The Dictionary, Page Nine

Creation, is it.  When all I want to do is to write about forgiveness, and it is Creation that claims page nine of the dictionary.  Ah well.  So be it.

I have been looking forward to this post for a long time.  I thought it would never come.  I thought it would always elude me.  I thought it was for other people, not for me.  "Forgiveness is not something I can describe," they told me.  "It is letting go," others said.  "It is not letting them win," still others told me.  I could say the same about orgasm.  I could say the same about singing in tune.  I could say the same about finally mastering the trumpet.  

But now I can describe forgiveness.  I can describe it, because I feel it.  And I feel it because it is time.

a) It knows when it is time.  You won't control it.  If you control it, it is something else.  Forgiveness comes when it is time, and it's alright if you keep watching out the window.  It's alright if you watch this kettle boil.  In fact, the more you watch for it, the better.

b) It is about letting go -- but letting go of something very specific.  It is about letting go of a false sense of responsibility.  Yours, or theirs, or someone's -- you know which.  It knows which.  And it is an abandoning of a weight that has anchored you to a false sense of who you are.  This is why it's alright to keep watching for it.  Studying other people.  Whether or not they have a good sense of who they are, or whether they are still controlled by the anchor of "other."  If you tell people it is about letting go, make sure they realize: it is about letting go of something about yourself.  Something useless, now.

c) "But how can you forgive and never forget?"  Well, this will be meaningful someday, but for now you can have an intellectual answer to that question.  Intellectually, the forgiveness comes first.  Then, the choice of whether to forget or not.  But you're getting ahead of yourself.  Make sure you keep things in the right order.  Don't stop asking; but don't put your cart before your horse.

d) Forgiveness comes when you're in a safe room all by yourself.  And you're talking.  (Yes, talking.)  And you find yourself saying something kind and generous to that person you're trying to forgive.  You say, "Wow, I was nice to you there, did you see that?"  And in your head they say back, "I deserved nothing less!"  And out loud, you say to them, "Well, you crazy loon, I will be the judge of that, seeing as this is my room and all."  And then, the forgiveness happens:  you burst out laughing.

e) Yes.  Forgiveness is laughing.  Laughter is the truth.  Laughter is the fluttering of wings that takes it all away; the fluttering of wings that take flight and vanishes.  

SO...  I laughed.  I watched the thing dissolve.  I said to myself, I feel lighter.  It's alright, now.  I don't care what they think.   I don't care how they make decisions.   I don't care whether they condemn me.   I don't care whether they know I have forgiven them.   

Will I forget what they have done?  It doesn't matter!  I do not care!  Maybe I will.  All I need to remember, really, is to stay away from them.  Keep myself out of harm's way.  That is the part that lingers.  Forgive, yes, but say out of harm's way forever after.  There is no need to do it all again.  They don't get to break you twice.

All of this has been building up to that.   Now, I know my limits.  Now, I know my personal power.  Now, I know for sure.

Tasdron has been offering me opportunities to re-create myself.  We have re-created our world together.  We have re-created the safe place.  The experimental, negotiated place.  The before-care.  The after-care.  The ritual cleansing.  The ritual invocation.  The ritual exclamation.  

Now that I know what I needed to know, I can begin a new exploration and learn something new.  Learn how to live in a world forgiven.  With Tasdron's help, I will begin the act of creation -- he and I will create something new.

The Dictionary, Page Three

Connection is the next page of the dictionary of words that inform my submission to Tasdron Dryke.  Connection is oxygen.  Only connect, and you can have whatever you want.  Only connect, and you unleash the power of another person to work wholly in your service.  Only connect, and you understand all that has happened before, all that happens now, and all that is still yet to happen.  Only connect, and the meaningful life is yours.

Things happened yesterday.

The things that happened yesterday connect to tomorrows that have not yet happened.  Like chain links.

Yesterday was a continuation of Thursday.  Thursday and Friday were two halves of the same scene, one inside and one outside.  One horizontal and one vertical.  How do I feel?  I could not have predicted any of it;  I could not have foreseen;  I could not have anticipated.  And it doesn't matter because I was enough, and how I feel about that is elated.  I was equal to your needs, I was equal to your requirements, and I, just by being me, was enough.  That feels more than good, God of all things beautiful and charged.  I'm not sure there is a word for how that feels.  Feeling as though I am enough, just for being me.

Yesterday, the bubble of intimacy closed around us.  My instant messages were turned off and my voice-mic occupied.  The bubble of intimacy closed around us and my focus was proven, my devotion demonstrated.  The bubble of intimacy is more important to me than even my own skin, and it feels (to me) that when IT is protected, I am protected.  When IT is dominated, I am dominated.  When IT has your lock and key upon it, I do.  I wish only that there were more means of access to me now so that I could offer them to you for closing and sealing.  My instant messages remain off, and my intimacy is connected now to one man's power.  Connected and controlled.  I feel a charge of thrilled excitement just thinking about it, and it makes me feel more than good whenever I do think about it.

This is what security feels like.  This is what I want.  I beg, more.

At the bell tower

The bell tower was built by people a thousand years ago, the big jade bell a thousand years old and never rung.  "Some things are more precious with use," he said to me, "and some things more precious without use."  We bathed in the water surrounding the tower, because that was the ritual.  I looked up at the bell and realized its enormity.  The closer we approached, the larger it loomed.  It was a giant artifact of craftsmanship and exquisite beauty.  When I tell the story years from now, I'll pretend I was not afraid of the enormity of it all.  When I tell the story years from now, I'll remember only the thrill of ceremony in retrospect.  At the time, though, the water was frigid cold against my bare skin, all the better to purify motive and intent.  "Today is a day for precious utility," he said.

After bathing, he carried me from the water and lifted me to the top of the stairs.  As if the threshold were as sacred as the water from which we emerged, he stepped carefully and I could feel the change of before and after.  Even through a simple doorway, a change of before and after.

"Where I am from, water purifies," he said gently, talking into my ear,  and then he said, "Music also purifies."  We stood at a singing bowl, the tones of which he commanded with a beautifully ornate stick.  He drew the sound from the singing bowl until it filled the forest surrounding us, creating a sacred space that I'll never forget.  For ritual spaces, this one rules.  The way the tone struck my heart and resonated, it is hard to describe: if you have ever craved a place to hide, or if you have ever craved the lash of a waking whip, or if you have ever craved the soft touch on your cheek, these things approach the intense feeling of "needs met" that this perfect, sacred, musical tone symbolizes.  He claimed me with a watermark, a "T" he drew upon my face, and the water was warmed by his skin and made me feel alive.  And then I claimed him, too.

"This is the most sacred spot," he said to me, then, when we reached the platform of the bell itself.  Naturally, he tied me in rope.  Hoisting me aloft, I was suspended just like the bell was, hung from giant wooden rafters.  He retrieved a thick leather collar, metal studded and iron-worked, from a basket left by the ancients who had built this place, and he fastened the collar easily around my throat.  Another leather strap for his wrist, similarly studded and wrought with the same shining metals, and we were clothed together only in our bond, then.  "Your neck, your life, mine.  My sword, my life, yours," he said to me.  The exchange of power happens by the bell.  The collar is engraved with "Eternal," and his wristband is engraved with "Solid."  Solid and eternal.  I know what it feels like to be collared for life.

"Cherished, protected, sacred," he whispered at me then, lowering me gently and winding the cords of black rope around my wrists for keeping.  He will use them again, but not this afternoon.  We settle upon the wooden floor beneath the great bell, and he sounds the gong so that it echoes for miles beyond over big water.  His back was to the bell, and my face buried in his chest, so that I could hear the sound but not feel the vibration.  Cherished, protected, sacred.  The door to the belltower is open, and the bell has sounded for the first time in a thousand years.  I wear the collar of Tasdron Dryke and it is a collar I shall not remove for the rest of my life, and if he means to take it from me, he takes my life with it.

Safe, Sane, Consensual

Safe.  A white room, well - lit.  A soft floor.  The security of my bindings, and the freedom to move around, testing the environment.  How does it feel to walk like this.  How does it feel to breathe this new air.  How does it feel with my body vulnerable to You.  How does it feel to trust You.  Will you listen to my limits?  Will you say, out loud, that You protect my limits?  Will you say, out loud, that You will do nothing to tease me about having limits?  You will do nothing to push my limits, because my limits are there to prevent pushing?  There is a whole, big, beautiful room to explore; there is no need to see what is behind the door.  The door is shut for a reason: and that reason is mine.  I feel safe in this room.  I feel safe with my limits, and with how well You respect my limits, and love my limits, because they are part of me.

Sane.  Nice, straight lines.  Regimented, regular schedule.  Proper proportion, moderation, and balance.  The horizon is a straight line, and everything flows from the line that extends into forever.  Private time to meditate and contemplate: to process what I have learned, and to turn back towards You and smile, understanding.  You have shown me.  My future You, my present me loves You for the nice, straight lines, regimented and regular schedule, and Your moderation and balance.  We do nothing that we have not talked about.  We do nothing that You cannot control.  Everything that we do is a measure of Your control.  Everything that we do is evidence of Your mastery of self, and mastery of me.

Consensual Consent.  I bear my burden willingly.  The chains about my neck are light.  The bindings at my feet are anchors, not weights.  You take from me what I would willingly give: You take from me all that I have, and curiously it simply fills me with more.  The Private Garden where You tend is full of me.  The vessel of secrets is capped until You open it and find me, a pool of wanting, rippling therein.  I am so easy to decipher, for You.  I am, for others, hieroglyphs without the guiding stone; monuments without meaning.  The brambles and the thorns, the teeth and the rats' nests, the Medusa head and the stone statues of men that line the garden path... I wander past souls of the troubled, and I try to keep my heart intact.  When there is only You.  Only ever was.  Only ever will be.  When I finally find You, it will be a moment of awakening, and then I will cry out YES  once more, and these dreams will be forgotten.

Discipline - The Spirit

Discipline of the self, what I call personal integrity, comprises the discipline of mind, body, spirit, and aspiration -- or at least, this is how I imagine things.  The spirit is difficult to define, in my imagination, let alone discipline.  I imagine the spirit as something like the latin "anima" (the vital, breathing force within us).  When they say, "That girl has a lot of spirit!" they could be talking about how much energy I have; or, how thoughtful I am about problems to solve; or, how tenacious I am when it comes to getting to the root of something.  These things are not just "natural" but, instead, I think they are disciplined.  I think that how much energy I have, how interested I am in problem-solving, how dedicated I am to finding my way to the root of something to explore, these all require disciplined attitudes.  It is not a matter of intelligence; I do not believe intelligence is at stake here.  It is a matter of curiosity.  In fact, perhaps it can be said that curiosity is the measure of a person's spirit.

Must a person's spirit be disciplined in order to achieve a solid personal integrity?  I can attest to as much; it is so.  The life force is not to be taken for granted.  There are events endured in each lifetime that test a person's spirit.  There are events I must endure in my lifetime that, sometimes, feel stronger than I am, and I am afraid.  There are events I must endure that, sometimes, lower me to sadness.  There are memories; there are anxieties; there are possibilities; there are unknowns.  I know that, in some people, this is the impetus to developing a Dominant personality: they wish to control, and learn to control more and greater circumstances.  I know that, in some others, this is the impetus for seeking a Master: someone who can run interference and shield a submissive soul from the world's unpredictability and chaos.  I do not feel so moved to perform in either of these ways.

Sayuri says, in Memoirs of a Geisha, "But now I know that our world is no more permanent than a wave rising on the ocean.  Whatever our struggles and triumphs, however we may suffer them, all too soon they bleed into a wash, just like watery ink on paper."   This too shall pass, in other words, but more than that.  This too shall linger, though in lesser form and with a far lesser intensity, and shape us.  The pain recedes; just as the joy recedes given sufficient time.  The waves come and go; and life continues.  I do not seek a shield against the world: my submission to You will be as one who seeks Your example, Your shaping, Your furthering of the project of myself that I have begun -- which You already know is also a project of You.  You, like me, are an artist:  You, like me, are complete because I am canvas and You are the forever stain.