It’s a big difference – celibacy and not gettin’ any.

Last week I left you hanging on a lonesome note. A few days later, I got myself over to a colleagues studio for my turn on the massage table. We sat and talked a bit, just to catch up on what I was feeling. Oh, I remember now, what it feels like to have loving acceptance, witnessing, caring – that’s just about me, needing nothing back.

It’s true that no one can give me inner acceptance but myself, and it’s also true that we humans need each other. We need to have some attention and acceptance, some affection, connection, with others. This is how we learn to give it to ourselves. So I seek my sisters.

As soon as her hands caressed my back, I fell into tears – oh, that feels so good, so good . . .

I soaked it up like a very thirsty sponge. Then I would sink into a bit of a trance-y state, then cry a little more, then stretch, then sink again. Somewhere around the middle, when she turned me over, something shifted. It was if a wave rolled over me and stayed there. Now in a different set of waters.

And this is what came to me in the new set of waters.

First, back up a few years – back when I was part of a close group of women, earth based spiritual practices, howling at the moon kinda women, we spoke of menstruation as giving our blood back to the earth. It was a gift we made each month, and was also a gift to ourselves of a heightened sense of ‘looking within’. A woman ‘on her moon’ tends to go deeper emotionally and have insights that are less available the rest of the month. This is why we seek quiet, and get grumpy when we try to ignore the pull.

Then, when we reach menopause, we ‘hold our blood’. We no longer give that gift to the earth, but hold it within, bringing that energy back into ourselves to use it for creativity and service to ourselves and others. It is a powerful time in a woman’s life. Often times, we women who hold our blood get less and less interested in putting up with what is not worth our time. Which is why we are sometimes seen as less accommodating that younger women, less nice. And which is why, I believe, many menopausal women get less interested in sex – they are no longer willing to tolerate mediocrity. But that’s another essay.

Having passed menopause some years ago, and received initiation as a crone, this experience of holding my blood and expressing more creativity and service, was a powerful development for me. I have more to give, more wisdom, more compassion, more forgiveness, more acceptance. It is part of what has led me to this path of sexual and erotic service. Ironic, perhaps.

At first, back then, I skipped a couple of periods, and panicked – I’m not ready! Then I bled for another year or more, and by then I was ready. Ready for the power, ready for the changes in my life, ready for maturity, ready for anything! I welcomed and celebrated my changes.

So back to the present. Here I was, a few weeks ago, aching and longing for arms to reach for me, hands to enjoy me, hips to press me. Wondering if it was all over. Grieving the end of what had been a wonderful part of my life, grieving that I never will have the experience of a life-long love, like the fairy tales told. Grieving that I can no longer pretend not to know what I know. Grieving that my relentless journey of exploring new territory has cost me nearly every love relationship I can recall. It’s a lonely feeling. Ironic that, too, given that my path of new territories has so much been about relationship, connection, and the inner life.

Back to the massage table now.

The wave rolled over me and stayed. A new set of waters. Suddenly I realized that my sexuality was being held within, just like my blood had been. This power, this juice, it was time to bring it back inside. It was time to hold it within and allow it to express itself in some new way, time to let it feed me in some new way, time to let it serve me in some new way.

Like the panic at the missed periods, I had not been ready to give up on ever having any great sex again. Now I was ready, not to give up, but to switch gears. To bring it back home.

Peace. These new waters are peaceful. And delicious.

The word celibacy came to mind. Maybe it’s time to be celibate for awhile. As I reflected on it later, it seemed to be about choosing. The empowerment of choosing, as opposed to being buffeted around by circumstance. When I choose a path of holding my sexuality in service to myself, I am celibate. When I am just not getting’ any, but wish I was, it ain’t.

What is celibacy then? Not fucking? That’s easy. When I ask friends, I get as many different answers as people I ask. For some it’s not fucking. Others it’s fucking only yourself. Others it’s no sexual (genital) contact, for others, it’s no couple-oriented activity, like making out. To some it’s cutting off all sense of eros. When I mentioned my experience to a close man friend, his face went ashen. Then when we cuddled, he very carefully shut off the lower half of his body.

For me? It has far less to do with what activity I will engage in or not. And it does not actually have to do with containing my erotic energy. I already know how to do that. And it certainly does not have anything at all to do with cutting it off or damming it up. That would be like stuffing a rag up your vagina to stop the flow of blood. It is (or was) occasionally needed, but is a very temporary, and limited solution.

For me, for now, it is holding my sexuality in service to myself. I may share it, I may engage it, but I do not give it away in hopes of attracting some satisfaction from elsewhere.

As I reflect on these new waters this week, I notice a few things.

I notice that what is different is that I no longer long. Holding this energy in my belly feels good! Like a warm bank of coals. When I pause to notice it, like right now, I smile.

I notice that I don’t reach out to try to have it fulfilled from some other magical source, something outside my reach, something that depends on someone else doing the right thing, touching the right place in my soul.

I don’t have energetic tentacles reaching out into space, hoping for some satisfaction. I am not hoping that someone else will finally show up.

I notice that I have less tolerance for not speaking up. I told a friend some things that had been sitting inside me for a long time. It got heated, and it was refreshing to get it out. The conversation is still open and we both look forward to coming back to it.

I notice that I have loads of creative energy with a new project I’m part of, and that I am generous with it. It feels good.

So celibacy. Will I ever fuck again? I have no idea. Who cares? Will I fuck next week? I have no idea. Who cares? And if I do, will I still be celibate? Depends on whose definition you use.

I have more responsibility for my sexual energy and desire than most anyone I know. And when I lose it, I find it quickly. I discovered, quite by surprise, 15 years ago, that my eros was my own, not simply in response to the pull of a relationship.

It surprised me then that most people never have this experience, don’t usually even know what I am talking about. They think it means I learned to masturbate. More often, they see it, and want it, and think it has something to do with me.

So this is what I try to teach them – how to find it within themselves.

And all along, I was hoping for someone who would learn it well enough that he or she could come play with me, from that place in themselves, and I could have a playmate. I have had that blessing, in years past, and it is a rare thing. It is the only place I care to play from.

So now here I am, bringing my longing back home again, smiling at the bank of coals in my belly, taking myself another step deeper, finding it within myself again.

This entry was posted on Sunday, June 29th, 2008 at 1:59 pm and is filed under Deep Thoughts, On Intimacy, Sessions. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.