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 Seven

Adoration is a word of wonderment.  Going back through distant history, the word veneration is what people mean when they offer adoration -- a gift of personal sacrifice to someone greater, more enduring.  And veneration comes from, a long, long time ago, the Greek δοῦλος (doulos, “slave”).  Lately, we abuse the word "adore" loosely and terribly: sometimes we'll use the word when we are too shy to use "love," instead.  That colloquial substitution is not what the word means.  Rather, imagine an army of love singing with one voice, praising a God who walks now upon this earth:  "I wish you would think of me as your slave, for you are so bright that you shine like a God in my weak, human eyes. I will live only if it means you will make use of me, and otherwise I die."

It is natural for me to use a religious, spiritual lexicon when I speak about Tasdron.  It is natural for me to want to deify him because, as I've already explained, I do resort to hyperbole when the feelings become so grand and intense in my mind.

In my history with Tasdron, we have understood our transcendent revelations with each other through many different religions.  We have spent a long time in paradise, in the green olive groves sheltered by Mount Parnassus, and lately at the mouth of the Miya river in Japan.  We practice ritual and expression, art and intimacy, expression and thanks-giving.  Ways to forgive, and ways to elevate each other.  Ways to experience the elusive and evanescent joy of transcendence because of the realities that we create for each other.  Words are our reality.  Whoever says otherwise has not yet grasped that words actually have meaning, and that meaning is what creates -- nothing else creates.  When I cross my wrists above my head and plead only with my eyes, it is not until I cast the spell by speaking "I submit," that the reality of my condition explodes into meaning.  The word.

I have meaning now in the cathedral that represents the safety and knowledge and shelter of Tasdron.  Can I imagine ideas such as a dom unable to hear a safe-word?  Can I imagine ideas such as deception and collaring under an alternative character?  Can I imagine all the anxieties that come up in discussions where submissives grapple with how dominants have abused them, ignored them, taken from them, shelved them, deliberately manipulated them into a belief system that is not their own, insulted them or confounded them?  I can imagine.  I know that this process of adoration that I describe, in my incomplete way, is the intoxicating feeling of surrender and abandon that people seek:  the feeling of being adored by someone immensely powerful, and the feeling of adoring someone immensely powerful.  I know that what I describe is rare.  I also know that I am luckier than I can express.  The act of adoration offers a fulfillment that is more meaningful, more powerful than any other human action.  No bravery, no humility is so gratifying.  Adoration!  It is, incidentally, a chaste work, and a dominant can feel it from his submissive when she's offering, no matter how the offering looks within each individual sub.  Some doms force it out,  require it prematurely or demand it or push a sub into faking it... but a dom really knows when the submission is true.  Some doms have the patience to wait such that, in time, a sub will be so moved as to offer it spontaneously and completely of her own un-demanding heart.  It feels like a weightless flight with God.

The Dictionary, Page One

Everything changes with The One.

None of the old rules apply.  None of the old limits.  None of the old fears.  None of the old anxieties.  None of the old wondering, waiting, hopelessness.  None of the old, "That could never happen."  None of the old, "You won't find what you're looking for."   None of the old, "That is impossible."  None of the old, "Nobody wants that."  None of the old, "You will have to change things in order to fit."

Everything changes.  I paraphrase Tasdron: the D/s lifestyle only appears as a debasement of the submissive personality when the submissive gives herself to a dominant who does not feel curious about her, protective of her, intimately aware of her, and determined to provide for her the sheltered love that she seeks (whatever kind of love that is).  The erotic mind -- the mind finely attuned to the apprehension of desire and need and pleasure and love, and how these manifest at the time and place and point of the mind's position -- opens like a flower under the loving gaze of The One.

Intimacy, connection, submission, worship, chastity, adoration, service, creation, representation, rendering, capture, surrender, claiming, ritual, frame, solid, eternal, earthly, heavenly, sinfully, humility, revelation, giving, taking, ornamental, mastering, skillful, privacy, shield, ourselves, perfection.  I could write a dictionary of submission that was built just for me and me alone because of how Tasdron dominates me, and these are the words that would  -- in fact, that will --  headline each page.

How high, Sir?

"Obsequious," a word from the latin for compliant and yielding.  It carries a negative connotation in the modern day:  fawning, agreeing without critical thought, giving the illusion of agreement regardless of whether one truly agrees.  "Yes, Sir, how high would you like me to jump?  I will not ask why."

If I were dominant and seeking, I would feel naturally suspicious of a submissive who agreed with everything I said.  It would sound, to me, as though the submissive were kissing my ass for other reasons besides submission.  I would not trust her submission while she was agreeing without critical thought.  Yes, it is good and right that she trust me, if I were dominating her.  Yes, it is good and right that she believe I would not steer her wrong.  But I think I should tire very soon with someone who could not shade my perspective with different colours besides my own shades of grey.

Of course there are dominants who require absolute obedience and unquestioning faith.  Yes means yes and "how high?" is the only acceptable deviation.  Such an attitude reveals the difference between one who owns a slave's unquestioning obedience and one who exchanges power with a submissive otherwise-free-thinking person.   But, I digress.

The real élan, the real finessing, the extra special uniqueness that one submissive is capable of giving that is different from all the rest (and the real reason why she is loved by a dominant in ways that a dominant loves no other) is the way in which she makes compliance seem like right-reason.  Right action.  How "Yes, Sir" can seem perfectly logical and NOT obsequious.  How actions can be  critically considered AND obeyed without question, the opposites erased and replaced by pleasing mystery of the initiated.  The little submissions she performs in her decisions to obey each and every time so that you see (freshly every time) how she submits -- how massively those chains hang from her wrists and ankles and yet how lightly she bears the chains of her submission.

In other words, sounding obsequious is my anxiety, and practicing asserting myself and negotiating is my antidote.  (That is, if I don't already naturally and simply agree.)

To forgive, to absolve, to let go 2

Forgiveness is a part of people's consciousness and people do talk about it.  I was looking at another blog here that offers a post on the matter from a man's perspective in his own family.

He says, "I decided that what was really missing here was my forgiveness, not my apology - so I forgave her in the car."

Was that some kind of gestalt exercise where one looks at the empty passenger seat, pretending there is a person there, and saying out loud, "You're forgiven, by me, for whatever you have done, you silly silly person."  It's not clear what he means by forgiving her in the car but, for cryin' out loud, that's what I'm trying to find -- that elusive magic instruction that tells me "this is how you do it."  What, do I have to get in the car?  Do I?  Is that all it takes?

Is that what Clint Eastwood tried to do with Obama-In-Absentia, the empty chair at the RNC last week -- forgive the president for making us take care of each other by talking to an empty chair pretending he was there?

Actually... there is a beautiful movie called Scorchers.  The main character, Splendid, has just married the man she loves, Dolan.  But she is afraid to have sex with him.  She just can't do it.  So, Splendid's father gets to the root of the problem.  And the root of the problem is complicated.  Splendid's mom died during childbirth, died when Splendid was being born.  She feels guilty, our Splendid does, for even being alive, nevermind for being freshly married and so pretty and lucky enough to look like her mom.  And now it is time to complete the circle and to have a husband of her own and to make a new family for the next generation -- and Splendid just can't do it.  So, her dad makes her talk to an empty chair.

Put your mama in that chair and talk to her, he says to our Splendid.  Tell her everything.  Tell her how it is.

It is powerful and beautiful, how the movie unfolds thereafter.  There is forgiveness there; and it is not possible to put into words how it happens.  That elusive magic instruction that says "this is how you do it" is really not possible to articulate because, oh well, it's going to be different for everybody.  The only common thing they share, I suppose, is that it involves speaking that deep dark truth that was hiding in the shadows for a long time.

Proud of Submission

What submission means to me.  I feel proud that I submit my power, sometimes, to a man I love.  When it is good to do so.  When it is time to do so.  Sometimes, because I am submissive, I notice that he is not in the mood to take control.  I watch and I pay attention.  And in those times, I take control, not because I want to, but because it is part of my submission.  I make decisions I would feel more comfortable that he makes.  But he wants them made for him, sometimes.

What submission means to me.  I feel proud that I am observant and watchful.  I feel proud that I pay attention to details.  I feel proud that I observe and keep my eyes wide open (not dulled with drink, not dulled with smoke, not dulled with medications that I do not require, not dulled with over-sated appetites).  I feel proud that, because my eyes are wide open, I can anticipate.  I can predict.  I can have patience sometimes when I might not have had patience, otherwise.

What submission means to me.  It feels as though I wear it openly like a system of restraints, obvious to anybody.  It feels like clothing to me.  It feels like a zipper I cannot reach behind me that someone else zips and unzips for me.  It feels like a thick, chunky, heavy-metal collar with no seam and no clasp: as though it was born there, on me, reminding me constantly who I am.

What submission means to me.  I am part of a club that teaches me, like I teach them, how great it is to feel like our true selves.  Our true selves.  My true self.  I look at other submissives through my camera lens, studying their beauty and self-declaration.  I study their presentation, their decisions about how the world will see them.  I look at them, and I rejoice.  I look at myself, and I rejoice.  We are, truly, our own selves.  (Thanks, E, for letting me take so many pictures of you.  I know your time is precious.)

What submission means to me.  I am not a sexual object.  I am not a tool.  I am not a doormat.  I am not stupid.  I am not gullible (because of my submission).  I am not a slave.  I do not surrender all my power at all times to all people.  I do not accept violence.  I do not accept abuse.  I do not accept other people's anger about not submitting myself to them.  I have never been obligated to.

What submission means to me.  I give a part of myself to one man that I do not give to anybody else -- not a boss, not a police officer, not a judge, not another man, not any woman, not in pretend or in fantasy.  I give a part of myself to one man with which he could do anything he wants, and I give it to him as a surrendered offering, because I would not be me if I did not give this to him.  When I deal with police and judges and bosses, I do not submit to them, and they do not dominate me.  I do what I do because I want to do it.  There is only one king of the castle for me!

Shame, Part Four

There would be no shame without curiosity.  It is not real shame (is it?) if we did not ask for a little bit of it.  Or, more than a little bit.  Curiosity is the beginning of shame.  In the story of Eve with Adam in Paradise, it is curiosity (not defiance) that claims Eve's innocence.  It is not that she wanted to upset God.  It is not that she tried to get Adam in trouble.  It is a very simple motive that changes poor Eve forever after: curiosity.

With curiosity comes temptation.  With temptation comes indulgence.  And, from indulgence derives gratification which, alas, feels so good... or feels terrible.  It depends.  But, in the end, the terrible feeling is shame.

It is the terrible feeling anorexics feel for eating food.  It is the terrible feeling alcoholics feel for drinking whiskey.  It is the terrible feeling pedophiles feel when looking at a child in short pants.  It is the terrible feeling victims of bullies feel when they read the text message that says "Everybody thinks you smell foul."  The shame comes after the eating; after the drinking; after the looking; after the clicking and opening and reading.  The shame comes after the curiosity.

Shame comes from secrets.  The secret is the closet where shame resides, hangs up its hat and coat, settles in.  The secret is the darkness and safety of that closet.  We know where that closet is, what hides inside.  We know, because we shut the door and keep it safe.  We know because we volunteer, in this act of shame-keeping, to give the secret a good home.  Sometimes it is for good, that we keep this secret.  It protects people.  Sometimes it is for worse, that we keep this secret: it hurts people and we are too weak to change it.  Shame relies on this secret, though, however we look at it.  Shame relies on this secret, and relies on our ability to hold that closet door closed.

If we do not keep that door closed, then shame will no longer be private:  shame will become public embarrassment.  Shame will become the object of public scorn, and then guilt blossoms from the garden of soiled embarrassment.  The danger with shame is the imbalance of power, again: shame has the potential to destroy every carefully-balanced arrangement.

Shame, Guilt, and Embarrassment co-exist in this way:  shame is private; embarrassment is public; and guilt is the responsibility of the individual to action, somehow -- rightly or wrongly.

Everybody's Version of Paga Servin'

I'm dreaming of water.  I would really like to be wandering through a shallow stream right now.  Instead, the guru that I follow has put me in secluded shackles for three days, but that is another story.  So here I sit, far from prying eyes, way up high in the sky.  People come and go down below, while I sit here, and so I open up their profiles and I read.  And I get to see (sometimes) how they prefer things, how they do things.  I get to see "other."

One profile in particular struck me as interesting, and it involves the negotiation process in surrendering oneself to a man's collar.  He says in his profile that the submissive's consent happens when she puts the collar on, and then anything thereafter is taken for granted.  There is no need to negotiate or consent after that:  once the collar is on, the man's word goes, full stop.  And his profile was very lucid and common-sense up until that point.  Obviously he is a man who knows what he is looking for, and what he is looking for is a slave.  More specifically, a slave who is content to abandon all her rights with that one word of consent.

Another profile in particular struck me as interesting: a woman who says, quite clearly, that the negotiation process is ongoing for the entire duration of the relationship with her ideal man.  Her ideal man is submissive (and not stupid); her ideal man can think for himself but chooses to let her make all the important decisions, and in fact begs her to make all the important decisions; her ideal man enjoys her sense of humour and her sense of sadism; and her ideal man will not crumble if she does not log in for 2 days, because they always know when they will meet next.  She didn't call him a slave; and the man's profile above did not call his "ideal" submissive a slave either; but I wonder now at the word "submissive" in this lifestyle.  It is not a word anybody can take for granted.

People can't take for granted that "their way" is THE way.  There is no such thing as THE way to dominate, or THE way to submit, anyway.  There is simply the way we want when it comes to relationships -- and finding someone who wants the same thing that you do.  D/s is a very specialized architecture for relations between people: and, as one person said in a discussion recently, D/s is a power exchange, not a hostile takeover.  In other words, both partners get something out of it.  That guy who believes that consent comes with wearing the collar and there's no more need for negotiation?  He can probably find someone to buy in to those conditions, sure -- but that's not everybody's idea of submission.  The lady who wants the man to beg for all important decisions to be made by her but who can still retain a measure of his own independence?  She'll find what she's looking for, too, no doubt; but that's not everybody's idea of submission.  Neither one practices "the right way" to do things.  In the D/s world (like in the mainstream, vanilla, everyday world) if you don't beg, you don't get.

Faith and Certainty

I would not know what to do with myself if there were nothing more to learn.  It occurred to me today that I might be forever a student of interesting things.  It occurred to someone else today that I ought to be happily paired with a Dom Priest.  (Do we know any ordained priests in the world?  I am no Christian, but I am Christ-Curious.)  And then, I began to think of everything that I knew of Christianity, because someone that I care about was hurting.  Surely, there would be comfort from her faith.  Surely there would be some magic word that would unlock the rush of soothing balm.  The problem with faith is that there is no certainty; and the problem of certainty is that it removes the blessing of faith.  This is the problem of Eve:  choosing certainty over faith.  And this is the healing restoration of Mary: believing instead of knowing; choosing Gabriel's word over the condemnation of just about everybody else in her life.  Mary's faith erases the original sin of Eve's certainty.  Jesus does for the world what Adam failed to do.  Christianity, therefore, abides; and Adamism died a quiet death shrouded in obscurity.

Personally, I live a life that I believe separates me from appetitive beasts in the world.  I strive to make decisions based on logic ("Live and let live") or self-sacrifice ("More for thee than me") as opposed to making decisions based on fear, hunger, or anxiety-avoidance.  I do not always succeed, of course; but I do strive.  What is my motivation? To separate myself from the appetites of the beast.  In other words, boobs and cocks are funny and adorable, but let's talk about important things like God and the nature of love.  While I'm bound in rope and hanging in a stone dungeon, listening to the Olympics.

I have felt hunger.  I have felt need.  I have felt as though the world were blessed and I had been cursed.  I have felt alone under a dark sky, and my face pelted with debris hurled by a screaming wind. And, I have turned around to look at where the wind was going.  It must be going somewhere extraordinary, because it carries everything there with it.  My thoughts, the red sky, even clouds are curious.  I know so much, and I seek to know so much more, and I remember the person who first shaped me and how well he controlled his appetite.  Even at his hungriest, he shared with me.  Even at his lowest, he spoke kindly to me.  Even feeling the most fear he had felt, he touched my hand tenderly.  When reduced to his most basic, primal self, even he did not growl and grunt like an angry ape: he closed his eyes gently and composed himself before uttering a word.  And so my model abides.  He made me, and he shapes me still, just as wind and water and fire made rock and shape it still.  Everything is in flux.  Everything, if you let it, grows.

I know how good it feels when wind blows me so strongly that I just go with it, not fighting it but letting myself be pushed along.  It is almost like flying.  I know how good it feels when the sun shines during a sun-shower of raindrops and hail.  I know how good it feels when I tiptoe over stone and grass and dirt, and then stand in the water and close my eyes.  It is another way to feel like I am in the right place.  I do not know God at all, and I do not know the amazing architect of the natural world.  I submit myself to the whimsy of wind and the life-force of water; to the passion of fire and to the steadiness of grounded earth.  I kneel before a clever man, and I myself have no certainty.  I have no need or hunger.  I know only that I wish to learn, and to keep learning, until I am no longer here.

(Many thanks go to Sir Will for taking me to this extraordinary Scottish place for some extraordinary picture-taking.  Loch Haven is just another reason why I love Second Life so much, and Sir Will is one more excellent human being that I am lucky to know.  I am truly blessed by my family and my friends.)

Jealousy, Part One

I've spent so much time working on this assignment, and it's nowhere near finished.  Instalment one will be turned in, though, on Tuesday morning.  It's a lot of information.  I have so many people to thank for helping me accumulate all this good information; but I have Klaudia and Sir Tony to thank for helping me process all this information.  The process has been gorgeous.  The process is as enlightening as the subject matter.  I feel the caring; and as I get to the source, I feel it even more.  So, besides jealousy arising from an anxiety over the possibility of losing someone, regardless of whether it is a feeling, a motivation, or a behaviour all of its own, I have separated nine traits so far that help characterize jealousy when it is in action.  Sometimes the behaviour of jealousy cannot be distinguished from other feelings and other scenarios; sometimes the mask is very clever indeed.  But as I study it, the separation of traits becomes a fascinating study.  And it is a study that I wish to capture in photograph, and so I have been doing so.  The first trait I captured was silence.  Jealousy is a dangerous form of silence.  The picture of a woman with her back turned to the camera, with her body language and not her words declaring, "I will not tell you why I am angry."  This is the biggest dilemma because, ultimately, communication will be the antidote to feelings of jealousy: and so, to withhold communication is to pour fuel into the already-blazing flames of jealousy.  She turns her back and will not say what made her angry; but it was only a tiny little detail.  A very small thing, possibly: the kind of detail that topples geographical boundaries.  But she is in pain and surrounded by shadows; and the wounded retreat to solitude, in nature.

Another trait: loneliness.  It comes from the solitude of retreat, sometimes, but also it is important to realize that jealousy contradicts feelings of belonging.  This contributes to loneliness.  Those who feel as though they belong do not feel the pangs of jealousy.  (Those who feel like they belong in a group, or belong to a special lover, or belong to their one and only... etc.)  And it is tragic to imagine how those who feel the jealousy in the first place are those who are already self-alienated.  The jealous one is already lonely, in other words, regardless of whether she is invited to belong.  The jealous one already does not belong in her own mind, regardless of whether her lovers or her friends claim or disown her.  Persuading her that she belongs is not the antidote to jealous feelings: such persuasion is easily denied and easily proven to be false.  It takes a lot of understanding and a lot of care to figure out that the argument flows deeper -- has a source more profound -- than what is immediately visible.  The antidote to loneliness is not company, and the antidote to jealousy is not persuasion.  The source is darker, more mysterious, and was dug long before the lover looked askance the first time.  The antidote will, eventually, be long, difficult communication, increasing comfort zones and defining clear boundaries concerning acceptable behaviours and tolerable limits.  But it will work for the long term only if ........

Discipline - The Aspiration

Our destiny is frequently met by taking the very paths we have chosen to avoid it.  Sayuri's "destiny" in Memoirs of a Geisha comes up against her aspirations in nearly every chapter.  It is difficult to determine whether the happy ending to the novel is due to her destiny or due to her single-minded, purely-focused aspiration.  If we call it "destiny," she has been a passive passenger on a pre-ordained journey, and there has been no point whatsoever to her mental conditioning and emotional tribulations.  If we call it "aspiration," she has taken charge of her fate and brought about exactly that which she had set out to do on the day she changed her living.  From the moment of her prayer to the gods, she directed her mind, body, and spirit towards the one man she knew in whom kindness came easily.  The discipline of her aspiration is expressed here:  "With  my eyes squeezed tightly shut and my hands together, I prayed," she explains.  "I would suffer through any training, bear up under any hardship, for a chance to attract the notice of a man like the Chairman again."  And, every moment thereafter was devoted to this singular vision until, finally, at long last, she realizes her vision.

Sayuri remembers, "For a flicker of a moment I imagined a world completely different from the one I'd always known, a world in which I was treated with fairness, even kindness."  She continues, "And when I raised myself to look at the Chairman, I had a feeling of leaving my misery behind me there on the stone wall."  To get very, very picky here, I notice that she says when I raised myself to look, and that is the key to this sentiment.  That is the definition, as I would understand it, of aspiration.  When I raise myself to look.  When I raise myself to look, I see more, and I see further.  I can change things before they happen.  I am not a passive recipient of destiny's hand (if I do not wish to be); I take an active participation in that which shapes me (if I wish it so).

I do not take it for granted that there is a destiny for me.  I do discipline myself so that I can face the world and all of the choices presented to me.  I do not wait passively:  I wait actively.  Behind my eyes, there are dreams, and there are ladders I craft to reach them.  There are butterflies - the symbolic metamorphosis is the achievement of aspiration.  My geisha name, Choji, a butterfly name; my sole aspiration, to become that which You have always wanted in me.

Discipline - The Mind

Discipline of the self is something I regard as the combination of mind, body, spirit, and aspirations of the person into a personal completeness called "integrity".    I alluded to the discipline of my "self" in the last post whereby my geisha training comes out of hibernation and I begin to apply it to my learning about D/s relationships.  My already-enjoyable journey into the dark becomes even more enjoyable as a result.  My core self I introduce to my fantasy self, and my personal feelings of "being real" strengthen.

In my mind, I harbor indelible thoughts.  Philosophy that I hold to.  Learnings that I adhere to.  Information that I seek.  Memories that, over time, re-create and re-adjust.  Some memories, though, that fade in colour.  And some that could never change due to the thrust of the original intensity.  This is the makeup of my mind.  The makeup of my mind contributes to my personal integrity; the extent to which I consider myself a person with integrity is the extent to which my discipline of mind maintains an equally-strong link as-and-to the rest of my parts.

That which may compromise me: impatience.  If there is something worth disciplining in my mind, it is impatience.  At a group discussion earlier this week on "Patience" I learned (or, rather, re-discovered) that  "anxiety" feeds on "impatience," and vice versa.  My chronically-anxious disposition may be disciplined by practicing the virtue of patience, in other words.  The body begins the exercise and the mind acclimatises thereafter.  The physical behavior of patience calms the mind to patience.  And patience is a beautiful visual: water flowing over stones, nothing obstructed, nothing blocked.  The physical behaviour of patience is stillness, calm.  Observation.  Meditation.  Reading.  Walking without purpose.  (Being bound... being restrained... feeling cage bars surround me...)   The physical behaviour of patience will bring the mental stillness of patience.

With patience, one can trust more easily.  When You come, I will trust You in ways I will not trust others.