Show Me

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I am not really interested in your Nice Self.

Your clean, tidy, happy, respectable, best-table-manners Self. Everyone gets to see that.

I long to see the rest of you. The bits that are wounded, quivering, dirty, terrified, ecstatic, and inappropriate. I want to adore those hidden parts of you.

I give you permission to show me.

But it’s not my permission you really need.

It’s your own.

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I desire you

Breathing into surrender

Put your hand on the back of my neck

I can feel you through your shirt

Soft skin

A lingering of fingertips as our hands slowly separate

A long exhale that turns to an involuntary sigh

Anticipation of a kiss

When does fantasy end and reality start?

If I melt into my dream body will it bring the moment closer?

More anticipation……

I feel like I could adventure with you in multiple universes. Travel, communication, sharing of self and calling out each others better selves. Revealing our assumptions and darkness with humor and lightness, ease and love. I feel like there is room to move and a place to be still together.

I imagine you without a shirt. My fingers tracing your back.

I loved the way you flopped onto the lounge in the corner of the bar that first night.

I already want to call you ‘sweetie’ and have to stop myself as it comes out of my mouth. Technically I’m sure it’s too soon. (Yeah, I know… ‘sweetie’… I’m not usually one for child-like endearments.)

I want to be physically at ease with you. I am already so mentally comfortable that to not touch you and be familiar seems incongruous.

Can I stand behind you in the kitchen while you cook and just lean on you?

I’ve only actually met you once. That feels impossible.

Yes, you’re right. There’s something going on.

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Gift from a meditation

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I am the mystic wise woman.

I am slower but not necessarily softer.

I am your head, heart, and solar plexus. I can help you speak.

What would I say?

Whatever is in your heart at any moment.

I am an expanded You; feeling and being aware of all that is, on lots of levels. Wise enough to know what matters and what doesn’t. Wise enough to regulate the flow, as well be carried by it.

I honor the love/s in your life. The hugeness of the feeling of love. The length and depths.

Do you have a gift for me?

I give you the gift of tears….of visible, shareable tears. The soft smile of vulnerability. The joy of being vulnerable without being broken.

Do you have anything else for me?

Stillness.

Stillness and sexual stirring.

Show me how to be wise with my sexuality.

You already are. Respect for yourself has arrived.

(Then the dragonflies kissed…..)

I can feel Her, the mystic wise woman. She is deep in my heart. She warms my chest and I wear her cloak.

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Ode to Fish and Festival

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Photograph me with a fish, a floral dress and a distant melancholic look. Wearing a newly bought old- school hat or eyeballing a swan.

I am from nowhere and have been everywhere. In polka dots or feathers or sometimes sequins. Perhaps a plain t-shirt. An introspective craftsman who uses words like ‘quirk’ and ‘ennui’. (I confess I looked it up… )

Everything is haunting and maudlin, promising old stories told in new ways, oozing sustainability without saying so. From through the white fringe curtain you pass me the Champion Ruby and the whiskey.

I am rhythm, I am soul. I am a shady veranda and a cool drink on a sticky summer day. Hurray for the riff raff, the rolling wheel and one-hundred and one trios and quartets.

Fiddle me fantastic. Suspender me into mock-turtle seriousness. Photograph me in black and white. We are all living through the colours of our unique but same existence.

Learning to Listen

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My body is screaming at me.

Demanding that I wake up and see what is right in front of me. She has slapped me hard across the face, knocking me breathless, my swollen eyes now closed in pain.

My body is causing me suffering before he can. Getting in first. Letting me know loud and clear that this place of denial and self-deception is incredibly unhealthy. She is forcing me to see the truth by making me blind.

She’s been a reliable and powerful messenger over many years. I used to struggle to understand but I have learned to listen and now I love her for it. I love me. It is this love that I grip fiercely as I walk away from him. Holding my own hand and heart. I feel my love flooding my body, making me flexible, resilient, expanded, sure, connected and totally determined.

I am worth more than this.

Redefining Shadows

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I want to be courageous enough not to know.

To stand in the moving fog, watching it swirl and change and not know what is hidden there. Unsure about what is solid and what is not.

If I am truly brave I could stop peering and trying to redefine the shadows. I could take a breath and just close my eyes. Feel my heart beat. Alive and flowing with apprehension. And step toward you anyway.

It is dark and I do not know. I start stepping, but my courage will only come in brief waves. I am waiting for the stumble. For the sudden collapsing of limbs and heart and hope. Take another slow, carefully measured step. I do not know where.

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The courage is not in the not knowing. The courage is in the trusting.  Aware that, if the stumble occurs, my body will fold gently under me, caressing me into a crumble. Supported in my awkward heap, I will hold myself and be safe.

And if there is no stumble, and the fog slowly lifts and your truth stands brightly lit? Then there will be so much more than safety to celebrate.

Raw Gardening

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Years ago someone told me there was such a thing as good nude and bad nude. Actually ‘told’ is not quite accurate. “Bad nude!” was yelled at me by my not-yet-husband from the veranda of our house.

Apparently building my first ever organic vegetable garden in the beautiful spring sunshine wearing nothing but my gum boots (and a massively happy heart) was considered ‘bad nude’. (The whole idea itself was supposed to be a comical reference to a TV episode of Seinfeld.)

I remember raising my pitchfork in the air and giving the insulting individual a gardening inspired middle finger salute.

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But I also remember being a bit puzzled. Sun. Skin. Earth A heavenly mixture. What could possibly be bad about that?

I did reconsider this point a while later when I realised that from the window of my study I had a daily birds eye view of the man next door, Nearly Nude Neville, foraging in his garden, trying to keep the bugs off his new lemon bushes. His tiny beige shorts were as loose as his paunch and about the same colour. Though it was the green plastic gardening slippers that really added to the ensemble. He would disappear behind the trees and then smoke would start rising from his pile of burning leaves. I thought, “Oh my god, he’s sending signals to the other middle-aged nude gardeners around town!” and then of course realised that probably meant me.

Nude gardening is not always practical, I know. So much bare skin can just end up being a canvas for scratches, bites and, in my neck of the Australian bush , ticks. It’s important to be covered and shod appropriately if the tasks demand it. Nudity and chainsaws , or nudity and lantana removal are unlikely to end well.

But what about other activities? Nudity and trampolines perhaps? Would that be bad nude, or just hilarious , eye ball stretching nude? Bare bummed , bare back horse riding? That just sounds painful. Or the stereotypical nudist camp sport of volleyball?  Now, as a volleyball lover from way back, I have no issue with this one.

And perhaps that’s the point. If you are doing something you love, and being clothes-free allows you to love it just that bit more then all is well with the world. Or in reverse, if you enjoy appreciating your own glorious body then does it matter what you are doing? Or what anyone else has to say about it. (Consensual appropriate space is presumed.)

Personally I adore the outdoors. So if I can feel more of the breath of the breeze or the touch of the sun or the oceans’ energy rushing over my skin then the bigger my smile. But inside, outside or upside downside – if you want to embrace the beauty of your own body then feel free.

I have done a lot of gardening since that yelled from the veranda comment, and for the first time in a few years I am living in a location where daily garment-free outdoor time is possible. Bring it on! Or get it off. The choice is mine.