or strolled is more accurate, but marched sounds good) toward Vitamin Cottage, I felt like I was somehow marching in ranks with Martin Luther King, with Harriet Tubman, with all the people who have worked for change. Sure, I was just trying to get the people a voice in what happens to them (nothing Earth-shattering in that, right?), but somehow I felt like I was part of a global movement, one that has been going on since the beginning of society. It is a movement of people dedicated to peace, to social justice and responsibility…and people willing to work for it, to take to the streets and face opposition peacefully, try to appeal to the good and the best in each person. I may not have been worthy to be in their ranks, but still I felt a little proud, a little alive, as I began to help try and facilitate change.
All we were really doing was placing two ballot initiatives before the people. In Colorado, they are called ’75’ (Local Control) and ’78’ (Mandatory Buffer Zones). Initiative seventy five would allow communities to decide for themselves if and how oil and gas ‘development’ happens in their communities. To me this is a big one, promoting grass-roots democracy and the right of the people to choose. It is especially big since in Longmont, we voted a moratorium on fracking but…weren’t allowed to. That’s right; we voted by democratic majority, and yet had fracking shoved down our throats by a state government that appears to be bought and sold by Big Oil.
The initiative (75) seems inarguable and logical…let the people decide, by democratic majority. Let the local people decide what happens locally. If Weld County wants to frack their county into something resembling an episode of (the documentary) Gasland, then that is their choice. Like we used to say as kids…majority rules. If Boulder County doesn’t want that, then we should be allowed to choose so…if we have a democratic majority. Seems pretty cut and dried, eh?It seems like something we can all agree on, and I like that.
The second initiative (78) also seems pretty inarguable as well. It defines a half-mile ‘buffer zone’ between fracking sites and schools, homes, playgrounds, and other sensitive areas (such as water sources and wetlands). It seems to make perfect sense, and be a reasonable precaution. Once again, pretty cut and dried, non? Non.
As I wandered around the Whole Foods/Barnes and Noble area, I noticed many people suddenly look busy when they saw me and my clipboard approaching. I mean, we who live in Boulder County know what that clipboard and hopeful look means…another ballot initiative, perhaps presented by a paid canvasser. I myself have been asked to sign these initiatives many times as I wandered around Boulder, and apparently so has everyone else.
Many suddenly fumbled with their keys, averted their eyes, or tried to look busy. Others tried to look deep in thought (or inapproachable)…some wanted to play like they spoke no English (which was okay, since I speak rudimentary French , German, Spanish, and Gaelic). Others simply looked weary. As time went on, I began to notice the looks, to decipher the demeanors. Some clearly hated the idea, while some were good sports and had already signed. Others were apolitical, and seemed to resent me trying to get them to be politically active. All versions of the ‘Heisman’ stiff-arm, I took them in stride. I respected their rights to be left alone, thanked them, and wished them (sincerely) a good day.
I didn’t push those who averted their eyes or adopted protective postures. I spared those staring darts at me, those obviously wanting to punch the old hippy ‘libtard’ they saw coming. Yet I did try to make an honest effort to politely approach those who seemed approachable. As the hot day wore on, I began to ask less discriminately. Some seemed thankful when I kept it short…’interested in signing the fracking initiative?’ Others seemed to appreciate humor….’have you been pestered to death about fracking yet?’ I let my instinct guide me on which approach to take.
Armed only with a smile and a clipboard, I kept at it, trying to keep moving and not bother the citizenry too much. Yet this initiative is going to die if we don’t get enough signatures to get it on the ballot by the eighth. Thus every signature really counts. So I kept on, pressing gently, politely, humorously if I could. The responses were as varied as the people I met and talked to.
One person actually came to find me, as her partner told her I was at Vitamin Cottage (Natural Grocers) areas with a initiative. She was nice; it made me feel good -a socially responsible person, actually coming to me. I liked that she had a transgender button on. I don’t know her sexual status, and don’t care. For all I know, she is just a person who wants equal rights for others and is not transgender. All I cared about was she was a nice, polite, concerned American trying to make a difference, vote for what she believes in. I really needed that today.
Others were gruff, and with some you could see they were at the edge of blowing up at something or someone. All good. Those people I gave a smile to, and let pass in peace. Some I tried (those looking less angry). I told them the initiatives were not (per se) for or against fracking, but for the chance to get the issue on the ballot, so citizens could vote any way they wanted. That seemed to work for some.
During breaks, I was counter-canvassed by anti-government people, anarchists, and voting futility people. I listened politely, eagerly, glad they shared with me their viewpoints. I told them all (and believe it) that we need them too…not to vote as we want, but to hold space for what they believe, to act to implement the world they desired within their spheres of influence. They are part of us, too. They are our shipmates on this planet, or ‘shippies’ as the sailors call them.
I met one old guy who used to work for Halliburton (a big oil company). He told me a lot of what it was like on those rigs, and some of the issues drillers faced. He told me how it might be more environmentally unsound to drill a new well, than to try to ‘frack’ an existing one. He gave me a gift…the desire to learn more about the specifics and technology of fracking, the processes and pitfalls. I doubt I’ll change my mind, but I will keep it open. At worst, I will be able to speak more intelligently with parties on both sides of the issue. See, I’m a geek, an engineer, and a scientist of a sort. I love technology, especially well-implemented, safe, useful technology.
So there I was, wandering around looking like a hippy weirdo (or worse, an OLD hippy weirdo). Now, I can’t help the face I have; all I can do is adorn it with a smile. I know I look like someone’s crazy grandpa, or an insane gnome, or a wild leprechaun (I’ve been told all these things about my physiognomy). I would sure like to have seen my results if the buffed-up, twenty five year old me was trying this. Would my incredible masculine beauty and virility (at the time) have gotten me more signatures? Would my youthful and hopeful face do the trick? Can we get issues on the ballot with sex, or with lovely appearances? Maybe, but not me.
So I kept on with my old face and my crooked smile. I sweated and I walked. Occasionally, I looked up towards Our Beloved Flatirons, where I might normally be hiking. Sometimes I glanced toward the farm where I was giving up the chance for twenty five bucks an hour cash…just for digging a well and doing a little electrical support. None of that mattered.
Walking around in the heat, being mostly ignored or abhorred, I was…okay…happy. I felt like I was doing something, although it took me a good part of a day to fill a single page in signatures.
Sometimes I felt (by the responses) that I was a homeless person trying to bum a cigarette in a town of non-smokers, or a medicant (beggar) ‘flying a sign’ asking for money among poor people. For Buddha’s sake, I wasn’t trying to sell war, or bomb Libya. To many, I might as well have been. I could see Boulder is in a sort of activism burnout stage. We have signed so many petitions (online and on paper) we are dizzy. We have tried to facilitate so much social change…only to be disenfranchised and ignored by our representatives, marginalized by our electoral system, and confounded by the big money of Big Business, we have become a bit ‘shell-shocked.’ I get it.
Still, I tried.
I’m not sure I have communicated just how different this was for me. I don’t like to sell or proselytize anything, especially in person. I don’t like to force ideas on people, or make them uncomfortable. (Of course, as a writer and musician, I don’t mind these things when done in words or song, but in person is another matter entirely). I am somewhat socially inept, and a big conflict-avoider (if I can get away with it). So it was hard to step out there and not be just a smiling face passing by on his bicycle, unaffected by movements and petitions, unmoved by anything except my own motivation.
A large number of people actually thanked me for what I was doing. For a person who has experienced the frustration of seeing our nation become more fragmented and apathetic daily, of seeing our government present a empire-building, militarized front to the world (with seemingly little hope of our citizens changing it), this was incredible. I suppose more people thanked me for helping in this way than ever thanked me for my military ‘service’ to the country. That is perhaps as it should be; I think (and feel) one less fracking rig would be more valuable to us than one less ‘enemy.’ It sure feels better at the end of the day.
This is not a task for the thin-skinned, or for the easily discouraged. I went in with pretty thick skin: I have no ego involved in this. I am not getting paid to do it. If it get a million signatures or a single one, I have tried. I understand many oppose the initiatives, and many resent being polled and prodded by canvassers on both sides of the issue. To many, we are just telemarketers in person, and far uglier than they imagined. To some, we are Green environmental freaks, tree huggers, and damn worthless hippies who should be wearing Carharts, smoking Marlboros, and working a ‘real job’ like a ‘real man.’ That’s okay. I know who I am and what I stand for. That’s enough.
To some (me included, in the case I will soon present) these people are bloody heroes. They are the anti-warriors, the ‘peaciers‘ who try to promote progressive change and social/ecological justice. We are the people who just want sustainable, sensible communities who will treat the Earth with some respect, and leave some of it for future generations.
One of the people was the guy who had the courage to stand up on stage and confront Governor Hickenlooper for voting against our demonstrated will, and for supporting oil and gas companies over the state he is sworn to protect. Of course, the person I am speaking of was rushed off stage by the police, but he stood up, and asked the question, the question he as a citizen had the right to ask. He stood up, and faced our governor peacefully yet firmly. Like the woman putting a flower in a soldier’s gun at Kent State. Like hundreds of Americans of African descent who stood up to Jim Crow and demanded a vote. Like all those throughout history who dared to voice a dissenting opinion.
Man, that took guts. Sure, it ain’t charging a machine-gun nest, but this was courage for peace, courage for the purpose of protecting our planet, for demanding government accountability, for requesting a open and honest dialogue, not decisions signed by big shots behind closed doors. Today, I met one of my heroes…a lot of them, actually. The people making this happen are two yogis I have taken classes from and with. They are clear-eyed, active people, self-actualized and socially concerned and responsible…everything I am not. I love them.
So my head is still swimming in memories as I write, my heart open from the experience. The one thing that could have taken my mind off our new war…happened. I got involved, took part in something, tried to affect some sort of change for some (any) good cause. Jenn Calaway (another of my heroes)…I am no longer mute. I will stand for what I believe and say what I think and feel, despite the consequences. I will TAKE PART.
Sure, I might be better suited for stopping Japanese whaling ships, or doing the Monkey-Wrench Gang type of ‘direct action’, but I think I like this…no violence, no shows of strength needed (yet courage and conviction required). We have no enemies, and no goals or objectives other than to allow our fellow citizens the chance to make informed votes about issues. This is a peaceful revolution. We aim to respect others’ rights and property, yet still effect positive change and choice. It’s non-violent, and is what yogis and Green Party people believe in.
Today, I was ‘boots on the ground’…doing what I do best…getting it done. Today, I was ‘in the trenches’ advocating for grassroots democracy. It is a war of a sort, a peaceful war. As a warrior, I like that. I want to be in the mellow class, or the caregiver class, or musician class, or something nice and groovy. Yet I am a warrior, sent here to protect and defend. I find I can do that peacefully. I can protect (or help to protect) our planet, our beloved state, our county. I can defend peoples’ right to be informed, to have local choice on local issues. I love that.
Not one bullet fired. Not one oath hurled, or hand raised in anger. Just reason, opportunity, the law that unites us. Just the actual democratic process, people getting involved to create a better city, county, state, nation, and world.Â
I try to impress on my grandson that by our actions we (to a large degree) define ourselves. If I climb, then by definition I am a climber. How good a climber I am is another matter, but the fact I climbed The Slab (or wherever) fulfilled the definition of a climber, and to one degree or another, appended my name with climber. Mark Mullen, climber. Mark Mullen, aspirant on the path of yoga, etc. I try to impress on him that by his choice of actions, he can determine those appendages that if not define him, at least describe more than his experience…describe his actions.
I have appended many things to my name, both good and bad. I have acted like a mean person before, and as a (and I quote) shining bundle of love. I choose. Today I chose to append something else to my name, and did it by my actions. Mark Mullen, fractivist. Mark Mullen, activist. Mark Mullen, volunteer initiative circulator. Of course, if I do it only once, I will be Mark Mullen, one-time fractivist. If I do it until the end of my life, I might become Mark Mullen, long-time activist. If I had begun in my teens and kept it up, I could claim to be Mark Mullen, lifelong activist.
I am re-stating the obvious because one day my (then older) grandson may read my words, and  perhaps be guided by them.
I may not become a long-time activist. I like to keep my schedule open, for whatever life brings (and am willing to be relatively ‘poor’ to do it). I may only help between now and the eighth, the deadline for signature submission. Either way, for once in my life, I will have helped. For once, I aligned with an honorable cause for a good goal, took part in something bigger than myself. I liked that. I am thankful for that, the opportunity to do such meaningful work.
It could be like the anti-government guy I spoke with today said and our votes ultimately don’t matter, and we are all dupes and pawns of the oligarchy, but…I guess I will not be a dupe or a pawn that just sat back and let it happen. I will be a dupe or pawn (if that’s what I am) who at least tries to change things.Â
Of course, the real change and the important change comes from within. I know this and agree…and have been working that deeply for almost the past decade, working it for my entire life. Yet perhaps now it is time to stand up and align with what I believe in, time to get out and work for the changes I want. Sure, I’ll try to be the change. I will also try to actually make the actions that result in change, perform the actions that help accomplish change.
Of course, change is inevitable, so the type of change I want to help bring about is positive social change, change for the welfare of people and planet, without distinction or division. The values I believe in are found (in part) in many ancient and modern books, and are echoed throughout the ages by the sages. Yet the personal, social, and political values I believe in and the practical suggestions for implementing those values, the reasonable and honest goals those values are directed towards, are best reflected for me in the Green Party Platform. I must admit, I agree with virtually all of the Socialist platform as well, but the Green Party seems to offer more practical suggestions and goals.
I don’t care. Parties are the old way of thinking. Our society is quickly dividing into those for progressive social change and those for the status quo, the system, and for keeping the world the way it was in the good old days of dear old dad. We are becoming divided not by party, but by those for war and authoritarian paradigms (out of belief or political expediency) and those firmly opposed to war and force, and for non-violence.
It’s not a good or evil thing; that also is the old way of seeing these things. It is more a division between basic altrusim and basic greed or fear. Being a person of strong ego, and one who has been greedy for many things at many times, it is odd I would align with these more idealistic and basically morally courageous people. Yet they speak what is in my heart and what I aspire towards, not necessarily how I am or have been.
I can’t change how I have been, and most definitely wouldn’t want to, even the bad parts.
All I can do now is vote what I believe, act what I believe, try to bring what I believe into fruition. I am a good gardener and good husband. I can help bring these to fruition, to flowering. I can at least try, my very best.
I will need to find other practical and effective ways to further this change, but I think getting down in the trenches (of Boulder, LOL) to help effect grassroots democracy is a good first step.
These excerpts are from The Art of Loving, by Erich Fromm:
Is love an art? Then it requires knowledge and effort.
Most people see the problem of love primarily as that of being loved, rather than that of loving, of one’s capacity to love.
People think that to love is simple, that to find the right object to love – or to be loved by – is difficult.
The sense of falling in love develops usually only with regard to such human commodities as are within reach of one’s own possibilities for exchange.
The third error leading to the assumption that there is nothing to be learned from love lies in the confusion between the initial experiece of falling in love, and the permanent state of being in love…
….they take the intensity of the infatuation, this being ‘crazy’ about each other, for proof of the intensity of their love, while it may only prove the degree of their preceding loneliness.
There seems to be only one adequate way to overcome this failure of love – to examine the reasons for this failure, and to proceed to study the meaning of love.
The process of learning an art can be divided conveniently into two parts: one, the mastery of the theory; the other, the mastery of the practice.
In spite of the deep-seated craving for love, almost everything else is considered to be more important than love: success, prestige, money, power – almost all our energy is used for the learning of how to achieve these aims, and almost none to learning the art of loving.
(Ch 1)
Man is gifted with reason; he is life being aware of itself…
Man – of all ages and cultures – is confronted with the solution of one and the same question: the question of how to overcome separateness, how to achieve union, how to transcend one’s individual life and find at-onement.
Most people are not even aware of their need to conform. They live under the illusion that they follow their own ideas and inclinations, that they are individualists, that they arrived at their opinions as the result of their own thinking – and that it just happens that their ideas are the same as the majority.
Contemporary society preaches this idea of unindividualized equality because it needs human atoms, each one the same, to make them function as a mass aggregation, smoothly, without friction; all obeying the same commands, yet everyone being convinced that he is following his own desires.
The unity achieved in productive work is not interpersonal; the unity achieved in orgiastic fusion is transitory; the unity achieved by conformity is only pseudo-unity. Hence, they are only partial answers to the problem of existence. The full answer lies in the achievement of interpersonal union, of fusion with another person, in love.
Do we refer to love as the mature answer to the problem of existence, or do we speak of those immature forms of love which may be called symbiotic union?
Envy, jealousy, ambition, any kind of greed are passions; love is an action, the practice of human power, which can be practiced only in freedom and never as the result of compulsion.
Love is primarily giving, not receiving.Â
Giving is the highest expression of potency. In the very act of giving, I experience my strength, my wealth, my power. This experience of heightened vitality and potency fills me with joy. I experience myself as overflowing, spending, alive, hence as joyous. Giving is more joyous than receiving, not because it is a deprivation, but because in the act of giving lies the expression of my aliveness.
Every one of your relationships to man and nature must be a definite expression of your real, individual life corresponding to the object of your will.
Beyond the element of giving, the active character of love becomes evident in the fact that it always implies certain basic elements, common to all forms of love. These are care, responsibility, respect, and knowledge.
One loves that for which one labors, and labors for that which one loves.
I know in the only way knowledge of that which is alive is possible for man -by experience of union – not by any knowledge our thought can give.
The only way of full knowledge lies in the act of love; this act transcends thought, it transcends words. It is the daring plunge into the experience of union.
(CH 2)
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These are only my highlights…from readings long ago. The whole book is worthy of highlights. If you haven’t read it, I suggest it highly.
We as a culture seem fascinated with making love…but not on learning about love. Popular magazines abound with stories about hot new sex tricks and techniques…but not on the nature or practice of love.
‘How-to’ articles abound – about sex, not about love. While tracing the letters of the Greek alphabet on your lover’s clitoris may bring some thunderng orgasms, it brings us no closer to manifesting real love. A fire and ice may make your guy happy right now, but it won’t bring about the union that keeps us happy.
This focus on the gross aspects of lovemaking is the result of a basic misunderstanding; many of us think we make love with our bodies only. So we focus on how good our bodies look or perform, on the mechanics of sex…but not on what making love is.
When we truly make love, we bring body, mind, and soul to the bed (or beach, to meadow or mountaintop). We engage with our entire beings, holding nothing back. Anything less is just making the Beast With Two Backs. While that may seem fun enough, it is ultimately disrespect – using the other as an object, to scratch our itch.
That dishonors us, and our partners.
A handful of Viagra and mindful of fantasies does not a lover make. No amount of techniques can make you a good lover. Mastering every position in the Kama Sutra might make your partner come…but it won’t make them stay.
Making love starts when clothed…when demonstrating love and consideration out of bed. It just concludes in bed. To be more accurate, real love-making takes a lifetime to complete.
Now don’t get me wrong – the physical aspects of making love are a beautiful, sacred gift we give each other…but they do not solely constitute making love. When you think of old lovers you might .miss, do you remember the sex or the love? When you think back on the great times with them, do you think of sweaty gyrations or the beautiful moments of interpersonal communion, of shared laughter and experiences?
When younger, I mastered the techniques of sex and self-control, learned the mechanics and thought I was suddenly a good lover. On the surface, I was. I could make a woman come like none other, but witheld that crucial part of me, failed to offer up that bit of essence that makes a great lover.
Mechanics alone won’t do it; we’ve all experienced lovers who loved us mechanically, perfect in action, but somehow missing something. Without mutual passion and sharing, sex is simply fucking…and that’s gross. Maybe not gross like a piece of dog poo is considered gross, in the modern vernacular…gross as in lacking the subtle, the magic that turns pretty good sex into great lovemaking.
If I could again be with old lovers I missed, making love physically is not the first thing I’d like to do with them. I’d prefer to first listen to them, feel with them, share with them. It’s like setting out the blanket for a picnic – you have to first set the atmosphere, the environment, create a safe place for your sacraments.
Then can begin the real lovemaking: laughing, sharing, growing closer.
The sex is just icing on the cake, an outer manifestation of the real, inner lovemaking. The sex is not the core (as we seem to think), but the crown of lovemaking.
Totally being there, absorbed in every action. Completely giving one’s self, without reservation. That is really making love; uniting as one, our focus not on ourselves, but on the other, on US. In that beautiful crucible, we join together for a sacred moment as One.
Can we make love without touching? In tantra, we try.
In tantra, we hope to transcend the mere physical, yet engage fully in it to accomplish this. Tantra is about so much more than making love, or even love itself. Tantra (like the Tao) cannot be described; it can only be experienced.
From most reports, the average lover focuses on the mere physical when making love. The focus also appears to be on limited physical (‘erogenous’) zones, rather than the entire body…mouth, nipples, and genitals, for the crudest. Throw in a brief sortie to the neck or the area between chest and genitals, as an afterthought on the way from one to the other, for the rest.
Leaving your Lover essentially unloved (‘loved’ in only the physical realm, and a limited version of that) is never a recipe for sacred union, for truly mind-blowing sex or complete lovemaking. In tantra, we seek to make love not only to the whole person, but with the couple we create, and through it, the entire world.
So don’t get tantra wrong; it has nothing to do with sex…and everything to do with it. Through the practice of tantra, we elevate it (and ourselves) to a higher level, a more complete and Divine manifestation. Through our personal union, we reflect and invoke the Divine Union. Through our physical (and mental and spiritual) selves, we allow God and Goddess to make love, in us and through us.
We merge Yin and Yang, animal and Divine.
This is truly a rare and sacred gift. After sharing this nectar, the crude potion of mere fucking becomes distasteful, repugnant even. It serves only to dishonor and denigrate ourselves and those who we participate in this travesty with.
The sages of Vedanta and Buddhism (and indeed, of all religions, at their core) speak of right action and wrong action. Right action is seen as that which brings harmony and union, which is undertaken selflessly, without regard for or attachment to the result. They are actions that are natural expressions of our higher Self, our true, authentic, and intimate Selves.
Wrong actions are those which do the opposite. They take us not towards unipn, but to selfish gratification of desires. They are based primarily in the perceived good of the individual, of the lower self. These base and crude actions are undertaken for their anticipated results. They are engaged on to fulfill personal, lower-order desires, to join not with the world in harmony, but to use it to get what we want…not in the long term, but in the greed-filled moment.
Living life or using sex like that is perverting it. It degrades us instead of elevating us. It is the exact opposite of tantra.
Tantra is a gift. In it, we express Union (the definition of yoga)…with ourselves, our lovers, and the Divine – with the entire world. That is a gift beyond compare, a gift we give gladly, participate in gladly.
Love. It is the only goal, the only good reason, the only firm foundation for sex and life.
She is so holy. We sing together, in praise of Life and of the Divine. We dance. We dance in ecstasy, in release, in joy. We explore life together, share its joys and sorrows. We consecrate each other, make a sacrament of our lives together. We make music together, make love together, serve the world together.
I love my lover. I worship Her…both the Goddess within, and the fallible human person as well. She is my inspiration.
We eat artichokes together, and drop grapes in each others’ mouths. We massage each other with hot sesame oil, or almond oil. Sometimes we even take a walk on the wild side and use jojoba oil. We like organic stuff; we eat fruit and vegetables together. We make juices together, and kombucha. We share in the bounty of this world.
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We meditate together, and practice yoga together. We encourage and inspire each other. We hope to be going strong at 108, still doing yoga and going on hikes. We snowboard, like none other. We rock each others’ worlds, like none other.
I love her
I haven’t even met Her.Â
I am content to wait forever, but truly need Her now as never before. I can wait a thousand lifetimes, if need be. I can walk a thousand miles, if need be. Everything in my life has prepared me for Her.
I am Hers…forever.Â
I don’t care if She gets old, or acts crabby. I don’t care if She is fallible, or all-too-human. I love Her.
We give each other plenty of space, yet are joined at a chemical level, a cellular level, at a spiritual level. I want to spend every second with Her, am fully alive only when I am with Her.
I am dizzy when I am around Her. I feel like a young boy, the king of the universe, the keeper of the best secret ever.
She doesn’t even know me…yet…or doesn’t know who I am.
I may never find Her, nor She me. I am really scared of that.
We help people, help each other, help ourselves. Life is a banquet, a smorgasbord, a masterpiece to be enjoyed. Life together, that is.
I sing Her to me.
My heart cries out to Her, my soul lifts in song when I think of Her.
I don’t know what She looks like, nor do I care. I don’t care if She has money or a job. I don’t care if She has zits, or a wrinkle on her ass. Â
She is The One.Â
I may never find Her.Â
We play music together, and take a lot of hikes and climbs. We love to pedal.Â
I am Her man. I’d do anything for Her.Â
We like to pick up trash on trails, work at the Soup Kitchen. We sit together at Quaker meetings, and dance at the Rhythm Sanctuary. We live. We love.
I take out the trash, and do any dang thing She wants. I am here to please Her.
With Her at my side, I can accomplish anything.
We read poetry to each other, and feed each other Choco-love and passion fruit.Â
We made our TV into an aquarium.
We might move to Alaska…or India. The world is our home, and I am home whenever I am with Her. All love songs are about Her, all the poems too.Â
Our time together is a blessed sacrament, a Holy Communion.Â
Suddenly, money makes sense, for I want to buy Her a house, take Her to Paris and buy Her a dress. We want to laugh and dance in the streets. We want to hold hands unabashedly, and to kiss in public.
I want to kiss Her forever. I want to hold Her forever.Â
When was the last time you’ve cried? For many, it has been since they were kids. For many others, the last time they were really sad. Some cried at the last romantic comedy they saw. When was the last time you cried for joy? Ever?
Crying has become declasse in our jaded world. We refuse to cry…or we hide our tears if we do. In men, it is often seen as a sign of weakness. In all of us, it is seen as a sign of over-emotionality, if we do it with any regularlity.Â
Our psychiatrists and doctors prescribe us mood-altering drugs…to calm our tears, to modulate our emotions, to make us fly ‘nice and level.’ When our lovers leave us or die, we medicate ourselves to dull our emotions. We try to forget their memory, stop the tears, avoid the pain. We take therapy, or meditate. We get new lovers and ‘forget’ the old ones.
We run away from pain, away from tears.
Within our hips and hearts lie seas of unexpressed emotion. Our eyes brim with uncried tears. We fail to pay homage in the only genuine way we can. How important was that lover, if all she left in her wake was uncried tears? How much of an impact has the world made on us if we won’t even shed a tear at the tragedy, whatever it is?Â
I cry.
I love to cry, even when it hurts.Â
To give up my most precious water to mark the passage of emotions, to express them, and to cleanse myself of them. They say she was not worth the salt of my tears…I say she was. Every moment we spent was worth these tears. They wouldn’t have been so special if their loss didn’t evoke tears.Â
Break my heart, make me cry rivers…puddles…lakes. That is the price of a lift ticket on the Love ride. I’ll pay gladly, for I know they free my soul, make space for more love…and pain. I will cry as well, for I fear there will never be another love like that one, maybe never another love, period.Â
I wouldn’t have it any other way.Â
Without tears, the pent-up emotion would be crippling. Without the emotion, one would barely be alive. These emotions are the soundtracks of our lives, accompanying every moment. They play like no music can, direct from our hearts, have their roots in the heart. Music is emotions made audible, emotions are the heart made palpable.
I welcome those emotions. My sense of loss is winnowing my soul of ego and old stories, preparing the ground for newer, better love and relationships. Each low note provides a dynamic counterpoint against which the next high note can shine. Each tear has a counterpart in a laugh, has its root in it.Â
I have this theory that some cancers are caused by emotion, unexpressed emotion. Their physiological, neurological, and spiritual effects have greater ramifications than we imagine. Toxins in foods can cause cancer, too, but what is more toxic than unexpressed or suppressed, negative emotions?
The last time a lover left me, I felt like I was dying. I was. The toxins in my mind, heart, and body made my will to live ebb. Had I not faced those emotions, cried out those bitter (but cleansing) tears, the ebb would have continued. Those negative emotions (or even general oposition to or skepticism about the world) cause my body’s pH to become more acid.Â
The pH in my soul, as well. Not only will my body have the stench of decay and death, my mind and heart will. Every cell will soak in that acid, becoming an environment in which cancer can grow. As I cleanse myself, purge with tears and re-hydrate, I balance my pH, make room for new healing and growth. I release the old toxins, tears, and memories.Â
I heal as I cry for joy as well. I help the energy flow, the new cells and possibilities and Life to bloom within me.
Crying is cathartic. It is acknowledging ourselves as the fragile beings we are, facing ourselves in our humanity. Gone are our stories and facades when we cry. Gone are our pretenses and defense mechanisms. Gone are our jaded, tough masks we face the world with.
Through tear-filled eyes we perhaps see most clearly – the humanity in ourselves and others. We mark those moments in our lives important enough to cry about…weddings and funerals, births and breakups. We pay tribute with our tears. Tears fill our eyes as we gaze toward the Divine, as we see the Divine Light reflected in the people and circumstances of our lives.Â
Sometimes I cry even when I am not crying. Tears just flow, even though I am in the grip of no particular emotion. They flush my ducts, lubricate them for the next eventual and unavoidable tears of active crying.
I could not imagine a life without tears…I wouldn’t want one.Â
I am more afraid of unfaced emotion than I am of any emotional pain. I fear numbness more than emotion, more than tears or pain. Tears and strong emotions indicate life. Tears are the seeds of laughter.Â
Yet no one likes to cry alone. No one likes to feel alone when they cry. Tears shared can be sweet, but ultimately all tears are cried alone, all emotions faced and experienced in the solitude of ourselves. Yet we never cry totally alone. God cries and angels cry with us.
With my tears, I admit that I truly feel you, your effects on me and my intimate life. It’s nice to be heard, understood, known. But with tears I show you are felt…experienced at the most fundamental, emotional level.Â
Tears for the poor, the lonely, for the sad state of the world. Tears for the beauty and pain of life, for the good and bad. Tears for me and tears for you. They flow freely, as I allow them to.Â
I cry tears of thanks and gratitude for my tears. They are gifts, transporting me from the logical world of the head to the feeling world of the heart. That is a gift indeed.Â
So cry on, world, freely and unashamedly. Don’t hold it in, for that will kill you. Face it, shed a tear if need be, for that will free you. Then drop it and face the next moment with an open heart, for that will liberate you.
Let’s all become free and open with our tears. Let’s cry them when they need cried. Let’s bring the honor and art back to tears. They are honest, authentic tribute to life’s ups and downs, an open display of our ever-changing states, a catharsis and a relief.
Crying is a gift, an art, a sacrament. It is a gift we give ourselves, when we hold space in our pain, knowing it will pass. It is a gift we give others, standing naked of ego, holding space as our true selves, open and honest…and brave enough to show how we feel.
Emotions repressed or denied bring suffering, disease, and death. Emotions expressed and left to pass bring healing and life.
I could just cry for joy at that.
: )
Peace
AUMmmmmmm
Shanti
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“Well, I cried me a river, I cried me a lake. I cried til the past nearly drowned me. Tears for sad consequence, tears for mistakes…but never these tears that surround me.”
Is it the hot flash we call anger, the welling in our chest we call love? Is it what we feel, or the label we attach to it?
Is emotion purely a physical response, or our attendant mental/psychological responses as well?
I read somewhere that (in healthy, well-adjusted people) the physical effects of emotion (increased adrenaline, pulse rate, etc.) last less than a minute. After that, any residual effects are due to our mental response to this initial (physical) emotional ‘wave’ (my term).
What about people who appear emotionless? What is going on when, in circumstances that would have most of us laughing or crying, some people display no outward emotions, nor do they give evidence of the existence of ‘inward’ ones?
These are like questions about God. Emotions are so individual and subjective (as are our relationships with the Divine) that there is no one answer, no size that fits all. Asking questions about emotions is (to no small degree) trying to unscrew the inscrutable, to define the indefinite.
Do these emotions leave a ‘residue,’ some sort of physical, mental, or spiritual after-effects? Â What happened to the traces of my broken heart? Are they all merely stored in my hippocampus? How is it that when I recall them, I get an actual neurological, endocrine, and vagal response? How can a memory light up my vagus nerve?
Like those about God, we may never know the answers to these questions. But I do know this:
I feel.
I feel emotions deeply. They rise like waves, carrying me along with them. If I am not mindful, I will lose my balance and plunge into the dangerous seas of uncontrolled emotion, of inappropriate responses to them. I surf the waves of emotion. They pass like waves, strong and sometimes terrible and always undeniably here, now.
All the texts I’ve read on the subject, all the books and studies have brought me no closer to knowledge or understanding about emotion. Sure, I can draw you charts about brain function and can go on an on about current studies and emerging theories, but that is just information and gets us no closer to an intimate understanding of emotion.
All the tears I’ve cried and love I’ve experienced do get me closer to the subject, to a knowledge of what emotion is.
All the hours of meditation and reflection, of consideration and observation may help me gain wisdom about emotion, but nothing brings us closer to the experience than the experience itself.
Emotion is about feeling. It can’t be approached by or described with words.
So why do I even try, why do I write about a subject that defies any written apprehension of it? I don’t know, I am a writer and that is what I do, I guess. Maybe I hope I’ll somehow uncover (or stumble on, most likely) some facsimile of answers, or elicit them in others with my words. Perhaps I seek to give myself a clue by leaving my words as breadcrumbs along the trail of my search. Quite possibly, I hope to gain perspective by observing how my thoughts and words on this subject have varied over time, and with experience.
I don’t know.
Just like questions about God, the only honest answer we can give is…I don’t know. I could not possibly know, for emotions (and God) are in the realm of feeling. One can’t know them, or even know much about them. One can only experience them, down at our cores, in our hearts, where we live…in our guts, in every cell of our bodies.
Talking about emotions is like trying to grasp fog, to catch the mist. Sharing emotions is another thing. But can we ever, in truth? If I am full of love for my Beloved (and she for me), how do we know we are even feeling remotely the same thing? We say (and hope) we do, but all those emotions are going on inside, all are intimately and permanently subjective.
Yes, emotions are slippery…and warm…and wet. They are hot and cold, uplifting and crushing. They are too big to be corralled with mere words. They are too vivid to describe. They are…
I don’t know much about emotions, but I do know this…I feel better somehow for having gotten this out of me. I feel better for potentially having shared my thoughts with you. I feel, I feel…
I don’t care if you hear me, am unmoved if you understand me. What I want to know is this…
Do you feel me?
Author’s Note: Of course, what I’d like best is to hear what You think on the subject. There are no right or wrong answers.
The pranavah is the root mantra of yoga. It is the undifferentiated sound. It is the sound of the universe turning on its axis, of angels singing, of Love.
AUM…the sound is really composed of four sounds…the ‘ahhh’ rising from our roots, the ‘ooh’ flowing from our hearts, and the ‘mmm’ resonating in our minds….plus the silent resonance as our intention rises and joins with the Divine. Uniting these sounds serves to unite body, mind, and spirit.
We do this beyond the limitations of dogma, of belief, of separation. In the pranavah it is All One.
In ancient Vedic prayers, all begin with AUM, and all end in AUM, Shanti. Shanti is Sanskrit for peace. Some say the pranavah is the primordial name of the Divine. What prayer could be better than one which starts with the name of God and ends with peace?
If God is the source of Love and connection and all things Good, then we make ourselves separate from this when we make distinctions between ourselves and others, when we seek to judge or compare.
In the pure light of Love, all beings are special. All beings are incomparable, incommensurable. Comparing them would be like trying to compare the color orange to the number 13…it simply can’t be done. Can one judge another when all beings are, at their core, incommemsurable?
In the pure light of God (or the God of Your Understanding, if you prefer it that way), judgments and distinctions are things that separate us from each other, separate us from God.
In the alternative, the pranavah evokes that place where judgments are moot, mere constructs of the ego. When we speak (and act) from the egoic mind, divisions between us are infinite, judgments abound. When we live (and act) from the heart, all division falls away.
The pranavah is a gentle reminder, the still, small voice that calls us back to community with each other, to unity with the Divine.
Tales from the Hips (and Heart) 