Have you ever craved something so intensely that the mere thought of it sent waves of anticipation through your body? Then, the moment you finally taste it—time slows, your senses ignite, and nothing else exists but that single, exquisite moment. That is pleasure.

Pleasure—desire, inclination, a state of gratification, sensual indulgence, frivolous amusement, a source of delight or joy.

Pleasure is a word that gets tossed around a lot these days. Yet, when you really think about it, it almost slips away, elusive and intangible. What does it truly mean to experience pleasure? I once heard someone explain it in relation to desire. When you have an intense craving for ice cream, you long for it, imagining its taste and texture. Then, the moment it touches your tongue, melting into your taste buds—that is pleasure.

Pleasure demands presence. It does not wait. It does not settle for half-hearted attention. To truly feel pleasure, you must surrender to it fully.

I feel pleasure most easily when I think of it in connection to joy. Lately, I’ve been reflecting on my relationship with spirit, with the beloved, with the experience of being in deep, reverent, and constant love-making with the universe. When I approach life this way, I find myself in a perpetual dance with pleasure—discovering moments of delight in the mundane, in the ever-changing, in the abstract. It’s about shifting the lens through which I connect to the world around me.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot because I am choosing right now to be single. Having moved between relationships, I recognize that I need to give myself space to feel and cultivate the parts of myself that I want to see grow—so that when I am ready, I can attract my person. I am choosing to be in a relationship with the earth. And when I commit to that relationship, I get to make love to it every day, in both grand and subtle ways. I surrender to sleep and allow spirit to take me into her womb of dreams. I wake to a hush, the kind that holds secrets in its breath. The first light of dawn seeps through the trees, stretching golden fingers across my room, coaxing me from slumber. I am aroused by these moments of pure, earthly joy. I am present with the sensations in my body, responding to the call of the beloved. I choose to let pleasure guide me through my day—to seek what brings me joy, to drop into the most present way of being, to be fully taken and ravished by life.

This awakening is happening not only in moments of beauty but also in those we often associate with pain. The other day, I felt my whole body swell with sadness as I accepted that my son is getting older and will soon be leaving home. I sat with my loneliness, allowing it to wash over me. And in that, I became so aware of the raw, undeniable presence of these emotions—how they moved through me, how they existed fully in my body. The pure sensation of feeling my sadness overwhelmed me with gratitude. To be human, to be a full spectrum of emotions and tears, and to let it all be messy—there was pleasure in that too.

In reflecting on pleasure, I have come to realize how much it is entwined with vulnerability. To feel deeply is to expose oneself—to joy, to sorrow, to longing. And yet, in that exposure, we find our most profound experiences of pleasure. Pleasure is in the surrender, in the willingness to open ourselves to life’s full expression. It’s in the way we immerse ourselves in the present, whether through laughter that shakes our ribs or tears that cleanse our souls.

We often think of pleasure in terms of grand moments, but there is pleasure in simplicity too. The way warm tea soothes the throat on a cold morning, the way fingers trace familiar patterns on skin, the way music fills the silence and reverberates within us. It’s in the small rituals that remind us we are alive and connected to something greater than ourselves.

I now understand that pleasure is not a destination but a practice. It is something we cultivate, moment by moment, with intention. It requires us to be still, to listen, to savor. It is not about excess but about depth. It is not about reaching for more but about sinking into what already is.

There is also an inherent sensuality in pleasure—one that is not limited to romantic or sexual experiences but extends to the way we engage with the world. The texture of the wind against our skin, the taste of a perfectly ripe fruit, the way candlelight flickers in a dimly lit room. These are all acts of intimacy with existence itself.

So much of my younger life was spent chasing—consumed by the desire to accomplish, to do, to be. This robbed me of pleasure because the moment I arrived at one milestone, my mind was already constructing the next. I recently heard that competition is the thief of joy, and I believe it is also the thief of pleasure. When we are consumed by comparison, by the constant measuring of self against others, there is no space for anything else.

It becomes a pleasurable and vulnerable game to play when you simply allow yourself to be—guided by joy, by presence, by the subtle and not-so-subtle sensations of pleasure. Whether it’s the gentle warmth of sunlight kissing your face or the rapture of an orgasmic release, each moment is its own.

Pleasure is not something we chase; it is something we allow. And in that surrender, life itself becomes ecstasy.

To live in pleasure is to live in reverence of the present. To trust that we are worthy of joy, that we deserve to feel deeply, that we can welcome all of it—the beauty, the pain, the in-between. In that trust, in that surrender, we find the most profound pleasure of all: the pleasure of simply being.

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