The Joy of Memes

Hey y’all,

So… I’m making memes now. It was that something new learned this week.

For the record, I’m very proud of the meme that starts this blog.

In my personal life, I’m addicted to Facebook in a love/hate kind of way. My now ex-partner hates it and I wouldn’t say I love it, but it’s become a habit. An annoying habit. Anybody who is not addicted to any kind of social media and does not participate -especially if that somebody isn’t a hermit in a cave somewhere in the Rockies – has my respect.

But I’m a sucker for memes, especially the good ones. It’s such a succinct way to get a pithy message across with words and a visual. Thanks to my flailing in the world of Pinterest, I came across a blog on how to make memes.

So I read it, and started. And I think I’m kind of hooked.

If I’m not careful memes will take over and I will stop writing. And that would be a bad, bad thing. Perhaps these are natural growing pains that come with donning lots of new hats?

It’s good for my brain to learn new things. That’s what I’m telling myself right now. I’m overwhelmed. I’m trying to embrace it.

But I loved learning about memes. I made 10 memes on my first day. Self-expression feels good to choose images and quotes – sometimes I even use my own. Or I use an image from the piece of artwork from Ella Bandita with a punch that fits in in a different way, and thus alters the meaning. The possibilities are endless. So what’s not to love?  

The best part is that I already taught something the day after I learned it. My friend and former housemate, Cole is stepping in to help and I taught her how to make memes too. The ones she made were completely different from mine, but fabulous! Maybe we will rock cyber space with our fresh take on things and our memes that go viral.

Or maybe we’ll simply do a great job of getting people’s attention to this website and my stories. Because that’s what I’m really here for, you know?

What about you, dear reader? Do you like to pass the time making memes, finding memes, or both? What are some of your favorites? Let’s have some show and tell, please.

Peace,

Montgomery

PS: Here’s the link to a site that makes it really, really easy to make a meme:

https://quotescover.com/

PPS: Cole found her medium through the Adobe Spark app. And here is one of hers.

PPPS: Technically, memes have nothing to do with writing. But these can also make some good writing prompts. Pick one and do a freewrite. Come on! I dare you.

The Wolf Finds The Shepherd

Image by Kurt K. from Pixabay 

His sluggishness immediately gone, he sat up and listened. 

He hadn’t the pleasure of music in far too long. 

The tune was cheerful, the notes ringing through the trees behind him. The Wolf followed the song where the forest gave way to an open meadow. 

He smelled prey before he saw a large flock of sheep roaming through the grass and drinking from the pond. His lips shimmied along his teeth and his nostrils quivered, the instinct to stalk compelling. 

There were so many sheep. He could easily catch one. 

But the trill of the fiddle was more tempting, guiding the Wolf to the player, who was clearly the Shepherd of this flock.   

He was near the trees, at the crest of the hill. 

He swung his bow across the strings, and danced a whirlwind jig in the rhythm of masculine grace. 

He was very tall, taller than the Wanderer had been. His black hair had threads of silver and fell in waves past his shoulders. His beard was thick, with more silver strands than his mane. 

In the brief moments the Shepherd spun in the Wolf’s direction, he saw deep lines etched across his brow and around his eyes. But his deeply tanned skin was taut against chiseled features. 

Although far into his mature years, the Shepherd moved with the agility of a man half his age.

His head bent towards his fiddle and engrossed in his playing, he was blind to the Wolf until the distressed noises of his flock made him look up. 

The Shepherd saw the Wolf immediately, dropping his fiddle and bow for a rifle the Wolf hadn’t noticed on his approach. 

He collapsed to the ground and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Please don’t kill me!” the Wolf begged, his voice raspy after months of disuse. “On my soul, I swear I don’t want your sheep!” 

He braced himself for the clap of gunshot, but nothing happened. 

When he dared to look, the Wolf found the Shepherd with rifle in hand. The barrel pointed to the ground, and the Shepherd stared at the Wolf with the clearest green eyes he’d ever seen.

“Did you just speak to me?”

The Shepherd’s voice was soothing, a mellow tenor that put the Wolf at ease. 

He recognized the kind of man he most loved to travel with. 

The Wolf pushed himself off the ground. 

But as his head and shoulders rose, the Shepherd’s face tightened and he brought his gun to waist level, his finger on the trigger. 

The Wolf lowered his back haunches.

“I don’t mean you any harm,” he said. “I just wanted to listen to the music.”

The Shepherd didn’t answer right away. 

His regard swept over the Wolf, the lines deepening between his brows. 

“I’ve never seen a wolf with black eyes before,” he said. 

“Neither have I.”

The Shepherd smiled, his expression endearing with one of his front teeth overlapping the other. Then he bent down and traded the rifle for his fiddle and bow.

“I have an idea,” he said. “I’ll keep playing while you tell me how you came to be a talking wolf.”       

So the Wolf did. 

The Shepherd made a satisfying listener. 

Even while playing, his gaze stayed on the Wolf and he never interrupted the flow of the story. 

Sometimes the Wolf grew uneasy when the Shepherd’s face clouded over or he frowned. But the Wolf knew the Shepherd heard him and his relief was such that he couldn’t hold back. 

Once he finished the tale of losing his heart, he couldn’t stop. He told the Shepherd about his parents’ murder, his terror of being alone after his grandfather died, and the isolation of being a man inside a wolf. As he talked, the compassion in those clear green eyes made the throbbing in his hollow disappear. 

By the time the Wolf finished, day had become night. 

The Shepherd stopped playing the same moment the Wolf fell silent. 

He was exhausted. 

Although he knew it was time to bid farewell, his head weighed heavy and the Wolf drifted into a dreamtime harmony.   

For the first time in months, he was refreshed when he woke up the next morning. He stretched his limbs and yawned, the smell of charring meat stirring up his hunger. 

He was surprised and pleased when the Shepherd set a plate of overcooked squirrel before him.

“Sorry it’s burned. I probably should have left it raw because I’m not much of a cook.”

“Well, I can help you with that,” the Wolf replied. “Or at least I could have.”

“You can still talk me through it.  That is, if you want to.”

That was all the invitation the Wolf needed. 

He fell into the Shepherd’s routine as if he’d been part of his flock for years.

Journey of a Thousand Cranes, Part 5

Photo by me. I really wish I’d taken pictures right after I put the cranes up.

When my count was at 900 cranes, I slowed down in the folding of them. 

I was anxious about the wish because I realized how much I wanted it to come true, even if I didn’t know what I was wishing for. 

But the folding, meditating, and focusing on love and my personal roadblocks to it was confusing.

I was reluctant to let go of my initial motivation to be a conquest diva. I wrote in my journal about it incessantly and I decided any one of three things had to happen to prove the wish had come true.

And then I was done. 

In several boxes were a thousand cranes that took me four months to fold, not including all the ones I gave away. 

I wasn’t in a hot new relationship by the time I finished, and my phone was not ringing off the hook with people yearning to take me out on splendid dates. 

I finished my semester in the outdoor studies program I was enrolled in, and rented a ladder and platform to complete the art project.

Heather, one of the friends who had taught me how to make the cranes, came over and helped me put up the white Christmas lights that I lined along the ceiling and down the 90° corners and across the bottom of the walls to illuminate the paper cranes in soft golden light. 

After that, I was on my own. Grabbing a box of cranes that had been folded in tie-dye patterns, I started with the narrow wall in the stairwell and pinned a bird to the top left corner and pinned two cranes below that one.

From there, the project just finished itself. 

It is impossible to describe how I felt in that process, but there was no “I” putting up the paper cranes flying in full circle from the kimono from which they came. 

I put the kimono Jeff had sent me up at the top of the staircase, with one arm spread out, one arm bent akimbo, and one half of the front opened, with cranes coming out of the neck, the shoulders, the arms and the bottom, in formation and ready to fly. 

With each turn in the wall, lined up according to species – solid color, tie-dye, manuscript, book, or magazine - the paper cranes flew in formation towards the stairwell, whipping to the left, and to the left again, over the banister to fly back to the Mother Kimono. 

Creatively, this was the most satisfying thing I had ever done and the end result was really something.

“This is absolutely stunning,” said my neighbor, Jacque, as she stood at the top of the staircase and gaped “It’s overwhelming.”

It was the middle of December. I threw a Christmas ‘n Cranes party to celebrate. All my core friends showed up and many people have visited since to see it. 

I had just finished the project late that afternoon, so I was pretty exhausted at my own party. 

But looking around, I saw that I had a very diverse group of colorful characters for friends, and I didn’t have to do for them to get them to like me. 

Something definitely changed as a result of this wishing meditation.

I didn’t get what I wished for, but what happened was probably what I needed. 

And it was definitely what I focused on the most. 

As I said before, I fumed and raged inside at my family while I was folding paper. And I’d been having problems with them for a couple of years. 

I could no longer stand to be in the shadows, watching, listening, and wringing my hands over their doings and dramas. 

As conflicts like this usually go, my parents and brothers were united in keeping the status quo alive and me in the same role I’d always played. 

I was expected in Florida for the holidays.

The night before my flight, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned and agonized.

I knew I didn’t want to go, and I was exhausted from accommodating people who had always been so wrapped up in themselves they were oblivious, and possibly indifferent, to the pain they caused. 

I dreaded going back to the state I grew up in. 

At four in the morning, I gave up trying to sleep. So I got out of bed to make some tea. As I got to the staircase, I flipped the switch and immediately felt better.

Does not do them justice. But it’s all I have.

The cranes were flying in the golden light and the effect was incredibly peaceful. I sat in the middle of the stairs, leaned back, and stared at the paper birds I’d folded for four months and put up for two days.

“What is the point of doing all this work, if I keep doing the same thing?”

That question came from deep inside me as I stared at my work. I realized that nothing would ever change unless I did. 

I didn’t get on the plane.

It was one of the most exhilarating and frightening things I’d ever done, and I had no idea if I was doing the right thing. In fact, I wouldn’t receive the validation that I had made the best and healthiest decision a few months later.

I wish I could claim that my family had an epiphany as a result of this. I would have loved it if they became the loving parents and supportive siblings out of an orphan’s wet dream.

They didn’t.

But that was my first step towards empowerment. That step led to another, and another until I felt the satisfaction of being a stronger woman who treats herself like she’s worth something.

Some of them have come around to treating me with more respect.  Even if they are still wrapped up in themselves, they don’t expect me to be. 

The jury’s still out, but things are looking up.

As for my original wish, I’ll just say it’s always a mistake to insist the Universe prove itself. 

The following months after the Christmas n’ Cranes party were the last roar of the dinosaur just before it expired. 

I pursued every type of mistake I had ever made, in an aggressive campaign to make self-centered narcissists ache with desire for wonderful, lucky-in-love me. 

In response, the Universe whacked me upside the head until I came to my senses.

I can’t say that I’m bitter about that.  What was I thinking?

I’ve had some fun dates, but I don’t have a line of people pounding on my door to take me out on a Saturday night. 

Maybe there’s something bigger at work here that I don’t understand. 

Maybe it’s my destiny to fly solo in life. 

I feel more comfortable as I embrace the role of a woman unto herself and I no longer see myself as a failure for it. 

I think my relationship with love has become much healthier and if somebody special comes along, I think I’ll be ready to contribute to something real. 

In the meantime, I’m in love with my freedom.

Maybe folding cranes is a healing thing to do, after all.

And maybe I should have just asked for a good relationship. 

Journey of a Thousand Cranes, Part 4

Image by 1278956 from Pixabay 

When I had folded over 700 cranes I realized I wasn’t sure what I was wishing for. 

Was I wishing for love? 

Or power? 

The standard definition for the expression “lucky in love,” was somebody who had her pick of many desirable lovers - a very powerful position to be in. 

That was tantalizing. 

Or did I want to be a world-class seductress, powerful enough to finally win over those beloveds who had always been out of reach? 

That would be proof of my redemption. 

My wishing meditation to become “lucky in love” made me face just how unhealthy my perspective on love really was. 

And knowing my stance was toxic, and…well…unloving…made it much more difficult to play the usual role with the people at the root of that. 

I have come to appreciate the expression “family of origin” as well as its implied meaning that true family is found elsewhere for those who had to make that distinction.

In my family of origin, it was always about somebody else. Drama was the focus in a family where everybody was proud to be crazy. 

As the least powerful and least valuable member of my family of origin, my dutiful role was to be the the watcher enthralled with the chaos stirred up by the colorful people around me, or the peacemaker who listened and make soothing, agreeable noises in the fights and crises that were constant. 

I caused little, if any, trouble, and received as little, if any, attention from the others. If I tried, I was either brushed off or shut down. My main source of approval was from my role to and for the others, not in and of myself. 

I was the good one, but the others were fascinating.

How can anybody be lucky in love with a start like that?

Many times when I folded cutout photos from magazines, excerpts from my abandoned novel, and yellowed pages from the book of one of my favorite writers, I wasn’t in a loving frame of mind. 

I was enraged at those who had brought me to where I was – folding paper in the hopes that maybe things could get better. And I wasn’t just obsessing over family members, false friends, and selfish lovers.

I was angry with myself for my own participation. 

In the meantime, my paper cranes were really beautiful. 

My folds had become very precise; and the designs on them from the manuscript pages, the novel pages, and the photographs were unique - no two cranes were alike. I was excited about being done with the paper birds so I could finally put them up on the wall. 

I wasn’t the only one who appreciated them. 

Going around town, I’d occasionally see cranes I’d folded and given away. 

They were taped to the computer at the hairdresser and the florist, to the cash register at the café where I got my mocha, and the bakery where I got my bagels. 

In colleagues’ offices, I’d see them tucked between the stalks of a plant, or peering at the top of a framed print. 

It was very satisfying to see them because that told me that they were truly appreciated. I’m sure most of the cranes I gifted ended up in the garbage.

But I saw enough of them out that I felt a recognition I never knew I craved.

When my count was at 800 cranes, I was on a camping trip with my philosophy class. Yet I still brought paper to fold. 

Everybody knew what I was doing, but nobody knew what my wish was. 

One of my classmates asked me if I’d heard about the true story, “Sadako and the Thousand Cranes.” 

Allie explained that Sadako had been a twelve-year-old girl born with leukemia in Hiroshima after WWII. Her wish was to be healed and live, but she died before she finished folding a thousand cranes. 

After her death, her classmates finished the project for her and she was buried with all the cranes and a statue was erected in her honor. 

That is how the crane has become a universal symbol for peace and the devastation of war. 

As poignant as that story is, I was distressed at the time I heard it, and then I felt guilty for being so selfish. 

On a deep level, Sadako’s wish has come true, because a part of her lives on every time somebody folds a crane – even me, with my shallow desires. 

But she still died. 

And so did Jeff’s mother. 

I just wanted to date on a regular basis. I didn’t want to have to die to have a mob of people pining for me.

When my count was at 900 cranes, I slowed down in the folding of them. 

I was anxious about the wish because I realized how much I wanted it to come true, even if I didn’t know what I was wishing for. 

Journey of a Thousand Cranes, Part 3

Image by Anja🤗#helpinghands #solidarity#stays healthy🙏 from Pixabay

Meditation is a strange trip, leading to unexpected places within one’s psyche. 

Modern day spirituality – call it New Age or not - has called out fear as the opposite of love, and our problems come down to being in a state of fear and not love. 

That sounds like an easy problem to take care of, and I wish it were that simple. But it’s not. 

I think the opposite of love is all about power, the aphrodisiac of the ego.  

Power is far more seductive than fear.

The more I’ve experienced and the more I’ve observed within the dysfunctional arena of love, I’ve found that power is the enemy. Our most basic good and evil struggles is the tug of war between the two. 

I think most of us can remember not so much the one who got away, so much as the one who was never caught.

Can’t you still picture that would-be beloved who was always out of reach?

Can you still feel the residual of past yearning churning in you belly? 

“Why doesn’t he call?” 

“Why is she so distant?”

“How can they not love me when I’m so good to them?”

Maybe the reason was because there is pleasure to receiving the love without giving any back. Maybe you weren’t challenging enough. 

Power.

On a less romantic note, can’t most of us think of a time when we did something we knew was wrong, but were tempted by the short-term benefits? 

How many of us acknowledged it to the person wronged with a sincere apology? 

Was the burden of your conscience enough to direct you to the high road? 

Even after the long term consequences were starting to demand pay back? 

Enough said. 

In any unhealthy group – family, work, friendship, relationship - in the struggle between love and pride, power usually wins because who wants to surrender in a struggle? 

Power feeds the ego at the starvation of the heart, but the more powerful in toxic groups ignore that painful stress to couple, family, and even community welfare. 

The powerful get their strokes and that satisfies. Guess who gets stuck paying off the emotional tab, and guess what gets used to hook you?

After all, don’t you want them to be happy? 

If you truly loved them, of course you would.

Yet don’t they want you to be happy? 

But you should be happy, for you’re given a place in their lives and how can that not make you feel loved? 

I speak from experience and my track record proves it. 

My significant relationships were with extremely self-centered people.  These men never considered my feelings in the way things were supposed to go in the relationship. 

When it came to “fixing” our problems, the focus was on their malcontent and my inadequacy. As an extension of him, I wasn’t supposed to be unhappy, and if I was, I should just get over it because there was certainly nothing wrong with him. 

And the awful part is that I accepted that dynamic until I was so miserable I extricated myself from the tar baby. That is always a torture.

Such were my thoughts and memories as I folded paper.

Around 500 cranes, I noticed that the traveling gym rat had not responded to the letter I wrote about an incredible kayaking trip I had taken. 

As I focused on that, I fumed that this project was a stupid idea on the day I got a package from Jeff, the friend who had first told me about folding the cranes. 

Inside the package was a blue kimono and a note explaining that he had gotten it for me a year and a half ago in Tokyo, and how sorry he was it had taken so long to send it on. 

But the kicker was on the kimono – it was covered with cranes in flight.

My jaw had to be picked up off the floor.

Since the Buddha said there are no coincidences - and I respect the Buddha - I took it as a sign to hold the faith and keep folding.

By 600 cranes, I had gotten really creative. Cutting out equidistant squares from magazines and photographs made for some far more unique, one-of-a-kind cranes.

One morning, I sitting on the ground in the long line of people who had gotten there early for the annual ski swap – the one chance every year to get good gear cheap. People practically camp out to be one of the first in line.

I sat on the ground, and folded paper as I waited with everybody else. 

A man sitting nearby noticed and told me that he and some friends had made a thousand cranes out of gold paper for a Japanese couple about to get married. It was a traditional thing to do and according to legend, it brought good luck to the newlyweds.

“These are nice folds,” he said, picking up one of my paper birds.        

My road to love has suffered many gridlocks as I dated the no-good’uns and ne’er-do-wells. There were nice guys who asked me out and sometimes I dated one and they were always a pleasure to be around. 

But there was always a reason why it wouldn’t last. And frankly, that reason was because I wouldn’t give them a real chance. 

Of all my self-destructive patterns when it came to love, I had to see all the time wasted for what it was – wasted time – every time I yearned for the love who was out of reach, falling madly in love for the friend who liked me well enough, but just wasn’t interested. 

That disinterest put him on a pedestal high above me and I pined more than ever, paying no mind to the suitors who offered something real.    

When I had folded over 700 cranes I realized I wasn’t even sure what I was wishing for. 

Journey of a Thousand Cranes, Part 2

Image by t_s_l from Pixabay

“Your cranes are beautiful,” she said.  “What are you going to do with them?”

I hadn’t thought about that. 

I had folded over two hundred of them, and they were starting to pile up. 

And then I got a vision of my paper cranes flying up the stairs as they were stuck to my wall. 

I had bought a townhouse condo with a tremendous wall space, and for two years, that space had me stumped. 

Since the small upstairs bedroom didn’t extend across the stairwell, the main wall at the bottom of the steps was fourteen feet from floor to ceiling, and at the top, it was seven feet. The wall space was 270°, resulting in a wrap-around effect as it turned in the narrow width of the stairwell and turned again where the outside wall of the small bedroom faced the main wall of the staircase. 

With such a big space to play with, I wanted something more special than the usual pictures, posters, or prints. I couldn’t think of anything, so I did nothing and that massive wall space remained bare.

All of a sudden, my wishing meditation had a purpose. 

Not only was this going to change my life, it was now art in the making. 

I went from origami paper to folding photos from magazines, yellowed pages from my favorite book, bright white pages from my abandoned novel to make the cranes that would transform my staircase and make it magical. 

I folded cranes everywhere I went and got a lot of people’s attention. 

I gave them away at random for I had so many and it seemed like good karma. I left them with the tip in restaurants I ate in, to the barista who made my mocha, to the florist who arranged the flowers. I gave them to classmates, to friends, to strangers.

At work, I covered for the receptionist for a week, and my respite supervisor sulked when I gave other colleagues a crane and didn’t think of her.  So of course, I let her pick her favorite. 

I’d look up from wherever I was and see somebody smiling at me as I folded those cranes bringing me closer and closer to my wish. 

The anti-war movement had a dedicated following here in Juneau, and I strongly suspect many people thought I was folding peace cranes in protest to the President (George W at the time). 

But I was only thinking of myself.

Around 300 cranes, a good-looking bad boy entered my sphere. 

I thought he was obnoxious, but I also thought I could get him if I wanted to. We disliked each other, but our conversations were loaded with energy because we didn’t agree on anything. 

It was exciting.

I also had my eye on a gym rat with a questionable reputation - sought after and commitment afraid. What a conquest! 

We had a couple of dates; and it didn’t matter that the gym rat was leaving town to travel for six months - I was elated. I was finally on my way to being lucky in love. 

And it occurred to me that I didn’t even know what that meant 

When I first made my wish, the image I had in mind of what it was to be lucky in love was to win over the ones I yearned for. 

But the more I observed those sought after beloveds, it was obvious that they were not the ones who yearned.

Most of them were good people. 

Others were nice in some ways and not so nice in others. And there were plenty of beloveds that had all kinds of unlovable attributes – shallow, vain, self-absorbed, rude, vicious, cruel, selfish. 

The list could go on and on, but they all had one thing in common. They loved themselves. It didn’t matter whether it was too much or just enough, but matters of the heart were not something they fretted over as they went about their day. 

One morning, I was folding cranes in my favorite breakfast joint, occasionally catching a phrase here and there from the table across mine by two out of town men who were in Juneau for a hunting trip. 

The cell phone of the man facing me rang; he answered and sounded very happy to have been interrupted. 

The person on the other end was probably his wife and I believe his child was also on, because he ended each chat with “I love you.” 

Of course, that got my attention. 

He seemed like such a good man and I was so struck by the ordinary scene I recorded it in my journal, where I wrote that the people who were his wife and child were very lucky indeed. 

Meditation is a strange trip, leading to unexpected places within one’s psyche. 

Journey of a Thousand Cranes, Part I

Image by Vibeke Lundberg from Pixabay 

I once folded a thousand cranes because I wanted to be lucky in love. 

Having had more runs of datelessness than I needed for inner strength, along with an unpleasant run-in with my last mistake at the wedding of mutual friends, I determined that when it came to love, I was cursed. 

At the time, I was convinced that the Universe owed me the exciting love life that was long overdue. So, ignoring my usual frustration with things that require patience and precision, I started folding paper. 

It took several lessons by two different teachers, but I was finally able to fold the origami crane.

Years before, a friend whose mother had died from cancer told me about a project when he and his sister worked together to fold a thousand cranes during the illness. They had hid them all over the house and presented their mother with a scroll explaining the cranes they had folded for her healing. 

Of course, she was touched to the point of tears - and who wouldn’t be?  For months, she’d find a crane in a coffee cup or in the cabinet when she reached for laundry detergent, which reminded her of the gift from her kids. 

I was intrigued by the story and asked Jeff to show me how to make a crane. We were out, having drinks in New Orleans. He tried to fold his cocktail napkin into a bird.

But he couldn’t get the hang of it - either because the paper was too flimsy, or his brain was from the alcohol, so my first lesson never got off the ground. 

They say that when the student is ready the teacher will come. 

Years later, I was in Chicago, “breaking rice” with a friend and one of her oldest friends, George, who was Japanese. Somehow the subject came up about folding cranes, and I vaguely remembered it as a “healing” thing to do.

“Folding a thousand cranes makes wishes come true,” said George as we finished our sushi.

The light bulb flashed on in my mind. Everybody has something they’ve always wanted, and I was no exception.

This was in the summer of 2003.

At that time, my life was full. 

Between summer work as a hiking guide, winter work with the disabled, and going back to school for an outdoor studies program, I had a lot going on. 

But, like many single people who were not in a relationship, I wanted to be. I was loath to admit this, but I was also more than a little anxious at my relative powerlessness to change that. 

There was a part of me that believed I had failed as a woman by not being married or in a domestic partnership.

“Get on the Internet,” people said. “There are tons of people out there.”

Sound advice, I had to admit. Yet for various reasons, I was reluctant to go there. One of them being I lived in SE Alaska, and the internet was still viewed with suspicion by many.

So I figured I’d fold a thousand cranes and my problem would be solved. 

As soon as I was back in Juneau, I sought out a friend who was an art teacher and who had lived in Japan for a year. 

My instincts were right. Heather knew how to fold the crane and she gave me my first two lessons. 

A couple of days later, I got lost around the tenth fold and my crane had floppy wings. 

That was when I crossed paths with a yoga teacher active in the peace-love-anti-war movement. 

Of course, she knew how to make the crane, and I received my third and final lesson. I think it helped that she also showed me a breathing technique to calm me down when I got frustrated. 

That was when I got it. I had finally mastered the crane and was good to go.

But what do I wish for? 

I knew I wanted to be in a relationship, but I also knew that I was feeling… ambivalent. 

And ambivalent feelings like mine tend to put the kabash on relationships working out. 

I figured that if I was going to go to the trouble of folding a thousand pieces of paper into cranes, I should ask for something that had long-term value and to keep the request simple. 

As a meditation, I knew from experience this would likely result in more than I asked for. I thought of those people who always have a relationship or options to get into one. I knew I wanted to be one of them.

So I wished to be lucky in love and started folding paper with gusto. 

I was obsessed.

This project consumed me. I folded a minimum of 10 cranes a day. 

By the time I’d folded around 100 cranes, it looked as if my wishing meditation was getting results. 

I met somebody attractive, nice…and single on one of my tours. 

We clicked and made a date after the tour, which ended with a walk on the only sandy beach in the city and borough of Juneau on Douglas Island. 

Rather a peculiar spot for romance, given that the “sand” was from mining tailings, and the glory hole where we hung out on a petrified log, was born from the flooding and caving in of the Treadwell Mine in 1917. 

Between the shut-down of the largest gold mine in the world at that time, and the dumping into the glory hole thereafter, that area is one of the most toxic spots in the country.

But you would never know it to be there, even if you had to be careful where you stepped because there were rusted out mining tools, broken dishes, and other parts on the beach.   

The history of the area was the last thing on my mind, however…

Sandy Beach was conveniently near my home, which was part of my master plan. We ended our date making out in my living room until it was time for the ship to sail. 

After an exchange of email addresses, we parted, and I was sure that was only the beginning.    

Initially, I bought the brightly colored origami paper at a few dollars a pop, in all kinds of patterns. 

I folded cranes in cafés, at the bowling alley with one of my clients, in class when I was bored, outside in my yard on those rare sunny days in Southeast Alaska where it’s a cardinal sin to be inside when you don’t have to be. 

It was on one of those days when my neighbor Jacque asked me about them as I was folding away. 

I had a tattered wicker table with an underbelly and was sticking the cranes by the tail in the holes between the webbing as I finished. The faded occasional table was rendered festive with the bright birds sticking out of it.

“Your cranes are beautiful,” she said.  “What are you going to do with them?”

The Heroic Great Queer Hope and My Tantra Buddy 2, Tantric Shitshow Part 5

Image by andreas160578 from Pixabay

Hey y’all,

Remember the sage advice on Charles Muir’s first night?

Until the announcement was finally made, it looked like my only choice for a Tantra Buddy was Sierra.

As hard as it is to believe now, I was good with that at the time.

I wasn’t comfortable where I was and we had already connected at the Cascadia Tantra Festival.

Also, while at CTF, Sierra had expressed interest in me in a way that I appreciate. She was direct, yet offered a graceful exit.

I didn’t find Sierra physically attractive. But therein lies the power of a good approach – especially a few weeks after an ugly breakup. I was willing to consider it.

At CTF, I thought Sierra had a beautiful soul.

In Thailand, Sierra was a different animal. She wasn’t available.

She was willing to gossip, however.

She told stories about her awakening to kundalini bliss where she lived 97% of the time, as well as stories about that guy with whom she “had the best sex of her life” at the last Masters that had been bereft of queers, that “his kundalini had awakened due to fucking her,” and more about her power to heal souls.  

Sierra was quite busy with zoom calls to clients in crisis in other parts of the world that had nothing to do with Queer Tantra at the Masters workshop that she had griped about until they gave her what she wanted.

This is when I heard her backstory with Charles Muir. Within that gossip, she also mentioned the rumor he had cancer.

There are plenty of Neo-Tantra teachers.

Why continue to take his courses? Why go where she had felt discriminated against, where she wasn’t allowed to learn cunt massage with the boys? Why keep come back to the “Masters” that was so heterosexist?

3 out of 4 times no less.

Her reasoning.

“I meet remarkable people every time I’m here.”

So did I. Big deal. Self-respect matters more.

It was bizarre.

Sierra was fixated. Seemed to me that she wanted validation from the same Charles Muir she supposedly couldn’t stand.

For instance…

One afternoon before his class started, we were chatting amongst the chairs near the pathway to the stage, and Charles Muir made his way around the chairs across from us to get where he needed to go.

“He just went out his way to avoid me!” Sierra muttered, all bug-eyed and offended.

“Well you said he was homophobic.”

Two minutes later, Christy Muir took the same route to the stage after taking her shoes off nearby, and Sierra consoled herself that must have been why he chose the roundabout path away from her and to the stage.

He had probably left his shoes there too.

Perhaps.

But I think it’s possible Charles Muir avoided the obligation to speak politely to her. And I don’t blame him.

That day, Charles Muir confirmed the cancer rumor himself.

He told the class he’d battled cancer in the last year or so, and expressed gratitude to Christy for the caregiving of changing bandages and clearing out gunk.

CM also shared that tests in December indicated the cancer had come back. They weren’t certain because they needed an MRI.

Yet they wanted to be here and “fully present” for us, so he postponed that appointment where he would find out what he didn’t want to know until after the Masters.

The return of cancer is never good news. And this last detail definitely matters.

I don’t know the man. But after observing him, it became REALLY obvious that Charles Muir is a man who has to be in control, a glory-of-man-master-of-the-universe type.

Anybody would be frightened in his position. But for a man like him to be powerless over his health?

That made for an intense and unexpected twist at the Masters.

Anyway, after Solla finally announced Sierra as one for the queers, Elise (not her real name) from Toronto approached her, said she was so relieved and that she now felt more comfortable there.

Sierra introduced me to Elise briefly at dinner.

The next morning, I passed her on the break during Mantak Chia’s class.

She said hi and we stopped to chat.

She asked immediately if I’d be interested in being her tantra buddy to practice these techniques. Elise also said she was surprised to learn some new tricks in the lecture that she hadn’t come across before.

One thing about the Masters, they got the ball rolling. They gave us homework from the word go.

Dakini Leah made it very clear that we wouldn’t learn Neo-Tantra from reading and paying attention in class. We had to practice.

Because Sierra was too busy healing the souls of people who were 1000s of miles away, only to claim exhaustion afterwards, I hadn’t been able to practice at all.

It was the 4th day.

So in answer to Elise’s invitation, I was open to it but I’d said I’d like to get to know her some since I’d only met her for a minute the night before.

Even though she asked me first, I asked if she was comfortable with something so intimate running out of the gate.

“Oh yeah,” she said. “I’m a sexological bodyworker and pro domme. I do this all the time.”

Ok then. Didn’t see that coming.

Elise seemed cool at first.

She was cute enough and very direct, a trait I always like. Since we agreed on the fast track to connecting, what subject do you think we launched into first?

Relationships. What else?

In the story swap back and forth, Elise told me that she hadn’t been in a relationship in 3 years because her last breakup had been “that kind of breakup.”

She also mentioned that she had dated a lot of borderlines.

“Unfortunately, borderlines tend to be really great in bed.”

There was plenty of common ground in our shared experiences of nutty relationships and bad breakups.

Elise was also very open about what she did for work.

She had a lilting, singsong cadence to her speech patterns as she talked about SexBod work (which was much the same as the Shamanic Sexual Healer), and pro domming.

“Being a pro domme is really fun. I like getting creative about meeting somebody’s fantasy. Naturally, I’m a submissive in bed, so I’m fascinated to explore the opposite end of the spectrum.”

“Sometimes people orgasm when I work on them (as a sexbod worker), so I guess what I do is kind of like sex work. It’s illegal in Canada, but there are ways people work around it.”

“I work with men, but I tend to be the lesbian domme. Somehow they manage to find me.”

One thing became clear quickly.

Elise was not my type.

Never mind her sexbod worker/pro domme career. She was way too femme, and when she mentioned being submissive, I cringed.

I’ve never been a fan of the dominant/submissive dichotomy.

I think it’s rigid and limiting, and makes one out to be “strong” and the other “weak.”

Also…the first thing that comes to my mind when I hear “Submissive” is the fear response of cowering.

But the image that comes immediately after is the manipulator, a passive aggressive who deliberately uses vague, indirect language.

I know this is a toxic version, and that healthy submissives don’t act like that.

But even under the best conditions, submissive simply doesn’t do it for me. Dominance does. Healthy dominance.

I love female masculinity.

This may surprise some because my ex-partner was anything but that. She sure as hell wasn’t healthy, and whenever she turned on her “submissive” side, I wanted to toss my lunch.

When I’m in an abusive situation, I often fall into the fawn response, which often comes across as submissive. Even if this is triggered by the instinct to “survive,” I hate myself for it every time.

But to me there’s a core difference between submission and surrender. I think the latter can happen between 2 strong people.

I love melting into surrender.

That is the most delicious feeling ever, to let go of control with somebody who has the confidence and ability to take control. But I have to know I’m safe to go there.

Needless to say, it’s been far too long since I’ve been able to enjoy that.

For the record, I’m a switch. I also revel in the different kind of yummy of holding that space for a strong woman who knows how to surrender. I haven’t been able to enjoy that either.

So not only was Elise not my type, my ex hadn’t been either.

I never wanted a grotesque caricature of rigid male/female role-playing between women, and I hated the role pushed on me in my last relationship.

But within the “Masters” workshop, no commitment is necessary and we take what we can get.

Was I Elise’s type?

I strongly doubt it. If she gravitated to BPD’s, I was probably too nice.

I suspect I was also too willing to be vulnerable. It was something she mentioned more than once the first night we worked together.

Although we were behind in our assignments because we hadn’t connected until the 4th day, Elise and I also hadn’t much time to get to know each other.

So we decided to start with a group event facilitated by Leah and another Source Tantra person - a warm-up of giving and receiving. The giver offers touch to the receiver as much and as far as the receiver wants. Clothes stay on, and permission is asked at every step.

Sierra was there, but not as a participant. She sat against the wall and watched.

To start, everybody set intentions for the Workshop in general and that evening in particular.

I don’t remember exactly what I said. But it was along the lines of getting my ex and her energy OUT of my body, increased pleasure in sex, etc. Elise said her intentions were to open up and let down her walls; and after 3 years of no relationship, she wanted more sex.

Amen to that, sister.  

Elise claimed the role of giver, so I laid back and received.

She was considerate, gentle, asked permission often, maintained soft eye contact, and her ease made it easy for me to relax. It wasn’t surrender, but it came close.

When the time came to switch roles, Elise said she’d rather keep giving. That was fine by me. Touch is my primary love language – and except for massage, I hadn’t been touched in months.

“Do you realize how vulnerable this is?” Elise asked.

I nodded.

“I can appreciate how you’re able to open up like that.”

That night was sweet. It really was.

When time was called, we put our mat away and walked back together.

“I appreciate how vulnerable you were, Mana. Thank you for trusting me so much.”

Finally, it looked like the Masters of Taoist and Tantric Love was on track.

But of course, something happened the next day that fucked everything to hell. That is for TSS, Part 6. It doesn’t fit here.

The next night, Elise and I partnered up for the group event led by gay dakini Lisa.

We ignored her intimate meditation to trade off touch and consent from the night before. My turn to give and her turn to receive.

That’s when I found out how much of a problem Elise had with vulnerability. She visibly tensed when she should have relaxed.

“I hate receiving.”

“Why?”

“I can’t stand the lack of control.”

“You need to get over that. Receiving feels good.”

“I know.”

I started out resting my hands on various parts of her body before using various strokes. For a while, things were okay. Elise relaxed until she just didn’t.

“This wave of grief keeps rising up,” she said. “My first instinct is to push it down, even though I probably need to let it out.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’m probably going to shake. Are you okay with that?”

“Yes.”

Elise didn’t exaggerate.

At first, her shaking was self-induced. She had done a lot of work with TRE (trauma release exercise) and put her body in positions that would bring it.

Then Elise’s shaking took on a life of its own. Her entire body quaked. I kept my hands still and sent Elise Reiki for support.

But she was intense.

Other pairs noticed what was going on, and dakini Lisa came over to see if we needed help. She nodded when I indicated I had this, and went back to the stage.

Elise’s shaking went on and on, even into the closing exercise for the night. I started to get nervous, and probably got sucked in a little.

Because Sierra was compelled to lumber over and save the day.

Sierra told me I was starting to “spiral” as she put her hand on Elise’s chest and pressed down. It did work. Elise settled down and her shaking stopped.

That’s all for now, folks.

Thanks so much to everybody who is actually sticking it out through this saga of really long letters. It’s a mighty compliment now that we’re all afflicted with the attention spans of cockroaches.

I’m so grateful to those friends who continue to reach out with letters, notes, texts, articles, and helpful travel apps.

Y’all make-a me smile! Much love.

Peace,

Mana

How to Find Writerly Concentration With an ADD Mind

I used to think that procrastination was the biggest problem I had as a writer. But now I’ve come to realize that it’s my attention span.

Perhaps procrastination is a side effect of ADD, or it’s simply a bad habit that happens to be very compatible with somebody who is distracted at the drop of a hat.

While I was growing up and through college, I timed my space outs really well, at points in the lecture where a story was being told or somebody asked a question. It never affected the information I gathered or my exam results.

Of course, I took many breaks from studying and had the most epic conversations of my life on those breaks. But my grades always reflected my ability and the time I put into those courses.

So no complaints.

Then smart phones came along and made me stupid.

I’ve noticed in the not even 7 years I’ve had my smart phone and can surf the internet, and check my email and Facebook whenever I want, that my attention span has plummeted.

That nasty little tool makes it way too easy to get distracted from something that actually matters – like writing a novel.

The hours of uninterrupted concentration I enjoyed with the collection of stories and my first novel, I don’t have the attention span for it now.

And it has really freaked me out. Progress on the 2nd novel has gotten much slower.

But I’m still making progress.

So what to do?

1) A really great habit to pick up is meditation.

I stuck with it for 6 months, and that was when I finally picked up some steam with The Shepherd and the Courtesan, the 2nd book in the Ella Bandita stories. My attention span increased and concentration became more effortless.

However, I’ve let my meditation practice drop and I plan on picking it up again because it’s so good for me on so many levels.

But in the meantime, I haven’t dropped writing the novel with the drop in my meditation practice.

2) Work within the nature of your ADD mind.

That is a habit I picked up during 6 months of daily meditation. I allow the distraction until I can’t stand it anymore.

In other words, if I get distracted, I allow myself to venture off down another avenue, because I notice I get bored or irritated quickly when Facebooking, surfing the Internet, or a Netflix show. (Yes, I have Netflix on my phone. I’m such an addict.)

When that happens, I go back to my piece and really don’t have too much trouble getting back in the groove.

When I get distracted again, I started working on those short and sweet blogs, when I need a break from my novel or NetFlix or Facebook (which is not a satisfying pursuit anymore) or whatever else made me look for a squirrel. In fact, I found this habit the most practical, because I will go back to it.

And here I’ve written a lovely little blog on a break from my novel.

Piece of cake!

The Excruciating Loneliness of the Lone Wolf

Image by Eric Michelat from Pixabay

Rot was preferable to nothing.

The Wolf whimpered from his churning stomach and swallowed his retch. He blew snuffles through his nose, lying on his side, hiding in the trees from the men working the fields.

But he wasn’t so deep in the woods he’d miss the sunrise. Blinking slowly, he pulled himself up and shook his head to stay awake. 

He never liked to fall asleep before daybreak.

The chaos of his memories tore him apart while he slept. Joyous times in his life as a man intertwined with the misery of being trapped in the body of a wolf. He never knew whether to relax in sweet dreams or force himself awake from a nightmare.

He would be a boy again learning to forage with his grandfather; then he dug amongst the stench and compost, desperate for something to eat. He would be a youth cooking for their guests while the Bard told stories; then a pack of wolves bared their teeth and growled at him when he came near. He would be a young man traveling with a caravan of nomads; then he fled men raising their rifles to shoot at him, terror making his limbs nimble. 

Dawn was breathtaking in the past week.

The morning colors were always the most vivid in the peak of spring. Those precious minutes of watching the darkness dissipate into shades of pink, orange, and amber violet gave him the only peace the Wolf would know that day. 

Only after the sun came up would he allow himself to sleep. The torment of his dreams caused him less anguish under a bright sky.

The sequence of dreams always ended with his grandfather, and he came to him as the Wolf. The old man looked at him with sorrow, while the Wolf was always angry when they met. He was also ashamed for being such a fool, but he still felt betrayed by his grandfather.

If the Bard hadn’t propelled into those dreams, he would have left the girl behind in No Man’s Land. 

“Why?” the Wolf asked, always the same question every night.

“Just follow your heart,” the Bard replied. “And you’ll be all right.”

“How can I do that when I don’t have it with me?”

“Your heart’s always a part of you.”

His grandfather never elaborated and the Wolf would awaken to his throbbing hollow space. His limbs ached as if he’d been running for hours, and there was often a rank taste in the back of his mouth.   

Whenever Ella Bandita came to mind, he pushed the image away. Thinking about her made the vile course through his veins, and reminded the Wolf that he couldn’t change his predicament. 

Every night he howled to the moon, and every morning his first instinct was to stand on two legs. But he could never keep his balance and dropped four paws to the ground.

His lupine form remained a stranger to him. 

He didn’t like his fur. Being unable to touch his skin frustrated him. He felt his potential for strength, but didn’t know how to use it. 

Subtle noises distracted him and his sense of smell was torture. Knowing prey was around him always and being unable to hunt it down nearly drove him to madness on some days. He had speed, yet still couldn’t catch the smaller animals. 

His instincts were both natural and bizarre, and the Wolf was left to scavenge in the compost piles to stay alive. He was amazed he could keep the refuse down. The thought of being this wretched creature for the rest of his live filled him with despair. 

He thought about the village all the time, the Bard’s cabin a haven now beyond his reach. 

The Wolf often fell asleep hoping the agony of his dreams would kill him. But he always came to in the late afternoon, and his waking hours were much like those before had been. 

On this morning, the Wolf gazed into the rising sun as long as he could keep his eyes open, pleading for anything to change.            

He fell into the blackness of sleep without dreams, waking up to heavy limbs and a reluctance to move. 

He knew something was different when he opened his eyes and yawned. He had a sense of wellbeing that had been missing for a long time. 

Finally, his fluttering ears brought him to the recognition of music. 

Somebody was playing a fiddle nearby.

The Bargain

Image by Álvaro Pradas from Pixabay

Evening was giving way to night by the time she rode in. 

The moon was full, just above the eastern hills and directly across from the setting sun. 

Intent on stalking a wild hare near the creek, the Wolf was dimly aware of the pounding hooves. But his prey noticed the approaching steed and leapt away before the Wolf was close enough to catch him. 

The clap of gunshot was unexpected and the Wolf dropped to the ground. But the wild hare collapsed in a dead heap. 

He turned and saw Ella Bandita dismount from her horse. 

She didn’t glance his way as she gathered her kill. But he still went back to the western hills, watching her peel the skin and cut the meat in strips. 

His stomach rumbled. He didn’t know which was more painful, his envy or his hunger. He was convinced his mind played a cruel prank on him when Ella Bandita took the plate, walked up the hill to where he lay, and set it before him.

But his nose didn’t deceive him, the smell of blood making the Wolf lurch for the plate. Then he remembered that kindness was not her nature and managed to restrain himself. 

Perhaps Ella Bandita had only come to torment him, making an offering only to take it away. 

He glanced over to see her sitting on the ground, her arms wrapped around her knees. 

The Wolf could no longer resist the fresh meat. But he made himself eat slowly. The last thing he wanted was to vomit the first meal he had in a week.

The Wolf was so focused he didn’t notice what she was doing. He looked up when he was finished, and had to swallow hard to force his food back down. 

She had eaten half of it by then. Blood dripped down her chin, the heart still pulsing in her hands as she took another bite. 

“Relax,” she said. “It isn’t yours.”

She watched him while she ate, chewing slowly until a mess of blood was all that remained. Even those traces disappeared after she took a damp rag and wiped her face clean.

“I would have liked that gentleman’s heart,” she mused.  “I would have liked it very much.”

He was confused. The Wolf didn’t remember the face of the arrogant nobleman until he thought back to the night at the tavern.

“I’m certain he’s grateful to have kept it.”

The Wolf was surprised to hear the thought spoken aloud. He believed it must have been a trick of his imagination until Ella Bandita smiled, her thick teeth stained with blood.   

“Well, well,” she said. “So you can still talk. The circus would love to have you.”

The Wolf was too relieved he could speak to hear the mockery in her tone.

“Please give back my heart and make me a man again.”

“I can do a lot of things. But I can’t make a man out of you. That’s your job.”

“Why can’t we just forget about this? I won’t tell anybody. I’ll leave you alone.”

“But everybody already knows who I am and what I do,” she replied. “And you should have left me alone a long time ago.”

“But I’m not the kind of man you prey on,” the Wolf implored. “In all the stories I ever heard, you go after the proud, the corrupt, and the wicked. You leave the innocent alone.”

“What makes you think you’re innocent, Wanderer?”

He paused, his mind going back to No Man’s Land. 

His obstinacy seemed incredible to him at his refusal to leave and his determination to satisfy his desires. He remembered that lust from a distance. 

Even when he thought about the days they spent coupling, it seemed those memories belonged to another. What he could relive with no effort at all was his anger and pride after their first confrontation. He even recalled how his wanting increased with his dislike.   

“You make a good point,” he said. “But I wouldn’t say that I’m not innocent.”

Ella Bandita cocked one brow and leaned back, propping herself up on her forearms. 

“That’s certainly one way of looking at it,” she said. “But I can’t say I agree.”

“If you feel that way about me, then why did you come here with food? You must want something.”

“You’re right.  I want you to leave.”

“Give back my heart and I will.”

“No,” she said.  “You pushed me too far.”

“Then I’ll keep following you. As long as you have my heart, I’ll follow.”

The Wolf got up and paced back and forth. 

Rage throbbed in his hollow and spread through his veins. He remembered the night he admitted to himself that he hated the girl in the woods, and pushing that sentiment away because it made him ashamed.

But he didn’t resist now. For the first time since he lost his manhood, the Wolf felt strong. He saw fear in the eyes of Ella Bandita as she tracked his every move. And he knew there was power in hatred.

“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “I promise that I won’t eat your heart unless I’m starving or you give me a reason to break my word. But you have to leave tonight.”

“How kind of you,” the Wolf snarled. “Do you expect me to be grateful?”            

“If you’re not, then you should be.”

Her voice had grown hard, the tiny muscle twitching in her jaw again.

“I’ve wanted to eat your heart since the day I met you,” she continued. “So for me to make such a promise is rather significant, don’t you think?” 

The Wolf kept pacing, his gaze straying to her long throat. His mouth watered when he thought of sinking his teeth and ripping apart the veins in her neck. 

The Patron's Daughter Flees With the Shepherd

Image by Anja🤗#helpinghands #solidarity#stays healthy🙏 from Pixabay 

She sounded so weary I couldn’t argue with her.

I opened my rucksack and gave her a pair of pants and one of my shirts. Both were dull in color, and she was as dwarfed in the overlong pants and shirt as I had expected.

But she wrapped the drawstring twice around her waist, rolled up the legs and sleeves; and to my surprise, she seemed at home in these garments.

Then she went back to the river to put her boots on, and braided her hair in a long plait to her waist. Looking around, the stranger girl finally tore off an unsoiled piece of her dress to tie her braid before she threw the bloodstained gown in the river.

The current was strong that time of year.

For an instant, the shimmering fabric blew open and revealed the bloodstained bodice, and the beads on the dress glimmered in the light of the moon before the water sucked the gown under and dragged it downstream.

“What the devil are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “If I’m lucky, somebody will find the gown, and everybody will assume I threw myself into the river. But it’s more likely the river will carry it far away before anybody even wakes up.”

“Why were you crying? I doubt you mourned for the Sorcerer.”

The stranger girl smirked and looked sideways at me. Her composure was restored, and the expression in her cold, blue eyes detached once again.

“Rough night,” she said curtly. “The sun will be up before I can tell you all about it.”

She gathered her petticoats and camisole, and wrapped them up in a bundle. Then she looked around the Abandoned Valley and Ancient Grove where my sheep had scattered again.

But she wasn’t looking for my flock. She peered in the trees intently for a long time, and clicked her tongue a few times.

The stomping of a massive beast was heard long before the largest stallion I had ever seen appeared. I couldn’t see him until he was almost upon us because his coat was such a dark gray, night made him invisible.

I gasped when I saw the giant animal. Even as tall as I was, that horse towered over me, his back higher than I stood, and his long neck carried his head far above mine.

His stature alone was intimidating. But the wildness I sensed in this stallion made him terrifying, and the noble crest branded into his flanks was inconceivable.

This animal had never been meant to be in service to a patron. He was feral, born to run free wherever he chose.

But this mighty beast came to the stranger girl and knelt on his front legs before her, so she could leap on his back and grip his silvery mane.

I was stunned when the stranger girl sat astride the stallion like a man. I had never seen a girl ride any way other than with both legs along one flank.

“Get on,” she said. “We have about an hour before the sun comes up, two at the most.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I have to go with you.”

I shook my head.

“There’s no way I can let you come with me.”

“It would only be for a little while. I need time to figure something out, then I’ll go my own way. I promise.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I could help you. I scarcely have enough for myself. I often go days without eating anything other than leaves and berries.”

“Don’t you know how to hunt or fish?”

I shook my head.

“I can help with that, Shepherd. Because I can, as well as build a tent and start a fire.”

“But you’re highborn. How do you know how to do all that?”

“A vagabond taught me years ago.”

The expression on my face must have been incredulous, because she rolled her eyes.

“It’s a long story. But he worked for my father and I spent a lot of time with him.”

I hesitated.

“I don’t know about this.”

“Please, Shepherd. I swear I won’t be a burden.”

She stroked her stallion’s neck.

“He can help with gathering your sheep. He does whatever I want him to.”

Before I could say anything, she clicked her tongue again, and the giant horse set off at a canter around the valley and trees until this stranger girl ran the sheep together and gathered my flock.

She and her stallion managed to do in minutes what would have taken me at least half an hour to do on foot. When she stopped before me, the stranger girl peered down and waited.

I glanced between her, my flock, and the moon hitting the western horizon. The night was black, at the darkest moment before coming day.

But the sun would lighten the sky soon, and the farmers and peasants would be getting up. We had less time to get away than I had thought.

“I can show you the way out of here through the trees so nobody sees us,” she continued.

“But…” I stammered. “I don’t know you…and I don’t think it would be…proper.”

The girl pressed the lips of her wide mouth, and her shoulders started to shake.

At first I thought she was crying again, but the muffled snorts broke into the shrieking laughter of hysteria. The high-pitched giggles grated on my ears until the laughter stopped as suddenly as it started.

“Shepherd, propriety is the last concern on my mind right now.”

“But-”

“You saw what happened tonight. I can’t stay here.”

I looked away, embarrassed. The thought of roaming with my flock and this stranger girl who was also a murderess was more than I could take in.

“Please,” she whispered. “I’ve never left this village in my life and I don’t know the country. I have nowhere to go.”

I nodded, only to have the sigh of her relief weigh on me.

The girl clicked her tongue and the massive stallion knelt again so I could mount. I drew back, for I did not want to ride that beast.

“Get on,” she urged. “You have nothing to fear.”

I did, and avoided looking down when the giant horse stood up.

“What direction were you heading, Shepherd?”

“Southeast until I reached the middle of the country.”

“Perfect. We can stay hidden in the trees until we are outside the village.”

The Heroic Great Queer Hope and My Tantra Buddy - Tantric Shitshow, Part 5

Image by Dmitri Posudin from Pixabay 

Hey y’all,

One legitimate complaint Sierra had about Source Tantra - it was 3 full days before any announcement that drew attention to her as the LGBTQ pod leader.

As I wrote earlier, there were a few queer women involved in Source Tantra - gay dakini Lisa, lesbian doctor Debbie, and 2 bisexual pod leaders.

On the day I left, I learned dakinis Leah and Lisa, and some of the advanced and elite teachers, were exploring ways to make this event more queer-inclusive with who they already had.

But Sierra squawked and hollered about the last Masters where the gays didn’t find each other until Day 9 out of a 10 day workshop, and she was the Great Queer Hope.

If they wanted to make the Masters more queer-safe and queer-friendly, she was the one for the job.

Yeah, right.

Anyway, Solla, the organizer of the Masters event, couldn’t bring herself to introduce Sierra as the queer pod leader. Instead, she formed random pods through numbers – all 1s go to such and so, all 2s go to who do you call her, all 3s, etc.

This was the first night.

Since I believed Sierra would provide the queer base she said she would, I left the pod I landed in to join hers, even though her pod looked as straight as mine.

Sierra had what my grandmothers used to call “a bosom,” and hers was an ample bosom.

Heroic Sierra draped a rainbow flag across that ample bosom and declared her pod for the queers.

Her pod looked so confused. Some even looked stricken.

“If you’re gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender or questioning, that’s who I’m here for.”

Everybody cleared out fast. The queer pod was down to me and Sierra.

Solla came running over with a panicked what-the-hell-just-happened look on her face.

Somehow 3 brave souls wandered back to the queer pod.

One was a Frenchwoman who gave off the vibe, but she made it clear that she wanted to connect with a man.

Another was a Polish woman who seemed rather fearless and I saw her holding hands with an English woman – maybe bisexual? More likely just European.

The third I’ll call Virgil (not his real name).

At almost 29, Virgil shared he didn’t have sex until he was 26, and that he’d only had sex with 1 girl. He didn’t get specific beyond that, which makes me think it only happened once – a near-virgin? Virgil said he was there to learn how to interact with the feminine.

That guy had my respect.

To be that transparent, and to show up to a workshop like the Masters with his inexperience - that takes epic courage. It also takes courage to stick it out in the queer pod when you’re straight. Inexperienced, but straight.

Anyway, we embraced ourselves as an intimate group. Because we were so small, there was time to share, and that’s how I learned so much about Virgil.

Sierra stated that everybody could ask her anything because she had LOTS of expertise in Tao and Tantra. Maybe she wants to be the Lesbian Charles Muir?

Our pod gained new members by the end of intention-sharing. These folks didn’t arrive until the 2nd day, and missed the rainbow flag draped across heroic Sierra’s ginormous tits.

For whatever reason, Solla finally recovered enough to introduce Sierra as the queer liaison. This was on the 3rd night.

And that’s how I got my Tantra Buddy.

Anyway, after Solla finally announced Sierra as one for the queers, Elise (not her real name) from Toronto approached her, said she was so relieved and that she now felt more comfortable there.

Sierra introduced me to Elise briefly at dinner. The next morning, I passed her on the break during Mantak Chia’s class. She said hi and we stopped to chat. She asked immediately if I’d be interested in being her tantra buddy to practice these techniques. Elise also said she was surprised to learn some new tricks in the lecture that she hadn’t come across before.

One thing about the Masters, they got the ball rolling. They gave us homework from the word go.

Dakini Leah made it very clear that we wouldn’t learn Neo-Tantra from reading and paying attention in class. We had to practice.

Because Sierra was too busy healing the souls of people who were 1000s of miles away, only to claim exhaustion afterwards, I hadn’t been able to practice at all.

It was the 4th day.

So in answer to Elise’s invitation, I was open to it but I’d like to get to know her some since I’d only met her for a minute the night before. Even though she asked me first, I asked if she was comfortable with something so intimate running out of the gate.

“Oh yeah,” she said. “I’m a sexological bodyworker and pro domme. I do this all the time.”

Ok then.

The Wolf Following His Stolen Heart

Image by Álvaro Pradas from Pixabay

“Wolf!”

It couldn’t have been more than a pinch of dust, but a cloud glistened around the Wanderer before his body collapsed. 

The transformation was immediate.  Before he knew it, he stood lower to the ground and was much warmer, suddenly impervious to the cold. 

Ella Bandita’s scent was stronger, and he turned towards her. He could see her easily, his vision unaffected by the dark. 

He also saw his heart beating in her hand and growled. He could feel his pulse vibrating outside of him, and the hairs rose on the back of his neck. 

Ella Bandita cursed when he lunged for her again. 

Then he stumbled and pain shot through his skull when his face hit the ground. He extended his arms to push himself up and saw his hands were paws covered in black fur. 

Then he realized he was on four legs instead of two, the black coat of fur stretching along his torso, the thick tail dropping between his back legs.  His ears twitched from the sound of whimpering, and he knew he was the animal making that plaintive cry.  

How could this be? 

He was a man, not a wolf.   

He heard her chuckling just before a loud crack made him drop to the ground. 

Ella Bandita had her pistol pointed to the sky and cocked the hammer again. Then she brought the gun down and aimed right for him. 

He got up and fled into the trees before she pulled the trigger. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this confused or frightened. He tripped often as he ran, stopping once he realized she wasn’t coming after him.

“Follow your heart…”

He remembered his grandfather and his hollow space throbbed. 

He had to return. 

That woman had his heart and he had to get it back. He stayed in the trees close to her camp and wailed to the sky. He could hear his heart beating inside her tent. He could sense her agitation, her tossing and turning while he howled for the rest of the night.

The next morning, Ella Bandita seemed weary when she came out of her tent. There was heaviness in her limbs he’d never seen before, and shadows under her eyes when she glanced his way. 

He stared at her from behind a tree, his body rigid in case she shot at him. But she turned her back and broke down her camp. 

His lips quivered while he watched her pack. A vision crossed his mind of throwing himself at her, sinking his teeth into the nape of her neck until the bones crushed. 

This instinct to violence frightened him. The Wolf needed all his human will to restrain himself. 

But the girl took no notice, mounting her horse and kicking its flanks.

The Wolf couldn’t keep up with her stallion. 

But he followed the deep prints and never lost track that smell. He stumbled along the way until he discovered his rhythm running on four legs. 

By evening, he came to a province twenty miles west of where he started that morning. 

There were woods outside the town gates, and he found Ella Bandita’s camp in the trees an hour later. His nostrils fluttered at the scent of his heart, his pulse a relief to hear.

Ella Bandita frowned when she saw him. 

The Wolf kept his distance, remaining silent until darkness. Then he started howling, his grief ululating in waves until the first light of day. 

When she came outside, he saw the circles under her eyes had grown darker. But she ignored him, packing up and leaving for the next town. 

And the Wolf followed. 

So it went for a week. 

The Wolf was relentless, the scent and sound of his heart making him desperate to get it back. 

His reflection was a shock whenever he saw himself in the creeks and rivers. The sight of his big snout, sharp teeth, and long ears was upsetting. 

His eyes were the only feature he recognized. Instead of a feral lupine gaze, he kept the black eyes of his mother and grandfather. 

As the days passed, the Wolf fed on nothing but water and the tiny fish he managed to catch. 

But desperation wasn’t enough to keep him going. He could feel himself wasting away.  

Then the morning came when she didn’t leave. 

Ella Bandita had camped at the edge of a forest in the middle of a valley formed by opposing hills with streams winding down to feed the creek flowing through the woods. 

From his vantage at the peak of the western hills, the Wolf saw she didn’t get up until late morning. But the circles under her eyes were nearly black when she came out. 

The Wolf was as exhausted as she, and relieved she rode off without packing up.

He spent the day trying to hunt something to eat. 

But the squirrels escaped him easily, for the Wolf was too weak to catch them. He stopped near her camp to take a long drink from the creek, swallowing as many silvery fish as he could. The sun was low in the sky, dropping towards the western hills and his nemesis hadn’t yet returned. 

He listened for the beat of his heart and his hollow throbbed when he heard nothing. Then he realized his heart must have been in the satchel on her back. 

Of course, she wouldn’t have left it behind.

Stranger Girl in the Moonlight

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay 

She was at the river.

Her ruined gown and undergarments were crumpled in a heap next to her. She made these strange, muffled sounds, and it was a few minutes before I realized she wept.

Her shoulders shook hard and that betrayed her emotion.

The river water must have been freezing, but she bathed herself vigorously, her hands rubbing the water over her face and down her chest.

Eventually, her suppressed sobbing stopped and her shoulders grew still. She curled herself into a ball with her arms wrapped around her knees and her head tucked; then she rocked back and forth and her breathing grew labored.

When she unwrapped herself, she still held her face in her hands. Finally, she leaned back and the tension in her back released as she rested at the river’s edge.

I had no idea what to do.

The depth of her grief made my heart ache, and I could feel her pain. I wanted to comfort her, but this was a private moment and she had no clothes on.

I tried to will myself to look away, but I simply couldn’t do it.

She was so beautiful in the moonlight.

The lines of her back were exquisite. Her shoulders and arms were graceful, the subtle curve of her sides turning in at her waist and veering gently into hips, and the column in the middle holding it all together. I’ve always remembered the rolling bumps of her spine from her neck to the triangle resting at the base.

She seemed both fragile and resilient at once, and there was strength and suppleness in her form.

I could hardly breathe looking at her.

In that moment, I understood why so many artists savored the beauty of the female body, and the creation of music and poetry born from the feminine mystique.

The memories of that first night were so vivid I made several drawings of that time. I’ve always been the most proud of the picture I sketched of her lovely back as she sat at the river.

Here it is.

Take another look if you like, Adrianna, for these drawings stir my memories and help me tell you this story. The next drawing was right after she caught me staring at her.

Her posture shifted subtly.

She must have sensed me watching her when her back straightened and became more rigid.

Finally, she turned.

Tears stained her face, but she didn’t brush them off. Rather than turning back, she held my gaze. Her expression was impassive, which I found rather odd.

After what seemed many minutes, the stranger girl turned back to the river and splashed her head a few times. Then she folded her knees to the right, leaned on one hand, and came upright in an elegant swoop.

The maneuver was harmonious, and she was even lovelier when she stood up. Her long legs were lean and shaped from muscle, rather than flesh.

She brushed the earth off her rump with a few casual swipes before she turned around.

Then the stranger girl walked towards me, without a trace of shame or embarrassment.

I had never seen a naked woman before that night.

I had also never witnessed a murder.

But any lingering memory from that scene in the Ancient Grove couldn’t have been further from my mind as this stranger girl came to me.

Washed clean of the blood on her face and hands, I finally got a good look at her.

Years later, when I would hear Ella Bandita described as the ugly seductress no man could resist, I couldn’t fully believe that this legendary destroyer could have been my Woman.

On that night, the stranger girl was the loveliest being I had ever seen, and I couldn’t ever imagine anybody perceiving her as ugly.

She certainly wasn’t conventional with her blunt, primitive features. Nor was she fluffily voluptuous with her long waist, sinewy belly, and small breasts that stood high on her chest.

But I loved the muscular strength of her underneath the feminine silhouette, and she moved with a devastating, animal grace that I’d never seen in girls before.

With her head high and shoulders back, her long stride gait showed she was more at ease naked than I was with clothes on. I almost passed out before she stopped a few paces away.

“Do you have anything I can wear, Shepherd?”

“What? I don’t have any lady’s clothes.”

“I don’t care. Anything will do.”

“I have another pair of pants and two shirts, but they’ll be too big for you.”

“I’ll make it work,” she muttered, and held out a hand. “Please.”

Breaking Free From a Narcissistic Relationship - A Celebration

Image by Elias Sch. from Pixabay

Yesterday was the one-year anniversary of the day I left the most toxic relationship of my life. To say I had to escape that particular partner is no exaggeration. I left my house for several weeks in order to do it. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was leaving the narcissistic abuse of a covert narcissist.

 

Out of curiosity, I revisited the ‘Dear Jane’ letter I sent on the day I left. It’s surreal to read it. At the time that I wrote it, I had fully believed the person I wrote to was a decent human being - troubled and unstable, but still decent.

 

For the record, I would like to state that everything I described of her daughter’s behavior (Spoiled Child) were the same tactics used by the mother (Ex-Fiancee). That old cliché that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree definitely holds true here.

 

As part of my healing, I dove into a lot of research – particularly Dr Ramani and Richard Grannon – in those first weeks. What I found surprised me. In extricating myself from such a mess, I had followed most of their advice to get out before formally learning about it.

 

Both of them have excellent information on their Youtube Channels and I can’t recommend spending some time learning from their expertise – especially if you are in a narcissistic relationship, suspect you might be (you probably are), or have a history of one-sided relationships with narcissists. I’ll link to their youtube channels at the end of this for anybody who is interested.

 

To commemorate a year of healing, growth, and transition – as well as a tiny drop of revenge – I decided to share most of my break up letter on my blog. I left out the logistics of money and time to move for obvious reasons.

 

Of course, names have been replaced with monikers and other specifics with blank spaces. Any current thoughts are in bold with parentheses.

 

Perhaps this may inspire others to take that leap and leave behind those who suck their souls dry. Good luck.

 

 

Hey Ex-Fiancée,

 

Thank you for your apology about the basement. I apologize too, but I’ll get to that later.

 

I read all of the previous email, and I get that what you had say is real and true for you. We all have our versions of the truth, based on experience, beliefs, and personal bias.

 

In all, I don’t think it matters who is doing right and who is doing wrong. What it really comes down to is: Do we work? Do you and I have the right stuff to make it long term – and be happy? I don’t believe we do. I also believe ending our relationship is the only right thing to do.

 

I’m not coming home because I don’t see the point of talking yet again. Why? We’ve already had all the talks and fights and disagreements over every aspect of our relationship. Nobody’s changing anybody’s mind.

 

Perhaps it is cowardly of me; perhaps it’s excellent self-care. I guess that depends on perspective. I do know that I can’t stand another fight with you. I can’t stomach another scene of high emotions and crying and screaming and locked doors.

 

I was honest with you from the beginning about what I wanted and needed in a relationship and what my limits were.

 

It was clear to me that your needs and wants were different from mine. I thought we could do a “both/and” instead of an “either/or” so we could both win.

 

Yet nearly 4 years later, I believe we are in an “either/or.” Nobody is winning, and my limits have been stretched far beyond what I said I was willing to live with.

 

You are Spoiled Child’s mother. And as you said, her care is your responsibility and your choice. There is no getting away from that, yet I don’t agree with many of your decisions and I’m not willing to live with the results.

 

What may work for you is crazy making for me.

 

I told Therapist about the suicidal comment you made around Spoiled Child, how you felt trapped with a monster you can’t control and who won’t change.

 

Her response was quintessential calm.

 

“There is a solution. She can have her daughter evaluated, so she can get the right therapy and solve these problems before she’s an adolescent.”

 

Therapist then went on to say that she thinks Spoiled Child is possibly emotionally disturbed. But that it’s not an identity. It’s a phenomena. And there is something to be done for that.

 

She had also mentioned the potential for Oppositional Defiance Disorder in a previous session, as did your former colleague at the high school two years ago.

 

At best, Spoiled Child has her charm, and is pleasant and agreeable when she gets her way. But once anybody tells her no, enforces consequences, corrects/criticizes her, or insists she does something she doesn’t want to do, she goes into a rage that would terrify most of the spoiled rotten brats I grew up with.

 

Again, that is at best.

 

At worst, Therapist is right.

 

For the record, I agree with Therapist more than I don’t. I suspect the truth is somewhere between both ends of the best and worst case scenario, neither of which is good.

 

If you don’t face this shit about Spoiled Child and about those parts of yourself that enable her, you will regret it for the rest of your life. Many times, I’ve watched you go into denial about your daughter, and her potential for horrific behavior that healthy, well-adjusted children do not engage in.

 

Last night, when you shut me down when I insisted she needs an evaluation and therapy, that was my last straw. That was the moment I knew I was done with this.

 

I’m not willing to be an enabler in your denial or in hiding Spoiled Child’s problems. At this point, that is most of what I’ve become. This is the heart of what I meant when I talked about the fundamental difference between us.

 

So, this isn’t just about Spoiled Child.

 

This is about us. We have too many differences in our core values, how to approach life, how to deal with problems and handle conflict.

 

So yes, I’m being cold.

 

Yes, I’m running away.

 

I’m not viewing you as my enemy. I’m viewing you as the woman I need to break up with.

 

In the acceptance of the reality that we can’t work out in spite of our hardest efforts, I have to let go of my fiancée, my lover, my best friend, the potential for family, and a dream that meant a lot to me.

 

That is heartbreaking and difficult. It is also necessary. The only way I can do this is to detach, act cold, and be ruthless.

 

I really wanted us to work out, possibly more than you’ll ever believe. That is one of the reasons why I suggested the relationship reset on the day of Spoiled Child’s choir concert. The other was that I was devastated by what she went through that day.

 

That is what I would like to apologize for.

 

I meant well for all of us, but that was a mistake. We’d already agreed to a break up, and if that had stuck, we’d have a much cleaner parting of the ways than this. This only prolonged the agony and I am truly sorry for that. Not just to you. I apologize to Spoiled Child for that as well.

 

And now for the logistics:

 

We need to determine a time and day for me to come get some things and my cats – preferably tomorrow. This includes _____, but if you changed your mind and want to keep him, let me know. I would prefer to come when you’re not there, and I will come with friends to help me.

 

If you need to write your piece for closure or whatever, that’s fine. But I suggest you leave it for me at the house for when I get back.

There is no changing my mind or convincing me that I’m wrong to be unhappy with you. That said, if you contact me, or show up where I’m staying, or go to places you know I’ll be, I will file a restraining order against you.

(This warning was the smartest choice I made in my exit plan. That definitely worked.)

 

I know this is harsh, but a restraining order is a precaution to protect all of us. You have a history of pushing my boundaries and not respecting clear limits that I set. This is not a temporary separation like 3 years ago. This is a permanent break up and the closest to a divorce I ever want to come.

           

If you need to communicate with me about logistics, please do so through ______. She’s a trusted friend and confidante to us all, but I’m willing to find another mediator for her sake because it may be awkward for her.

(Getting a mediator was the second most intelligent decision I made in this.)

 

I’m very sad about this, and to do it this way. But we’ve been putting band-aids on cancer for at least a year, and it’s time to pull the band-aid off. Somebody’s got to do it. So it might as well be me.

(Of course it had to be me.)

 

In our previous talks about who we would be to each other if we were ever to break up, we both agreed that friendship was unlikely. Who knows what may happen with enough time.

(No effing way!)

 

But for the foreseeable future of many months, I don’t want to see you or talk to you. Every time I do - I only get roped back in to something I know doesn’t work.

 

Thank you for the last four years. We had some gorgeous times and I love you. I wish you all the passion and joy we once had in the future with somebody who works better for you and for your daughter. Of course, I wish the same for me.

 

I wish Spoiled Child peace, joy, happiness, and security in the mother’s love that she wants so badly it hurts. But in a healthy way, of course.

 

Take care of yourselves…

Needless to say, her responses to me were not in the same spirit.

For those of you who are sticklers for breaking up face to face, I actually did as she was chasing me out to the car. I said I was done, and the last thing I said to her was “Let me go.”

Dr. Ramani’s youtube channel can be found HERE. 

Richard Grannon’s channel HERE

4 Steps and 40 days to Healthy Habits For Writers Who Struggle With the Juggle!

Hey y’all,

Did you know that it takes 40 days to change a habit?

According to the late Yogi Bhajan, it is so. It also takes 90 days to confirm the new habit; after 120 days, the new habit is who you are; and if you keep it up for 1000 days, you have mastered the new habit.

I’ve found that 120 days will make some profound changes. 120 days was enough to quit smoking. I did this by replacing a bad habit with a good one. Instead of puffing on a cigarette, I practiced the Kundalini breathing exercises Yogi Bhajan passed on to Western culture.

I focused on 1 or 2 meditations and mantras at a time for 40-day runs. At the end of that winter, I had transformed into a non-smoker rather than an ex-smoker craving a cigarette. That was more than 15 years ago.

Some would say Yogi Bhajan was a cult leader. And maybe that is true. Either way, smoking is a gnarly addiction for a lot of people; it was for me, so the man and his memory have my respect, as well as my gratitude. 

Since then the 40-day method has been my standard go-to when it comes to making constructive changes in my life.

I’ll get back to this later.

A few days ago, a gentleman responded to a meme on my Twitter page about writer’s block. From what he had to say with very young children to raise, I gathered that he doesn’t have time to write.

Since I’m new to parenting via the stepmother path, I could sort of relate to what he was talking about.

I got to thinking about all we have to juggle in life – and then there’s the writing. It’s a balancing act that I’m not comfortable with. There was a time when I had the time to isolate for several weeks to write a rough draft because I didn’t really have to worry about anybody but myself.

Even if the loneliness of being that single got to me so much that I suffered some serious writer’s block as a result, I miss having that kind of space to immerse myself in another world. Now, I only get 2 hours of daily writing time - 4 if I’m lucky - before I have to move on with everything else that needs to be done.

As an independent author, I’m also a publisher. I have to find my editors, artists, graphic designers, printers, and whoever else will be involved in the process of giving birth to a new book.

Independent author or not, there’s no getting away from all the social media stuff that needs to be done. Instead of simply working on the creative juice of novels and stories, writers now have to have a platform. We have to blog, tweet, pin, Facebook, and Instagram, etc.

All this for the sake of getting our name out there in the hopes that the world knows our stuff exists and will come to read it and love it. Traditionally published authors have to do the social media thing just as much as the Indies do.

Then there is the stuff of life - relationship, friendships, parenting, day jobs, and beloved hobbies for those who have the time.

Maybe it’s just me, but it seems there are more demands on time and attention and energy than ever before. Or maybe it’s because a child has been thrown into the mix of life, and I’m still getting used to that.

I’ve never been organized in my life, and now I have to be at least a little competent at it. Which brings us back to habits because I had to improve mine.

So about that 40-day method of creating healthy habits…

Or 90 day.

Or 120 day.

Last year, I made a commitment of 4 small yet mighty changes of habit - daily meditation, walking, chores, and writing. I started the day with meditation and walking before getting my morning coffee. Then I wrote at least 2 pages every day and did at least 1 chore.

I did this for 120 days.

Small changes led to big results.

Meditation balanced me a lot more and I could concentrate so much more.

I lost about 15 pounds from walking – just walking.

I usually wrote more than 2 pages a day.

One chore often led to another chore, sometimes 2 or 3 more.

I’m not saying that I’m a neat freak now, but I tidy more than I used to and it has made a difference in how functional I am.

In that 120 days, I finished the rough draft of the novel that I am well immersed into my second draft now. In that time, I finished rewriting and polishing a fairy tale I wrote years ago.

I was more productive during that 120 days than I had been in years. With all the demands on my time and energy, I was much more productive than when I had the time and space to dive into an imaginary world for weeks at a time.

Just in case anybody would like a to-do checklist on consciously changing habits, I got some great tips from the guys at JumpCut, and their Viral Academy on making Youtube videos. Here ya go:

1) Identify the bad habit you need to change.

We lie to ourselves all the time about our habits, and justify them. Don’t do that.

2) Replace the bad habit with a good one.

We rely on our habits to get through the day. Taking away a bad habit without putting something else in its place won’t work. For example: Meditate for 5-10 minutes first thing in the morning, instead of opening your phone to check Facebook. Or do deep breathing exercises that will give you a head rush instead of reaching for a cigarette. That’s what I did.

3) Plant a seed habit.

Start small and build from there. It helps if you put yourself in the position that you have to do it. That makes it easier to do it every day. For example: Walk or ride bike to work. Write 2 pages before checking social media, etc.

4) Don’t break the chain.

This is where the 40 days comes in. If you don’t have a wall calendar, get one. Put a big fat X in any color you want on each day that you do your new, healthy habit. Do this for as many days as you can. Doing this feels deliciously satisfying.

If you make it to 40, try to push it to 90 days. Maybe spread to 120 days. And then…

I should probably aim for 1000 days to make sure these new habits stay with me forever.

Are there any writers out there who have any healthy habit forming tricks you’d like to share? What tools do you have to make it all happen? If you have any insights, please check in with a comment or two. Check in if you struggle with the juggle. Because I’m pretty sure we all do.

Truthfully, I should start another 40-day challenge to get the second draft done. Or 90 day. I’m sure I could get this draft done in 120 days.

For anybody who wants to be a Youtube influencer, or to check out some of Jumpcut’s courses, click here. For the record, this is NOT an affiliate link, and I do not get a commission if you anybody signs up. That one video they did on changing bad habits did me a lot of good and I want to spread the love.

Thanks for reading.

Peace,

Montgomery

Becoming the Lone Wolf

Illustration by BANE aka Dennis McElroy

Her dagger was in hand, the tip pressed into his belly. 

“Let’s go, Wanderer.”

He looked around for anybody to help him, but the revelers were blind to his distress. 

Ella Bandita gripped one of his arms and kept the blade at his side below his last rib.

A sense of unreality pervaded the Wanderer pushing his way through the crowd. The cheery voices of the bar wenches, the rancid perfume of the night ladies, and the leering gazes of the men made a bizarre tapestry of raw living, a mirage that had to be a dream.

But the moment was real. 

He knew that when they stepped outside.

The salt of the ocean was cleansing, the chill of night oddly refreshing. Tall lamps illuminated patches of the wharf and left others in shadows. The Wanderer looked up and down, but all was still. 

After the chaos of the tavern, the emptiness of the docks was eerie.

Ella Bandita slid her dagger back in its sheath and slapped him hard across the face.

“You stupid fool,” she growled. “Why did you follow me?”

“Why do you think?”

His cheek stung where she struck him, but he almost laughed out loud. 

The Wanderer knew he was in the worst trouble of his life, yet he still wanted her. His flesh thrilled in her presence and he had to restrain the urge to grab her. 

Ella Bandita shook her head slowly.

“Damn you,” she muttered, and pulled her pistol from the holster.

Pressing the barrel into his spine, she pushed the Wanderer off the wharf and into the trees where her stallion waited. She needn’t have bothered with the weapon. 

The turmoil of his mind and body left him paralyzed, unable to resist her will. 

When they came to her camp, he saw it was much the same as the one in No Man’s Land, except the clearing amongst the trees was smaller. The autumn leaves were past their peak, but they glowed from the branches and on the ground in the milky light of a waxing moon.

Perhaps it was her scent that made him do it.  

Being so close to the honey musk that haunted his dreams drove the Wanderer to some kind of madness, taking him back to the night in his tent when the girl woke him up from a nightmare. 

Before Ella Bandita could dismount, he tightened his hold around her waist and brought his mouth to her neck.          

“Stop it,” she said, pulling away. “You’ve gone too far this time.”

“You don’t want to do me harm,” he murmured into her ear. “Do you really think I’m going to make trouble for you?”

“Trouble was never something I was concerned about, Wanderer. At least, not for me.”

She managed to wriggle from him and jump off her horse. 

The Wanderer dropped to the ground after the girl, and reached for her again. 

But Ella Bandita evaded his grasp.

“You already got what you wanted,” she whispered.  “Now it’s my turn.” 

She pulled the pendant she always wore from her blouse and held it out, the crystal facets sparkling in the moonlight.

Then the Wanderer was surrounded by a whirlwind of colors.

His heart pounded hard inside his chest, his pulse ringing in his ears. He remembered that first morning when the girl collapsed his tent in the clearing, then that day at the hot springs pool. 

“Of course,” he thought. “That’s her crystal stargaze. How could I not have known?”

The lights swirled faster around him and the Wanderer was spinning, lifted from the ground by the cyclone of color. 

He sighed against his will, the air drawn out of him by an unseen grasp. His heart beat once in his throat and then there was nothing. He was released and fell to his knees, struggling for breath until he had enough. 

But something was missing.

Pain throbbed inside his chest, its echo resonating in the space that was now hollow. His hand was shaking when he touched for his pulse and found it was gone. 

When he looked up, he saw his heart beating in the hand of Ella Bandita. 

Her eyes glittered and her teeth were gleaming. Her nostrils flared when she inhaled his scent.  She moaned softly and brought the hand to her mouth.

“Follow your heart…”

The memory of his grandfather’s counsel tore through the Wanderer. 

He howled and grasped his throat, frantic to find his pulse.

When he looked at the girl again, there was terror in her eyes. He lunged for her, but Ella Bandita stepped aside. He catapulted to the ground, rolled over and came up, crouched on his haunches and ready to spring. 

But Ella Bandita was faster. She reached with her other hand for the small pouch on her holster. Before he could attack again, she blew between her thumb and forefinger.

“Wolf!”

It couldn’t have been more than a pinch of dust, but a cloud glistened around the Wanderer before his body collapsed. 

The transformation was immediate. 

Before he knew it, he stood lower to the ground and was much warmer, suddenly impervious to the cold.

Using the Sorcerer's Magic Against Him

Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay 

Adrianna, please understand that Woman who I loved was never Ella Bandita.

As I told you at the beginning, she didn’t become that monster until later.

Over the years, I’ve wondered what my life would have been like if I had made different choices on that fateful night.

Here, Adrianna, you’ve already asked me about this sketch of Woman with blood on her face and holding my littlest lamb.

That is the first of many I drew of her, of us, and of that time in my life.

But what might have been if I had chosen to move on through the night once I realized where I was, in the Abandoned Valley and Ancient Grove of the Sorcerer of the Caverns?

What if I had left rather than stay the night with my flock after I knew I was in dangerous territory? And what if I had stayed frozen when I woke up in the middle of that night to a young woman screaming from deep inside the Ancient Grove?

Or even if I had chosen to ignore that raging despair, rather than follow the wailing into the trees where I saw her for the first time?

But I didn’t make any of those choices. And the choices I made that night cast my fate for the rest of my life.

Everything about that scene was bizarre.

A highborn young lady, dressed in elegant finery, pounding her fists against a large granite boulder and screaming for the Sorcerer, as blood covered the lower half of her face and stained her beaded, pale blue gown.

She was so caught up in her anguish, she didn’t notice the Sorcerer floating across the clearing from the trees opposite me until he turned her around and slapped her face.

I did not grow up amongst violent people. I was so shocked I flinched.

But the girl with the bloody face spat at the Sorcerer.

Their ensuing argument made no sense to me at the time, yet I could tell that something between them had gone horribly wrong.

“Why did you bring my father into this?” the girl shouted.

“Because I can’t bring it back to life!” the Sorcerer snarled.

“What are you talking about?”

“Your heart. Don’t you remember the request you made about your heart?”

The bloody girl froze. Her fury suddenly gone as confusion shifted to understanding, and finally dismay.

“If you can bring my heart back to life, then you must, Sorcerer. Please! I’m begging you.”

Her pleading fell on deaf ears.

The Sorcerer of the Caverns laughed as he shook her off and turned his back.

But he had finally met his match in this one.

After centuries of preying on the hearts and dreams of young girls and virgin women so he would never die, the Sorcerer’s last conquest was this girl. I was there to witness his fall when she destroyed him.

The Sorcerer waved his hand over the giant boulder the girl had been pounding, which finally moved to reveal the entry to his underground Caverns.

The girl with the bloody face stood still, her expression eerily calm. Her hand slowly reached in her pocket, from which she pulled a small satchel.

Her bloody smile was grim when she looked to her hand.

She only needed a pinch of dust from that pouch.

“Slug!”

Thus the girl used the Sorcerer’s magic against him. The fearsome old man of legend disappeared, reduced to a common garden slug.

The girl didn’t hesitate. She stomped the Sorcerer of the Caverns to death.

I’ve wondered for many years what my life would have been if I had not seen any of that.

Would I have fallen in love with a robust, country girl with rosy cheeks and a cheerful laugh?

Would I have given up the roaming ways of a Shepherd and settled down to the hard-working farmer’s life?

Would I have had children?

Would I have been happy?

That night, I tried to flee the scene without being detected, but it was no use.

The girl with the bloody face heard me running through the trees, and followed. She caught up with me easily because my small flock had scattered during the night, and I lost precious time gathering them.

I tried to pass myself off as a Shepherd coming through on an overnight run, one who hadn’t seen anything extraordinary.

Of course, she didn’t believe me.

I could feel the tremor of fright in my throat every time I spoke, and my attempts to act casual failed pitifully. The sketch of her holding my lamb by the throat was the moment she accused me of lying.

I was only nineteen years old that night, still in the limbo between youth and manhood.

I couldn’t believe it when this girl, a stranger, grabbed me by the shirt, pulled me to her, and rested her head against my chest.

That was the first time I had ever been held by a woman. Her warmth and softness knocked the breath out of me.

Suddenly, this stranger girl with the bloody face was intoxicating.

Even though I knew I was in the most frightening peril of my life, I had never felt more alive.

Modern Sexual Healers and Backstory II - Tantric Shitshow #4

Image by Comfreak from Pixabay

Hey y’all,

This is part 2 of “Modern Sexual Healers and Backstory.” If you’d like to read the first half of this, click HERE.

Back to that gray area of sex work and therapeutic healing, the combo sure makes a tangled snafu, doesn’t it?

Even if this work is illegal, this field is burgeoning. There are now many names this work goes by – sexological bodyworker is the latest I’ve heard of – and that has a more professional ring to it.

It’s gone international. There were several sexbod workers (what they call themselves) from various parts of the world who came to the Masters. They came not only for their personal sexuality, but also to expand their skillset.

People who have more prestigious, high-respect careers are adding sexual healing to their repertoire. Regardless of the respect I lost for her, Sierra is educated as a naturopath and acupuncturist, but she claims to do this work – along with “healing people’s souls.” (Yes, she actually said that.)

Another woman from Charles Muir’s team had also studied Taoist sexuality with Mantak Chia, and has claimed to reach expertise in both is a medical doctor. She too does this work.

To all this, I say: “Bravo!”

Sex is important. Great sex is good for the body, the heart, and the soul. The stronger the orgasm, the more thorough the release. It’s absurd to think there’s still so much shame around sexuality, that people are still so reluctant to talk about it.

There is a desperate need for sexual healing. And traditional talk therapy hasn’t cut it. At all.

The culture of shame and repression is harmful enough before abuse even gets a mention.

Sexual abuse, molestation, rape, incest, exploitation, and all other forms of abuse have been a scourge on humanity, on women and children for a really long time. This has been happening over generations and for centuries, probably from the beginning of the human race, and it’s really fucked people up.

It’s fucked with discernment in the areas of trust, self-worth, opening up, healthy attachment, intimacy, loving relationships, equal friendships, communication, sexual response – I could go on and on about this – and that’s without addressing the addiction, isolation, and self-destructive tendencies that are often by-products of sexual trauma.

People need each other. We need community, connection, intimacy, RELATIONSHIP. If life really is all about those people we connect with and love and relate to, it’s appalling and unfair that so many people have suffered through some kind of abuse that has screwed up those internal systems which bring us to healthy love, friendship, connection, intimacy, and sexuality.

How do I know all this?

Because I’ve lived through my fair share.

I prefer not to go into detail, but my experiences with double standards, chauvinism, sexism, misogyny, sex-negativity, hate-filled religious thinking, sexual abuse, rape and the fear of rape, not to mention the daily assaults  - both great and small - on feminine pride and dignity that all women and girls endure; all this definitely messed with my ability to have loving, healthy relationships and great sex.

My experiences aren’t particularly unusual. So many people have been through similar and much, much worse.

Yet I have spent the lion’s share of my adulthood trying to heal. Tantra and Neo-Tantra – among many other non-sexual modalities – have been a part of that.

I wish I could claim that all my efforts have been a complete success, but my last relationship proves that the results have been a mixed bag.

I stayed in a toxic relationship for far too long in spite of my best efforts to end it in a timely manner when I knew it would never work. I allowed myself to be manipulated because of my fears of being alone.

I’m not just embarrassed, I’m ashamed of that. By the time my ex-fiancée and I broke up, not only was I no longer in love with her, she was somebody I couldn’t stand. And I can’t say I love the parts of me that caved under pressure and stayed with her.

I really thought I was stronger and smarter than that. I thought I had “healed.”

In all, it’s a relief that people are starting to talk about it. As a society, we have only had this conversation with any degree of openness and compassion for maybe 20-30 years. That’s not a lot of time for trauma that runs deep through the generations.

The vista of sexual healing really is a wild and raw frontier that is mostly unexplored. And everybody who comes to this – “master,” teacher, enthusiastic student, “tantrika,” “dakini,” sexual surrogate, shamanic sexual healer, sexological bodyworker – we’re coming to this with our histories, our wounds, our triggers, and our shit.

There is a lot of discovery to be had, growth to embrace. And in that journey, mistakes will be made.

It would also be nice if legality could meet this exploration with justice and compassion.

Maybe then there wouldn’t be this need to hide behind the verbiage of Tantra.

For everybody who has read this far, thanks for joining this ride with me.

Peace,

Mana