Tag Archives: feminism

Revolution From Within

2 Jul

I have been silent about politics for quite some time. Not out of privilege or apathy or laziness, as some would accuse. I stopped speaking out because in the same way trauma renders people without power or words, I had none.

After years of advocating for external political change, the famous feminist Gloria Steinem wrote a book called, “Revolution From Within.” The book examines how inequity can crush self-esteem but that ultimately, true power stems from within. Steinem espouses the importance of inner strength, particularly when the outside environment does not change and continues to subjugate.

Somewhere in my life, I learned that life is not fair or a fairy tale. More often than not, the rich get richer while the poor get poorer, all the isms persist, and women will always be the second sex. While I want to think otherwise, sadly, human ignorance, greed and evil will probably repeat the narrative of marginalization and exploitation until the end of time.

So how then do we not despair? How do we uphold civil values and justice and dreams for a better world?

We do as Steinem advocates. We start a “revolution from within.” We work on ourselves. We stumble to find our worth in a world that wants to beat it out of us. And we help others to see their worth. We find meaning and value right now in the small things and we discard all the nonsense that wounds and separates. We hold our heads up high and know that real power is something no one can ever take away from us even when humans hurt each other beyond measure.

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Resting Bitch Face

14 Nov

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All my life I’ve been told I have a beautiful smile. Yet even at a young age, I got flack when not smiling. I can remember as far back as junior high people asking me, “What’s wrong? When you walk down the halls, you always look so intense.” I wish I’d known then to simply respond, “That’s just my resting bitch face.”

Resting bitch face is a term my colleague Angi coined. When she introduces herself to a group she is training, at the end of her spiel she remarks, “Oh yeah. I want to warn you. Apparently when I’m not smiling, I look like a bitch. I’ve been accused of ‘resting bitch face.’ So if I’m not smiling at you, don’t assume I’m mad or not approachable. Come up and say ‘hi’. I don’t bite.” At this the group always chuckles because Angi is dead pan funny.

Yet Angi is also knock dead gorgeous. Tall and dressed to the nines, she looks like a svelte, hip Barbie. She has close cropped blond hair, big blue eyes, and curves in all the right places. When she opens her mouth, she is intelligent and sometimes swears like a sailor. But when she doesn’t smile, she has ‘resting bitch face.’

Many of us do. Males and females can be accused of ‘resting bitch face’. For instance, I have a guy friend who teaches and he says that students often accuse him of looking stern and callous when in actuality, he is pretty laid back and at times, goofy. I do however think ‘resting bitch face’ is a label attributed to women; not to men.

Obama often has ‘resting bitch face’. (I don’t blame him – he’s got a lot on his plate). He has been accused of being cold, yet never a ‘shrew’ or ‘bitch.’ James Bond too often has ‘resting bitch face.’ It has made him an international sex symbol. Unfortunately, ‘resting bitch face’ has never gotten me any dates. I remember once being told that when I was angry, “all the beauty drained from my face.”

I wondered why beauty was even on the table. But if truth be told, the issue of beauty is almost always on or off the table for women. In college, a boyfriend once told me, “You’re very sexy when you cry,” after I had just poured out my heart to him about my father’s drug use. Of course we ended up making love, which was great, but I’m not certain he even heard the bit about what was happening in my home life.

If beauty is indeed always a factor then I’ll go with good ol’ Angi’s summation: “Women are their most gorgeous when pissed because they’re most in their passion and power then.”

There must be something about the name Angi… The other night I heard that Angelina Jolie was once offered the role of a James Bond girl. She apparently declined stating that she wanted to be James Bond. You go, girl!

I want to be James Bond. Well, not really. ‘Smiling girl’ is actually more true to my nature than ‘resting bitch face.’

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The truth of the matter is that we have many faces; many moods. We need to embrace all of them because they represent all of us. We also need to see beauty in areas that often are viewed as negative. What if worry lines were viewed as intelligent lines and didn’t necessarily need to be botoxed away?

It’s okay to be a human being. And it’s okay to sometimes have ‘resting bitch face.’

 

 

 

Because Life is Too Damn Short

16 Aug

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Something happens to women in their forties. I call it the “I’m done with bullshit,” phenomenon. By the time you get to be a certain age, you’re just done with nonsense in all facets of your life: work, relationships, social expectations, etc. You simply stop caring what other people think and do what you want because you realize LIFE IS TOO DAMN SHORT. It will be over in a blink of eye, so why waste time doing things you don’t enjoy? Why not surround yourself with a tribe of folks who accept and celebrate your authentic self instead? Granted, we of course have to be responsible and tolerant and show up for our day to day tasks. Likewise, we learn and grow when relating to those who are not sycophants and who challenge us towards growth and transformation. But truly, we have far more choices in life than we realize.

I remember years ago a supervisor saying, “Lise, you’re working harder than your students. Stop it. It’s not serving them and it’s not serving you.”

There are things that I put up with in my twenties and thirties that I simply no longer have patience for in my forties. They say by the time you’re in your sixties, you go from not giving a damn to not giving a (insert your word of choice). Do you develop a foul mouth as you age? No. Of course not. And I don’t mean to insult anyone with my language. I am trying to make a point. As you age, you start to carve out the precious time to do what means the most to you and what adds premier value to your life. You surround yourself with others who “get” you and who support you in being all that you possibly can be. And you in turn want to do the same for others. A life of meaning and value is one of service but of the best kind – the kind that comes from choice vs. a sense of obligation that has no real heart behind it.

Let’s all lead a heart filled life, embracing each moment and squeezing all that we can out of life. This doesn’t mean avoiding sadness or pain because these are part of life. The more we can feel our own emotions, the more compassionate we are towards ourselves and others. Yet there is such grace in the ethers, if we let go of the bs in our lives and focus on what’s of integrity, joy, passion, and commitment. Sometimes that starts with ourselves, as we carve out time to appreciate God’s grace and settle into our authenticity. Then we can show up for others and support them in theirs as well!

The Roles We Are Vs. The Ones We “Play”

11 Aug

The other day I was in the drug store when I heard a girl who couldn’t have been a day over nine years old say in a sharp voice to her younger sibling, “You need to stop running around and get here in line with me, right now!” I did a double take. The girl’s voice was not her own. It was clearly channeled from her harried mother. Someone had put the girl in the mother role, expecting her to look after her sibling and she was pulling it off with a Meryl Streep performance. The incongruity of her little body juxtaposed with the adult posturing of  stress and impatience was astonishing.

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What roles do we play and which ones do we authentically own?

As a drama therapist, I encourage people to expand their role repertoires and to not always play the same parts. On the other hand, I believe in an authentic self that supersedes any roles we play or conventions life asks of us.

What about the roles we deeply long to star in that we haven’t been offered? How do we account for a career stalemate and/or turn our game around? How do we simply write and cast the movie, assign ourselves the lead and then pick the supporting players?

About two years ago, I listened to the poet David Whyte give a lecture/reading in Asilomar, CA. I had had the fluke chance to meet David a few months prior, but I had never attended one of his events. His theme centered on “the art of asking the beautiful question.” At one point he asked us to reflect on a couple of words that had resonance for us and/or that we wanted to better cultivate in our lives. He then had us write the words down. I scribbled “mother” and “lover”, two words I felt I could barely identify with, yet as soon as I wrote “mother”, I realized I completely resonated with the word. Although I had never given birth and my two cats had just passed away, I realized I was more than maternal. I had loved on and nurtured scores of young people in my life and had more innate, motherly instincts than many who have given actual birth. I was reminded of a statement a male friend once said to me. “Lise, anyone can fuck. Anyone can get pregnant. Not everyone knows how to shape and encourage a young person’s development.” He was right. If mothering was about shaping and fostering a young person’s strengths and potential, then I was a mother.

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But now this other word…. Lover… Shit. I hadn’t had a boyfriend or even been kissed for years. I felt completely bankrupt. How could I be a lover without a lover to love?

If you don’t know Asilomar, David’s event was held at a site along one of the most beautiful stretches of the Pacific coastline imaginable. Asilomar basically butts up against beautiful Pebble Beach, the 17 mile drive, and the famous golf course. During the afternoon breaks between David’s talks, participants were free to roam along the beach. After the session, I took a long stroll along the shore. It was a stunningly gorgeous day in January. The sky was a glorious blue, the sea greener than a cat’s eye, yellow labs played in the waves, and the sun brushed upon my skin as gently as a lover’s caress. I watched couples holding hands and then felt the pit of emptiness in my stomach. “I’m not a lover. I don’t have that.”

The instant this thought went through my mind, the Universe defied my thought distortion and challenged me to a debate. Simultaneously, the wind joined the sun, stroking my face. It was nature’s form of a menage a trois.  I found myself smiling at the pleasure of the moment. And I thought, “WHOA!!!!! I AM A LOVER! I am a lover of nature, of people, of the sea, of animals, of the things about which I am passionate, I am a lover of words and art and dance, and I am a lover of life. Nothing and no one can take that identity from me. Not only that, I am sensual and I express that, whether I am sharing my body with someone or not.”

From that day on I identified myself as a consummate lover. I was not a wife. I wasn’t even a girlfriend. But I was a lover. It was a role I’d played many times, but now I was fully embodying it as part of my authentic self with or without a co-star.

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Within two months after that, a real life lover materialized. And now, once again, I am a woman without a consort. Without a dance partner for sharing and enjoying romantic love. People tell me, “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone. ” I despise that phrase. I despite the whole idea of it. Sure. You can definitely shift your focus by pouring your love and sensuality into someone else. Sometimes this is healthy and a natural progression of life. A relationship no longer works and you step into one that does. But to naively say, “Reclaim yourself by fucking someone else,” is the most bullshit way to take one’s heart and power back. If love making comes naturally and organically and joyously, that is one thing. But to just scout out some lover in a bar to make yourself feel alive again, will only reinforce emptiness that can’t be filled by someone’s sperm or a few moments of ecstasy in the sheets.

A lover is someone who is passionate, powerful, sensual and compassionate. Another person may help strengthen these qualities and draw them out in us. But true love is sustained when we are these qualities with or without the body in the bed next to us.

Ladies, the sooner you figure this out, the sooner you’ll really understand the power of your own self-worth and what is truly sexy. You are the lover and player of your own life. Do not wait for someone else to validate that which is feminine within you. Honor it, embody it, and be it first and foremost for yourself. Then if you so wish to share yourself with someone who is worthy and who you feel delight in, more power to you. But the power is yours. Not the other way around.

Dating and Other Life Tips from Nancy Drew

9 Jun

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Every woman could stand to learn some things from Nancy Drew.

I have been reading Nancy Drew mysteries since I was five years old. At 46, I realize just how far ahead of her times the titian haired heroine actually was. We women have much to gain by looking at her character.

Nancy Drew is eighteen years old. She lives with her attorney father, Carson Drew and their beloved housekeeper, Hannah Gruen. Nancy’s own mother died when she was three years old. The one fantasy element in the books is that Nancy doesn’t have to earn an income. Her father makes a more than generous salary and Nancy never wants for anything. There is always cash for fashionable clothing, last minute air tickets to follow up a lead on a mystery, for car repairs, and for luncheons at tea houses and hotels. (Most likely, these would be tax write offs, as Nancy often assists her father, investigating leads on his cases).

Other than that, all of Nancy’s attributes and successes can be attributed to herself. She is intelligent, determined, curious, passionate, kind, and ridiculously talented. She is exceptional at swimming, golf, tennis, dancing, figure skating, skiing, horse back riding, scuba diving, drawing, and acting. (I realize that being upper middle class, Nancy has exposure to opportunities that help refine her innate abilities). Many of her mysteries feature these very talents. She is also perceptive with an extraordinary ability to read people’s true natures. Although polite and classy, she doesn’t mince words, nor is she mousy. She is assertive and at times, ballsy and forthright. She doesn’t cower when people don’t like her for either getting close to solving a mystery and/or because she is so exceptional. Nancy has a spine of steel despite her refined, waspy exterior.

Yet what is also extremely interesting is the way she operates vis-a-vis the men in her life. Nancy is never short on dates. There is always some young man around interested in taking her to dinner or to a dance. Her regular beau, Ned Nickerson, clearly adores her and makes regular arrangements to take Nancy out to concerts, the theatre, picnics, or boating. As the reader, I get the sense that Nancy very much enjoys male company, yet on the other hand could care less about it. Nancy is not driven by romance. It’s a nice secondary gain to her life, but it is not running the show. While on a date, she doesn’t think twice about dropping the original plans to attend a function if a clue comes up. The man can accompany her as she follows up on a lead, but the message is 100% clear. Mysteries come first; dating second. A guy who dates Nancy has to deal with this, or he isn’t the right guy. Paradoxically, this makes Nancy all the more attractive and fascinating. Ned Nickerson clearly adores her, but then Ned Nickerson gets her. Not all men would put up with Nancy. Nancy takes up space. Although kind and considerate of others, she doesn’t rearrange her life for a man. The man has to rearrange his life for her.

Given that most of the books were originally written in the 1930’s, dating for Nancy is old fashioned. The men around her properly court her. They aren’t trying to get into her knickers and Nancy would have no tolerance for that if they tried. Instead they take her out because they genuinely enjoy her company and want to get to know her in a day-to-day context. Nancy doesn’t live in 2015 where most men expect you to sleep with them by the third date and if you don’t, they drop you because it’s easy to find another woman who will. After all, why buy the cow if you can get the milk for free? Nancy values herself too much for such nonsense.

Nancy would be both appalled and intrigued by our current trends, dating and otherwise. Without a doubt she would have a smart phone. She’d need it for researching clues and following leads. She’d use the GPS navigation and would text her friends about appointed meeting times. She’d use FB sparingly, partly because of her extreme humility but mostly because she wouldn’t want to leak information regarding cases or let crooks know her whereabouts. She might have a website advertising her detective services and she’d probably track her expenses in an excel spread sheet. Nancy is so modern and yet so old fashioned.

I sometimes wonder if the books continued, if Nancy would marry and have children. I imagine she would. She is too beloved and too relational to not take this fairly normal step in her evolution. Yet it’s hard to think about her married and with children because these elements would change her radically and infringe on the freedom that so defines her. She’d need to be with a man who truly assisted her in all things domestic so that she could continue to solve mysteries and be her own person. I could see Hannah Gruen dramatically assisting with the child rearing.

On the other hand, I could see Nancy perfectly fine as a single woman. I doubt she’d feel sorry for herself. I think she’d roll up her sleeves and get to work. She’d also have hobbies and friends and volunteer work.

Yes, ladies. I think we could all benefit from the example of Ms. Drew, even if she is just a character in a novel. When I grow up, I want to be just like her.

 

 

Claiming Your Beauty

1 Jun

I’m convinced that beauty is everywhere, yet we often fail to see it in ourselves. Nothing hurts the heart more than negating someone else’s beauty or negating our own.

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Too many of us look in the mirror and don’t recognize our magnificence. This is not how God wanted us to feel about ourselves.

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We are made in the image of God. Do not let anyone, the media, or the lies you tell yourself convince you otherwise.

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Look to nature and see how wondrously created we all are.

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Celebrate the beauty and glory of your own DNA. It isn’t airbrushed, manufactured, or damaged. No one can defile it. It is unique, it is pure, it is whole, and it is you.

 

Dear Mother, I Forgive You

8 Apr

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I never forgave my mother for her alcoholism. Through my childhood and adult years, I didn’t understand why she drank. I thought she was pathetic and weak. It was only after her suicide, when I was crying in a therapist’s office, that I realized I had never shown her any compassion for her illness.

It never dawned on me that my mother drank to escape a pain so intolerable that she simply couldn’t face it. I seemed to have a high threshold for emotional pain. Sobs could wreak havoc through my body like an emotional seizure, yet I could endure the intensity of emotional pain. I judged my mother for not being able to do the same. I basically had no respect for her.

My mother’s self-esteem was shattered. She was an emotional Humpty Dumpty. Just out of college, she married my father, a serial womanizer. Within months of their marriage, my father was having an affair. She then remarried a few years later to a much more suitable man who cherished her and treated her well, although he too ended up leaving her for another woman. I never blamed the man for leaving. I assumed my mom’s developing alcohol dependence drove him away. Yet now I wonder if it was the affair that triggered my mom’s drinking. Regardless, she couldn’t handle the perceived rejection. It had been hard enough to deal with my father’s betrayal; a second misfortune ruined her. Her own father had not instilled a strong belief in herself, so two failed marriages later, she felt unworthy as a woman.

I have no idea how or why my mom’s second marriage fell apart. Two people can be the wrong fit and/or can grow apart. People can have different perspectives about the relationship that are at odds. And sometimes people simply give up and bail. Regardless, my mother struggled to understand her second divorce.

I remember wanting to slap sense in my mother when I witnessed her weepy drunken monologues about how men were always leaving her. I wanted to scream, “So what! They left. Deal with it! You still have your life. Get a grip. Get it together! Who cares about them? YOU HAVE YOUR LIFE! YOUR WORTH ISN’T DETERMINED BY WHETHER YOU ARE SINGLE OR MARRIED!”

What I didn’t realize was that at age nine, I’d already made the decision that no man was ever going to hurt me. When Jimmy R., the sweetest boy in my fourth grade class gave me a porcelain unicorn as a gift, I politely told him, “Thank you, but no thank you.” I gave the gift back to him because I feared the implications. Would he expect me to go steady with him? Would I be obligated to do anything?” My mother and the boy’s sister were horrified, claiming I’d broken his heart with my callous rudeness.

But I’d been taking note how my father treated women and swore I would never be a victim. My father was beyond a serial womanizer. He was pathological, narcissistic, and a sex addict. Women were there to serve his ego, to boost his self-esteem, and to be used and discarded. However, because he was rich and charming, no matter who he hurt, there was always another woman right there in line waiting for him after a relationship ended, so he never had to feel any kind of loss, rejection, or loneliness.

The woman he treated the worst was me. He paraded me around, adoring me as his golden child. I could do no wrong except when I mirrored back to him who he was. For that, I was promptly cut out of his life. When I went off to college, he couldn’t forgive me the betrayal of leaving him to live my life. He raged at me, then stopped talking to me. Within weeks, our young, live in maid from Mexico, became his beloved. She became my replacement. The two had a child by the time I was a sophomore and for years, she supported my dad cleaning houses, after my dad became disbarred for drug use and lost everything: his career, his money, and his sanity.

The present is not the past but the past can certainly be triggered by the present. When there are overlays from previous relationships, it is a marvelous opportunity to heal. And healing can be a bitch. If you have to walk back into the pain and rejection of an early childhood experience, it can leave you feeling like you want to drink, or feeling like you want to die.

Dear Mother, I forgive you.

 

 

Who Are You When The Prince Doesn’t Appear?

25 Mar

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When I was a little girl and saw Disney’s “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs” for the first time, I was horrified that the evil queen ordered the huntsman to kill Snow White and to bring her heart back in a jeweled box. “Why would she do that?” I thought terrified and bewildered simultaneously. “Run Snow White, run!” I called out to the screen, as if the cartoon heroine could hear me.

Children are extremely impressionable. I also remember Snow White wistfully singing in that God-awful, breathy voice:

Some day my prince will come
Some day we’ll meet again
And away to his castle we’ll go
To be happy forever I know…..

As a young girl, this is what gets drilled into your head. Someday, a man will pick you. He’ll get down on his knee, pull out a box, and say, “Will you marry me?” Then you will tear up, wrap your arms around his neck and exclaim, “yes!” For most females this happens at least once in their lives and while it might not lead to happily ever after, it still is quite the princess moment. After all, it’s the apex of your life, right? To be chosen?

But what if you’re not? What if you’re not chosen by a life partner, or even by your parents? What if you grow up never fully feeling cherished, or like you belong to anybody? Who then are you?

My favorite answer? You are a flower.

Why?

Because flowers don’t sit around waiting for someone to pick them. They are beautiful and magnificent in their own right. Some get picked and put into a bouquet; others remain outdoors turning in the direction of the sun. Yet these distinctions don’t change their essence for their worth is not determined by anything external. They are divine creations of the Creator. Nothing in the world changes that truth.

Ladies, your worth is determined the day you were born. It is sovereign. No one can give this to you or take it away. You are flowers meant to bloom in your own right. Bloom away!

Dear Sisters, Do Not Lie About Rape. You Discredit Real Survivors When You Do

25 Mar

There is nothing more egregious than false accusations of rape or childhood sexual abuse. For every woman who actively lies about rape as an act of manipulation, revenge, or attention seeking behavior, a real survivor’s story gets discredited. For every woman who concocts a story, the harder it is for a survivor to tell hers’. Advances in this cause unravel and more victims get silenced, ridiculed, shamed and blamed, which is the last thing they need.

It’s true that trauma can create ruptures and distortions in memory and that details of rape are sometimes not clear. This makes reporting abuse extremely difficult. Yet this phenomenon is very different than pulling a rabbit out of a hat and out of the blue accusing an innocent man of rape. I don’t understand why women do the latter. It is a deep betrayal to both men and women.

For someone who has experienced incest or rape, few survivors feel like shouting about this from the roof tops. In fact, some of us will never be able to articulate a sentence about the events or the relationships that were endured. Others, as part of the healing process, find hope and strength in speaking about their stories. This is often the first step towards advocacy work and helping others. Yet it is the rare person who speaks about the event as a type of tabloid exhibitionism. For most, the memories are mired in shame, secrecy, and an uncanny form of repression.

So Dear Sisters, do not lie about rape. You discredit real survivors when you do.

The Big O – Yes, I’m Speaking Of Female Orgasm

23 Mar

Although Carl’s Jr. sells meat by portraying women getting their rocks off by eating hamburgers and women are sexually exploited daily, very few people talk openly or respectfully about female sexuality. As always, female sexuality is exhibited as something solely for the consumption of men’s needs and pleasures. But what about a woman’s experience of herself and her own pleasure?

Yes, I’m talking about the female orgasm, a topic that has been hushed up about for God knows how long and if talked about, is primarily bragged about in conquest in the football locker room.

As a Christian single woman, I’m also aware that I’m breaking a taboo in even bringing up this topic. Sexual pleasure is supposed to be reserved for marriage and there are conflicting teachings on whether masturbation is allowed. Some theologians say it is fine; others staunchly say it is a sin.

I have always been curious about the link between people’s life force and sexual expression. What is it that people are actually saying, “yes!” to when they cry out in ecstasy? Is it the pleasure they feel or does the affirmation extend beyond this to include an all resounding “yes!” to life? And can you have that same fierce “yes!” in celibacy as well?

I am in agreement with religious teachings that human sexuality, in its highest intended purpose, entails a covenant between two people and is not to be taken lightly. Sharing one’s body in union with another person is a profoundly intimate experience that involves a complete fusion of one’s being with another, even if only temporary. As a culture, we’ve come to take intercourse way too frivolously and relationships as well. The end results can be devastating to the human heart.

But focusing just on one’s relationship with oneself, why do so many people negate the profound mystery that occurs for a woman when she pleasures herself in this way? So often, I’ve heard women share that they are in essence at war with their bodies and their sexuality. They do not feel entitled to any kind of pleasure for reasons that might be attributed to disliking their sizes and shapes, or feeling they can’t relax, or because it reminds them of rape and/or incest. Without men exploring their bodies, some women feel their bodies have no value or beauty.

This is sad to me. A woman’s sexuality is her own. It belongs to her. It is then something she chooses or doesn’t choose to share with someone else.

I remember talking with a Christian friend who shared he felt masturbation was a sin. He said it led to fantasizing about others, which was both a form of idolatry and adultery (if the individual who was the object of desire was married). I agreed that coveting someone else’s partner was problematic and that fantasizing about someone taken was not a good idea. And yet I shared with him that for women, masturbation can be a profoundly healing act, particularly if they have been abused. It’s a way to take power back and a way to practice self-love. Furthermore, women are far less prone to visual fantasy than men are.

I am more inclined to think about orgasm as an extension of our life force. William Reich, who was a little out there as a psychoanalyst had a similar notion, although I wouldn’t say I’m agreeing with Reich’s practices. Nonetheless, he was on to something. Why is there such a link between orgasmic release and emotion? Why can experiencing contact with oneself in this way, induce such pleasure, but also tears,  if there is suppressed sadness in one’s spirit? What is it about allowing oneself to surrender that opens the heart to all of its feelings? What is it about intimacy with oneself that we as a society simply can’t tolerate? Is it not the basis of all relationships, to know and be comfortable with one’s own heart, feelings, and bodily experience in the world?

I think of small children who have to be taught not to touch themselves (or at least not to touch themselves in public). I think of all the ways in which we as children are socialized away from our innate and direct experience of the world. I think of how we have to find our metaphoric “yes!” when life presents its challenges and limitations, losses and grief. In fact, it almost feels biblical for are we not all crawling back to a state of union with something much higher than ourselves? Don’t we all want to return to Eden, to a time and place when we all knew bliss and didn’t hurt ourselves and others?

Yes, this is proof-texting 2 Corinthians but I quote it anyway because it is a bigger affirmation of the sacred than orgasm. The orgasm can be sacred and it can also be a form of escape and idolatry. But our faith is never that. “For in him every one of God’s promises is a ‘Yes.’ For this reason it is through him that we say the ‘Amen’ to the glory of God. But it is God who establishes us with you in Christ and has anointed us, by putting his seal on us and giving us his Spirit in our hearts as a first installment.”