Orgasm. 

The brink. 

The edge. 

The what’s so of our world. 

Both the stir and cauldron of creation. 

The hallway of myth making. We use it to bring us to our knees and then to stand back up again. 

To process. 

To engender. 

To behold. 

To not only resist wrong action and injustice, but to surrender fully to the psychedelic state known as living. 

Let us not gaslight ourselves. Shock, surprise, and grief are appropriate responses to cruelty and brutality. So are anger and a spring into action. 

Unlike at a sex party hosted by the BDSM and consent communities, the scenes of our life, though outlined pre-incarnation, did not exactly come with rules of engagement as we understand them. Safeness wasn’t in the contracts because things tend to get weird once Spirit becomes Earth. But an earthwalk is epic, famed throughout the universes, no matter how crazy or formidable. 

Instead of guarantees and insurance policies, we learn our yes’s by speaking our no’s, just like we learned walking – that art of skilled falling – through 10,000 clumsy tumbles and defeats. And it’s immature, however tempting, to pretend the walk for each of us doesn’t end in what some call death but what others know as the movement of Earth back to Spirit. 

We learn what we live for by knowing clearly what we would give our life for. And each of us got here with at least one orgasm. Let the wisdom of these two things then, be either end of the pole for our uninsurable tightrope walk. That which truly belongs to us cannot be given nor taken, and travels with us between Spirit and Earth, Earth and Spirit. And when we act from this scrumptious place of timeless clarity, it’s just a matter of doing what’s ours to do, one foot in front of the other, rebalancing as we go, be they grand gestures of headline and intrigue, or small actions that only the frogs hear. 

Even though we’re all gonna die, we have a life to live, so how do we remain present and able to act in current reality? We collectively learn how not to get dragged into despair, anxiety, or inaction such that it grifts us of our sanity, life force, and connection. Doing some meaning-making together with some ancestors and descendants to thread this needle of cultural transformation instead of getting yanked around by the tattered whims and executions of the brokenhearted ones. 

Would we protect our neighbors even if the brokenhearted ones came for us next? Yes. Would we tend the lives of our youngsters and each other even if brokenhearted ones shot us in the back for doing so? Yes. 

And even if it’s way outside our frame of reference and current abilities, could we acquire new skills? For instance, connecting with our ancestors and descendants so those who give their lives to this time can share their wisdom from the luminous realm? Yes, we could.

Our minds can be hijacked by the sorcery of inhumanity and heartbreak. Our physical bodies though, bound to the truth of present momenting, are undupable. So we turn to the wise all-knowing sage of tissue, fluid, eyes, and bone for its unperturbed wisdom. We cannot be controlled or manipulated if we’re connected to our bodies. Is this not afterall, why women and people with vulvas have been told we were collectively incapable of orgasm? Because if we forgot how to connect we’re more easily dominated and disempowered? Why, yes it is. 

A little sparkle flashed as the tear welled, broke, and trickled down my face. It tickled. I hadn’t realized I was crying again till I saw the sparkles catch the lamplight. Dreamy croaking frogs I never see, only hear, and imagine wet and up to things, sing through the open window above my headboard. It’s morning or maybe dusk. Air too soft to call a breeze kisses my eyelids and cheeks. Hands, fingertips – my hands, my fingertips – moving from my warm belly down down to the squish of my thighs. I squeeze and pinch their softness. From my touch springs more tears as I reiterate to myself what is unshakable. 

Because one way to see what’s happening is that the culture we know is tearing apart, I use my fingers to learn firsthand the teaching stories in my sighs. 

Beauty exists eternal for it is one of the Great Truths. I keep touching until I remember what of me and my world is solid, assured, beautiful. I refuse to stand inertly by, doing what I was programmed to do by a culture of brokenheartedness. Ranting or hiding maybe. Blowing my circuits on violence or news, or some other distraction funnel designed to deplete my life force and keep me worried and powerless. 

“Claim your stability and foundation,” sing the frogs outside. “Moan from that place that is true even amid the swarms of lies. Grow your range, darling,” they croak. “The answer is to become both bigger and smaller.”

I stay with the sensations and embrace once again, like I must have when I was trading crawling for walking, those psychedelic states known as practice and learning. 

“What if it’s just brutality and schisms created by toddlers with chainsaws from here on out?” I cry. More surrendering. Each wave of pleasure holds ever so gently the grief and the fear. 

“What’s your no?” ask the frogs.

“I refuse to deny my humanity.”

“What’s your yes given current reality?” they chant.

“I choose my life. I choose connection and the truth that humans are part of Earth’s dreaming.” 

While the sound of my orgasm is strange to my ears given current events, it reminds me that I am a dreamer dreaming the Dream and I came here to do stuff. Really cool stuff. I have tales to craft and myths to make. I am one who connects and builds links, who moves with joy, and who writes with a bright voice that sears through distraction and numbness. And I will not give my power away to heartbroken ones in a brokenhearted culture. 

Once upon a time it seemed hard to tell the difference between a personal truth, a greater Truth (those of Planet and of Universe, of Love, of those things that knowledge simply cannot eat) and propaganda, denial, and capitalism’s empty yet emotional tugs. The hastily applied bandaid of civility and policy was disintegrating. The sounds of resistance and ceaseless reiteration of the boundaries of humanity had become constant. And even if you weren’t in Minneapolis you felt it in the ethers. 

It is correct in a sense that every story is true. That even lies carry their own flinch and waft of truth. But every story being true tends to throw humans out of range and right perspective, and into wrong knowledge – that is, knowing things as they are not. Which is to say forgetting what being human means. 

Thanks to the industry and marketing sorcerers, many had been domesticated out of the psychedelic states known throughout the realms as discomfort, responsibility, and accountability. So to some, the very idea of current reality and needed actions within it, initially seemed impossible, or at least ignorable, or at least implausible, or at least undesirable. 

A clear whistle through the eternal neighborhood was needed, a singing bowl strike of kinship and remembering. Whose toot and ping sounded down the helix of incarnation, retrofitting the link between ancestor, living, and descendent. Some humans had forgotten the magic of their humanity. Which is to say they’d forgotten about all the creative goo and gush that goes into making not just a human life but Life, that squirt of Spirit into matter. 

And that it was considered one of the wildest of magics to have a creature imbued with what was known throughout the realms as the psychedelic state of free will. That is, a creature who could choose something other than their true nature, who could forget for instance, their place as The Living. 

And even this was marvelous, for no other creature could say no to True Naturing. Not the 4 leggeds of tail, mane, and antler who sauntered and lurked. Nor the winged ones who tended cloud and swish of air. Not the rooted and branched ones whose job was of foundation and stability. Nor those of fin and flipper whose wet bodies contained wisdoms so ancient they remembered the time before the humans. Not even the Great Ones of stone, direction, and element who remembered the beginning of the galaxies could decide not to take their rightful place. 

In the time when heartbreak and lies had become wallpaper for humanity, all the realms heard the call and whistle of the humans choosing their true nature. Those delightfully goofy creatures with 10,000 nerve endings between their legs dedicated to pleasure and good feelings. Who could, even in the darkest times of the darkest yuga*, tell the stories collectively known throughout the realms as the Legends of the Courageous Human Hearts. And how, with their squishy fearless “yes’s,” and dripping courageous “no’s,” they crafted epic tales of love, wisdom, power, and vision.  

*From Wikipedia – A Yuga Cycle is a cyclic age in Hindu cosmology. Each cycle lasts for 4,320,000 years (or 12,000 divine years) and then repeats. The entire cycle is divided into four yugas each lasting a different amount of time:  Krita or Satya Yuga (1,728,000 years), Treta Yuga (1,296,000 years), Dvapara Yuga (864,000 years), and Kali Yuga (432,000 years).

A Yuga is an ‘era’ in Hinduism. There are 4 yugas, or world ages: Satya Yuga, Treta Yuga, Dvapara Yuga, and Kali Yuga. It takes 4,320,000 years to complete all 4 yugas.

Photo by Tim Marshall on Unsplash

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