Through sensuism to the non-duality of intimacy

The sensuist attends to sensual stimulation through the senses; it is a delightful experience.  In our busy day-to-day's, we find we attend to, pay attention to, very little.  Our senses have numbed.  The sun shines down to warm us, our children's little eyes sparkle up at us, a bird sings to greet the morning, our chicken curry dinner nourishes us and tastes exquisite.  But our chatty mind notices not, busily planning the day's activities, rushing us through morning traffic, creating lists, mourning past mistakes, stressing over upcoming deadlines.  It is our reality, the reality we create for ourselves, that is.

There is another way.  We can choose to more consistently experience the context of our life experience, instead of focusing our mind toward the contents.  In essence, we begin to observe our experience with full awareness.  We feel that cool breeze, we hear the neighbor's dog barking, we savor the glass of red wine at the end of the day; in our mind, we cease to interrupt the silence. 

Therein, we begin to tune in to our bodies better, and we come to more deeply understand our feelings and thoughts.  Furthermore, we more fully experience others and our environment.  Thus, learning to acknowledge and listen to our bodies, feelings, thoughts and images, and opening up to others and our environment, we can learn to disidentify from our bodies, thoughts and feelings, and we can reach a core in our being where we know what is true.  From this perspective, we begin to see the intricate web of relationships within which we participate as a pattern of connections whereby all is interrelated and connected.  At this point, we are prime to experience the non-duality of intimacy whereby we feel not torn within ourselves, and at one with what we previously considered "other."

I have reached this non-duality primarily through some of my most raw moments.  In essence, my shields were ripped from me; I was broken, I was in awe, I was in love with my children, I was terrified, I was pushed to my physical limit, I was filled with desire.  And in these moments, nothing stands between me and all that lies beyond; I have touched the numinous.  My boundaries have melted away, and I no longer experience the difference between me and the other.  These moments are so absolutely delicious;  I am at once electric and peaceful.  And these moments are also so difficult to come away from.  A life lived well indulges these moments often, and we, thus, turn to educating ourselves to get to this state of non-duality at will.  Visit www.galleryofthesenses.net for more information.

The Intimacy of Surprise

I love, love, love surprises; good surprises, that is.  But, alas, they happen to me far too infrequently...  And I must say, as I look back, a surprise absolutely brings me to a place of intimacy with the bearer of this lovely gift.  How so?

1. A surprise is a tangible representation that the "surpriser" has been positively thinking of and spending time planning a pleasurable experience for the "surprisee."
2. There is something childlike about receiving a surprise, play is involved.  There is a giddiness upon receipt, or, if the surprise is anticipated but not known, upon anticipation.
3. The "surpriser" is putting him or herself in a bit of a position of vulnerability in this offering of a gift; "will my anticipated recipient appreciate my offering," "how will he/she see me in light of this offering."
4. As a recipient, you are caught off guard without time to hold up any shield you might otherwise brandish, and you are, thus, ripe to be open to the deliciousness of intimacy.
5. If you regularly receive surprises by some wonderful gift-giver, it strengthens your bond, and you thus become inclined to positive inclination toward your "surpriser."  It is almost as if a light shines on this oh so considerate admirer because of this kindness that comes so regularly but at uncertain intervals.

 So I've convinced you, and you are eager to enhance your intimacy with the recipient of your affections, but how might you go about it in a sustainable way?  Afterall, sustainable is quite important if you are to do it with any regularity at all.

1. It need not be extravagant or expensive.  One day bring home some freshly picked wild flowers.  Another, offer a massage after your beloved has had a difficult day. Play a game of blindfold sensuism by blindfolding your partner and having him or her guess the type of flavors, scents or touches you offer.  Write a beautiful poem celebrating your love.
2. It need not be frequent.  Once a week, every other week, once a month is great.  But to maintain the element of surprise, it should be at variable intervals.
3. Consider what your "surprisee" likes.  Don't come home with tickets for the baseball game when you know your beloved adores the opera.
4. Make it whimsical.  Hearken your lover back to the carefree moments of childhood which so often feel so long ago.
5. Be committed.  If you start this worthy endeavor, don't allow yourself to let it fall away after a few months.  This will likely set you and your beloved up for disappointment after something beautiful has faded away.

How do you define intimacy?

I  have a question for you guys.  How do you define intimacy?  Merriam Webster defines intimacy as “familiarity, something of a personal or private nature” and it points to synonyms “belonging, chumminess, closeness, inseparability, familiarity, and nearness.”  Wikipedia states “Intimacy generally refers to the feeling of being in a close personal association and belonging together. It is a familiar and very close affective connection with another as a result of a bond that is formed through knowledge and experience of the other. Genuine intimacy in human relationships requires dialogue, transparency, vulnerability, and reciprocity.”  Wikipedia also points to “four different forms of intimacy: physical, emotional, cognitive, and experiential.” 

Physical intimacy is sensual proximity or touching.  Examples include being inside someone's personal space, holding hands, hugging, kissing, caressing, and other sexual activity. Emotional intimacy typically develops after a certain level of trust has been reached and personal bonds have been established… Cognitive or intellectual intimacy takes place when two people exchange thoughts, share ideas and enjoy similarities and differences between their opinions. If they can do this in an open and comfortable way, they can become quite intimate in an intellectual area. Experiential intimacy is when two people get together to actively involve themselves with each other, probably saying very little to each other, not sharing any thoughts or many feelings, but being involved in mutual activities with one another.

One of my favorite descriptions of intimacy is “into me see.”  And of course there should be some reciprocation to reinforce the intimacy.

But wait a minute, all this talk of intimacy and sex is only mentioned one time?  Isn’t intimacy synonymous with sex?  Well, no, it’s not, actually.  Sex, if done right, in my humble opinion, should be intimate.  But intimacy does not need sex.  So I’d like to impress upon you all that in understanding intimacy we are looking for sex, but so much more, as well.

Intimacy in Motherhood

Not until I became a mom, myself, did I understand the full beauty of celebrating motherhood and the most intimate of connections, that between mother and child.  Becoming a mom changes everything.  Previously, I felt great pride in my career, in my educational achievements; I saw myself as able to make choices about career and family in similar ways as a man.  I had known great romantic love and, in part, I identified myself in light of this fortunate connection.  I felt connected to my own mom in a very deep and fulfilling way.  And then I received the news...

Life, a new life, filled my body, took over my body, occupied my mind and my very soul.  This new life grew and made its presence ever more known until it overflowed.  This rite of passage brought me great pain, a great pain that signaled to me that I am in touch with the profound, that I have immense power, that I have created and will nurture...life!  This life, removed from the safety of that special place within, is now an organ, a heart, a lung, a life-sustaining tissue all soft and delicate, raw and unscathed...vulnerable.  It is my new role in life to protect this beautiful vulnerable miracle that has journeyed outside my body and in it's place filled me with awe.

No more is the strength in career and professional achievements, no more do I live for myself alone.  A love unlike any I have ever known has sprouted within me.  It is a love the feeds on itself.  It is a love that that is so big it couldn't get any bigger, and yet, it grows...  a daydream, a longing, a preoccupation, absolute peace and fulfillment, bundles of nerves and worry, everything I ever wanted but never realized, all tinted with that pain, the labor which brought me my first exchanged glance.

And now the time has quickened its pace.  We've captured that first glance and collapsed in one another's arms, exhausted from our journey which brought us together.  I enter this daydream state, this dance that introduces me to the one for whom I've known no greater love, and I slowly awaken.  I see first smiles, mumblings, first tooth, first word, crawling, walking... and when I awaken, this quickened clock which I wish I could pause, has watched my little delicate bundle develop into a beautiful soul with her very own opinions, her very own tastes and styles and passions, her very own friends, her very own life...

I have climbed mountains and have been filled with great awe, I have visited wonders created by humans with great passion and commitment, I have known and observed romantic love which rippled out in great quakes across the earth, but when I look into the eyes of a child, when I gaze into the eyes of my children, when I caress their soft skin, smell their innocent spirits, watch their movements, capture an expression, see a smile, hear laughter and little footsteps shuffling across the floor, hear "I love you," I know that life holds no greater love, no more amazing wonder, no more profound connection than the bond between mother and child. 

Mother Earth

See the mountains humping and rolling high
Rimming the day birth and busting the sun
And tucking the fog sheets 'round her knees
And strumming the wind with her finger-trees
And scratching her back against the sky.

Watch the cloud banks roll and stroke her hips
Dripping whispers of sighs from the branch and bush
Hear her womb-hollows stir with the murmur of life
Feel the warm of her body, the sweet of her breath
And the rhythm of mating that thunders and cries.

Deep in her belly the water veins pulse
And nipple the roots that suckle their life
And streams from her breasts in a liquid flow
Giving life to her children she cradles in love
And adding a lilt from Her spirit mind
The melody humming of water's song.
-Forrest Carter from The Education of Little Tree

Scraps from a Diary: Chief Seattle—A gentleman by Instinct His Native Eloquence

Chief Seattle delivered a speech in is native language, Duwamish, to his tribal assembly in the Pacific Northwest in 1854.  Notes on the speech were jotted down by a Dr. Henry Smith, who emphasized that his translation was inadequate to render the beauty of Chief Seattle's imagery and thought.  The following is his translation of that eloquent speech:

Scraps from a Diary:
Chief Seattle—A gentleman by Instinct
His Native Eloquence, etc., etc.

by Henry A. Smith
10th article in the series “Early Reminiscences”
Seattle Sunday Star, October 29, 1887

Old Chief Seattle was the largest Indian I ever saw, and by far the noblest-looking. He stood 6 feet full in his moccasins, was broad-shouldered, deep-chested, and finely proportioned. His eyes were large, intelligent, expressive and friendly when in repose, and faithfully mirrored the varying moods of the great soul that looked through them. He was usually solemn, silent, and dignified, but on great occasions moved among assembled multitudes like a Titan among Lilliputians, and his lightest word was law.

When rising to speak in council or to tender advice, all eyes were turned upon him, and deep-toned, sonorous, and eloquent sentences rolled from his lips like the ceaseless thunders of cataracts flowing from exhaustless fountains, and his magnificent bearing was as noble as that of the most cultivated military chieftain in command of the forces of a continent. Neither his eloquence, his dignity, or his grace were acquired. They were as native to his manhood as leaves and blossoms are to a flowering almond.

His influence was marvelous. He might have been an emperor but all his instincts were democratic, and he ruled his loyal subjects with kindness and paternal benignity.

He was always flattered by marked attention from white men, and never so much as when seated at their tables, and on such occasions he manifested more than anywhere else the genuine instincts of a gentleman.

When Governor Stevens first arrived in Seattle and told the natives he had been appointed commissioner of Indian affairs for Washington Territory, they gave him a demonstrative reception in front of Dr. Maynard’s office, near the waterfront on Main Street. The bay swarmed with canoes and the shore was lined with a living mass of swaying, writhing, dusky humanity, until old Chief Seattle’s trumpet-toned voice rolled over the immense multitude, like the startling reveille of a bass drum, when silence became as instantaneous and perfect as that which follows a clap of thunder from a clear sky.

The governor was then introduced to the native multitude by Dr. Maynard, and at once commenced, in a conversational, plain, and straightforward style, an explanation of his mission among them, which is too well understood to require capitulation.

When he sat down, Chief Seattle arose with all the dignity of a senator, who carries the responsibilities of a great nation on his shoulders. Placing one hand on the, governor’s head and slowly pointing heavenward with the index finger of the other, he commenced his memorable address in solemn and impressive tones.

Yonder sky that has wept tears of compassion upon my people for centuries untold, and which to us appears changeless and eternal, may change. Today is fair. Tomorrow it may be overcast with clouds. My words are like the stars that never change. Whatever Seattle says, the great chief at Washington can rely upon with as much certainty as he can upon the return of the sun or the seasons. The white chief says that Big Chief at Washington sends us greetings of friendship and goodwill. This is kind of him for we know he has little need of our friendship in return. His people are many. They are like the grass that covers vast prairies. My people are few. They resemble the scattering trees of a storm-swept plain. The great, and I presume — good, White Chief sends us word that he wishes to buy our land but is willing to allow us enough to live comfortably. This indeed appears just, even generous, for the Red Man no longer has rights that he need respect, and the offer may be wise, also, as we are no longer in need of an extensive country.

There was a time when our people covered the land as the waves of a wind-ruffled sea cover its shell-paved floor, but that time long since passed away with the greatness of tribes that are now but a mournful memory. I will not dwell on, nor mourn over, our untimely decay, nor reproach my paleface brothers with hastening it, as we too may have been somewhat to blame.

Youth is impulsive. When our young men grow angry at some real or imaginary wrong, and disfigure their faces with black paint, it denotes that their hearts are black, and that they are often cruel and relentless, and our old men and old women are unable to restrain them. Thus it has ever been. Thus it was when the white man began to push our forefathers ever westward. But let us hope that the hostilities between us may never return. We would have everything to lose and nothing to gain. Revenge by young men is considered gain, even at the cost of their own lives, but old men who stay at home in times of war, and mothers who have sons to lose, know better.

Our good father in Washington—for I presume he is now our father as well as yours, since King George has moved his boundaries further north—our great and good father, I say, sends us word that if we do as he desires he will protect us. His brave warriors will be to us a bristling wall of strength, and his wonderful ships of war will fill our harbors, so that our ancient enemies far to the northward — the Haidas and Tsimshians — will cease to frighten our women, children, and old men. Then in reality he will be our father and we his children. But can that ever be? Your God is not our God! Your God loves your people and hates mine! He folds his strong protecting arms lovingly about the paleface and leads him by the hand as a father leads an infant son. But, He has forsaken His Red children, if they really are His. Our God, the Great Spirit, seems also to have forsaken us. Your God makes your people wax stronger every day. Soon they will fill all the land. Our people are ebbing away like a rapidly receding tide that will never return. The white man’s God cannot love our people or He would protect them. They seem to be orphans who can look nowhere for help. How then can we be brothers? How can your God become our God and renew our prosperity and awaken in us dreams of returning greatness? If we have a common Heavenly Father He must be partial, for He came to His paleface children. We never saw Him. He gave you laws but had no word for His red children whose teeming multitudes once filled this vast continent as stars fill the firmament. No; we are two distinct races with separate origins and separate destinies. There is little in common between us.

To us the ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their resting place is hallowed ground. You wander far from the graves of your ancestors and seemingly without regret. Your religion was written upon tablets of stone by the iron finger of your God so that you could not forget. The Red Man could never comprehend or remember it. Our religion is the traditions of our ancestors — the dreams of our old men, given them in solemn hours of the night by the Great Spirit; and the visions of our sachems, and is written in the hearts of our people.

Your dead cease to love you and the land of their nativity as soon as they pass the portals of the tomb and wander away beyond the stars. They are soon forgotten and never return. Our dead never forget this beautiful world that gave them being. They still love its verdant valleys, its murmuring rivers, its magnificent mountains, sequestered vales and verdant lined lakes and bays, and ever yearn in tender fond affection over the lonely-hearted living, and often return from the happy hunting ground to visit, guide, console, and comfort them.

Day and night cannot dwell together. The Red Man has ever fled the approach of the White Man, as the morning mist flees before the morning sun. However, your proposition seems fair and I think that my people will accept it and will retire to the reservation you offer them. Then we will dwell apart in peace, for the words of the Great White Chief seem to be the words of nature speaking to my people out of dense darkness.

It matters little where we pass the remnant of our days. They will not be many. The Indian’s night promises to be dark. Not a single star of hope hovers above his horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Grim fate seems to be on the Red Man’s trail, and wherever he will hear the approaching footsteps of his fell destroyer and prepare stolidly to meet his doom, as does the wounded doe that hears the approaching footsteps of the hunter.

A few more moons, a few more winters, and not one of the descendants of the mighty hosts that once moved over this broad land or lived in happy homes, protected by the Great Spirit, will remain to mourn over the graves of a people once more powerful and hopeful than yours. But why should I mourn at the untimely fate of my people? Tribe follows tribe, and nation follows nation, like the waves of the sea. It is the order of nature, and regret is useless. Your time of decay may be distant, but it will surely come, for even the White Man whose God walked and talked with him as friend to friend, cannot be exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers after all. We will see.

We will ponder your proposition and when we decide we will let you know. But should we accept it, I here and now make this condition that we will not be denied the privilege without molestation of visiting at any time the tombs of our ancestors, friends, and children. Ever part of this soil is sacred in the estimation of my people. Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove, has been hallowed by some sad or happy event in days long vanished. Even the rocks, which seem to be dumb and dead as they swelter in the sun along the silent shore, thrill with memories of stirring events connected with the lives of my people, and the very dust upon which you now stand responds more lovingly to their footsteps than yours, because it is rich with the blood of our ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch. Our departed braves, fond mothers, glad, happy-hearted maidens, and even the little children who lived here and rejoiced here for a brief season, will love these somber solitudes and at eventide they greet shadowy returning spirits. And when the last Red Man shall have perished, and the memory of my tribe shall have become a myth among the White Men, these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe, and when your children’s children think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the highway, or in the silence of the pathless woods, they will not be alone. In all the earth there is no place dedicated to solitude. At night when the streets of your cities and villages are silent and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled them and still love this beautiful land. The White Man will never be alone.

Let him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not altogether powerless.

To Live is to be Slowly Born

“A single event can awaken within us a stranger totally unknown to us. To live is to be slowly born.”
-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry