P Words

These are the dark parts of my heart.

It took me a month to realize I was hurt. 30 some days, 2 hours on a massage table, one dream dripping with metaphor, and my friend Brooke asking me some questions over a slice of pizza and… zip zang zap! My heart reached my head. The tears fell.

I let someone in and now I feel stupid, used, played like a toy piano. The piano man doesn’t know and I have debated whether it’s worth the effort to try and convey why I am hurting. Whether he thinks it’s worth the effort of understanding.

I always want to take responsibility for my experience—the choices I make that lead me to the experiencing. But we don’t live in a vacuum. We affect and are affected. Them’s the breaks. Relating to others presents the ongoing challenge of discerning what’s mine and what’s theirs. It can be hard to know when and where it’s fair to say, Hey dude, not cool. Hey dude, do better. Hey dude, [insert a flaming ball of expletives here].

I recently had a wise woman tell me that the dark parts of my heart are wanting to be expressed too. That while yes, my heart is full of the love and light that makes eyes roll (and hearts open), it also contains shadowy nuggets of truth that are being suppressed.

I sense an upheaval in the making.

Like all dark parts, it takes time for the eyes to adjust. I am taking my time meeting these deeper parts of myself. In the process, I have been pondering P words for some reason. I don’t bother myself so much with why or whether it’s worth pondering. I just sit down and make myself available. And so, I give you this, more parts of my heart.

Pussy

Don’t be one. If you have one, make sure it’s pink and sweet and hairless. Mine is so hairy you have to work to find it. Upon discovering it you will find that it is not pink, but depending on its current pH, it may be sweet. It may also be acidic, or briny. A pussy is surely one of the most resplendent, resilient, captivating, and forgiving things on the planet. So our language fails us miserably when we invoke it as an insult. May we all be pussies. The world would shift powerfully towards more strength, care, and reciprocity. More pleasure, more expressiveness, more generosity.

Penis

If I had one I would pee outside all the time. If I had one I would probably be obsessed with it too, this rod of longing, dangling outside of my body. Men are more vulnerable than they want to admit because of the precarious nature of their anatomy. Mine is tucked up inside of me, held, a cavern of promise. Certainly it has been invaded, ravaged, pillaged by penises belonging to men with better intentions. Uniting penis with heart is the task. It is, after all, the heart that provides the blood that animates the phallus. Too often I have taken a man into my sanctuary only to encounter a broken line—a penis hard but devoid of devotion, disjointed from the loving presence that would really fill us both with music. Why settle for “bumping uglies” when you could be singing from the rafters?

Pleasure

What we forget all too often is the whole point of having a body. Something so much grander than “a good time.” Much more vast than the silly little dopamine squirts we have become accustomed (addicted) to. Pleasure does not rush, it does not frantically search for the exit sign. It leans in. It says yes. It opens and receives. It goes deeper into experience. And yes, that may in fact mean that discomfort is a big burly bouncer sometimes standing outside of pleasure’s door, and we may have to show him our ID. But once inside, we find ourselves having the time of our lives, remembering with what can only be named ecstasy, what a gift it is to be here.

Pain

Something that is multiplied the more it is denied. As much as we may fear it, pain is vital information. A communication sent as sensation. Whenever I feel into my pain, be it an injury or a thought, a stiff neck or a memory, I always locate something, somewhere in me that is resisting. Surrender is the ultimate painkiller. My clenching around the pain is what hurts. Once accepted, the pain itself releases, which is felt as relief, pleasure even. This is something I wish more humans could experience and know in their bodies. Instead, we go to great lengths to numb or escape the pain and cause more of it in the process. Whole industries exist for the suppression of it. If we were to take those billions and use them to encourage and support people in feeling and expressing, we would uncover a more cooperative, creative and compassionate world. A less violent one too. We would reveal beauty and meaning. We would untangle the thread that connects us all. Until the systems shift, we can be doing the work at home to shift the systems. Being willing to face your own pain is the ultimate flex, the overlooked activism. Bonus points for being sturdy and open enough to witness someone else in their pain. To stay past the point of convenience or comfort—to surf’s up that wave of realness like you’re Johnny freakin’ Utah. Cowabunga, baby, that’s love.

Pause

It has been said that power is in the pause. As someone who has been likened to a freight train, I often forget the significance of this option. And, I sense a great deal of damage could be averted by adding it to my arsenal. Pause to feel, to listen, to hear. Add an H to ear, and you’ve got hear. Add a T to hear, and you’ve got heart. If you can hear your heart, you will not go astray. You will not sleep with the man who later decides you’re too deep.

Praise

I have a praise kink. When a man is inside of me, all I want to know is exactly how grateful he is to be so. Not sure what’s so kinky about that, but that’s how things are talked about these days. To me, it is the most natural thing in the world. Whenever I enter a temple, I am immediately filled with awe and reverence. My breathing changes. My heart grows to match the expanse. It is a place I ache to return to again and again, to remember what beauty feels like. When I let a man enter my temple, it really hurts my heart to watch him cross the street for a Monster Energy drink from Seven-Eleven.

Porn

Yesterday I had coffee with two dear dude friends, Russ and Joe, and we had a refreshingly honest conversation about porn. Talking with them, I realized I would be remiss to omit this P word from my list, though I must admit I am daunted by it. Just a preliminary dip into research and I already feel sick to my stomach. This is a common occurrence for me. I have seen very little porn in my life, but when I have, I note the instantaneous nausea. I’m not interested in adding more shame to a highly complex and charged topic. I am interested in acknowledging that my body responds to this murky world by wanting to vomit. I am immediately disoriented and unsettled. Add to that the electricity of arousal, and you’ve got yourself a powerful stew of sensations. Which is why its addictive potency has been said to rival heroin. Now imagine that everyone has 24/7 access to a steady morphine drip in their pocket. I have loved several men who have struggled and suffered in this sticky terrain.

The statistics vary, as you can imagine, counting numbers in the shadows can be tricky. Some estimate the porn industry to be pulling in the hundreds of billions of dollars per year. Several stats pointed to around 80% of porn involving violence and aggression. Many questions arise around exploitation and consent, as well as porn’s link to human trafficking. To its impact on human sexuality. To its impact on children. The average age of first exposure to pornography is said to be 7 or 8. Several studies have found that the majority of teens view porn to learn about having sex. I thank my lucky stars that I learned about having sex by having it with a real person in a room without cameras and crew and skewed motivations. In terms of P words, I think porn is lacking in patience and presence and real pleasure versus the empty performance of it. Abuse of power is prevalent, and bodily and psychological harm is caused with regularity. At a minimum, I think a pause is a worthwhile tool to use when it comes to porn consumption.

Passion

Stripped down to its roots, this word essentially means “that which must be endured.” Taking form circa 1200, to speak of “the sufferings of Christ on the Cross.” By the late fourteenth century, it morphed into the more general “intense emotion or desire.” Passion and passive share the root pass, meaning simply “the suffer.” To exist is to suffer. So say the Buddhists and Christians alike. So say I. To feel is to experience suffering, within the vast expanse of all the other undulating human feelings. According to etymonline.com,

The specific sense of “sexual love” is attested by 1580s, but the word has been used as well of any lasting, controlling emotion (zeal; grief, sorrow; rage, anger; hope, joy). The meaning “strong liking, enthusiasm, predilection” is from 1630s; that of “object of great admiration or desire” is by 1732.

To experience passion is to experience life. To experience life, we must open to emotion. Blunting any of the intense emotions we may not wish to feel, like grief or rage, we also cut ourselves off from the joy and hope that keep us going.

Pressure

What we feel when there are expectations. What men tell me they feel when I am honest with them. It’s gotten to the point where I brace myself for it. Okay, how long until this dreaded P word leaves this man’s lips?… I have found there is a gap in understanding between a woman’s need to know she is safe with a man, and said man wanting to contribute to her sense of safety. This could entail simple things like texting her back after you blow your load on her stomach. This could be more complex, like attuning yourself with her, feeling into moments when you might be able to respond with some form of verbal or active reassurance. If this feels like pressure, perhaps it is time to expand your capacity, or better yet, reimagine what turns you on. There is a reason women do not feel safe with men. It is founded, I’m not here to debate that. I am here to gently request that any man who wishes to relate to any woman in any way accept a reasonable amount of accountability. She is not something to use and then toss aside for another woman more willing to swallow your shortcomings.

Pathetic

My more faithful Cave Language readers know how I feel about this word. A P word we reach for anytime someone has the audacity to feel something in public. It is used in an attempt to shame someone into silence, lest we all catch a case of human feeling. In 1937, Hindenburg exploded, Amelia Earhart went missing, and Morgan Freeman was born, and after hundreds of years of pathetic being defined as “subject to feeling, sensitive, capable of emotion,” it shifted insidiously, cataclysmically, colloquially to meaning “so miserable as to be ridiculous.” And that is when the thing that might save us became the threat. We yanked the canary out of the coal mine and snapped its little neck. We stopped mining and started burying. The word was turned into a spell. Now we pretend sensitivity is a weakness instead of a superpower.

Performance

What we do when there is an audience. Even when that audience is only in our heads. What we do in an attempt to be loved, only to find that affection offered in response to performance is hollow applause.

Possess

We might be inclined to possess someone or something. We might be possessed by someone or something. But so rarely are we truly self-possessed. Intimate enough with ourselves to be capable of intimacy. In love with ourselves enough to be capable of loving, not as control or manipulation, but as wonder and understanding. Most of us learned love as possession, whether from our parents or Walt Disney. We don’t know how to love as much as we’re taught to own. To love is a constant act of letting go. Letting go of our own ideas for who or how someone should or shouldn’t be and instead repeatedly falling to our knees in humbled awe at the sacred act of becoming. Offering ourselves the same gravity and grace. To bear witness is to love. To see in a way of saying, This too is welcome, I celebrate that you exist. I celebrate your freedom.

Presence

The holy grail. The sorcerer’s stone. The thing lacking at most parties. The ultimate hack for almost any form of suffering. A willingness to be subsumed by the womb of The Primordial Now. The home from which we stray every 3 seconds only to shiver in the cold of Why Dids and What Ifs and How Coulds, all the while a warm, unflickering fire glows in The Hearth of Here. Presence is the center point from which all connection takes place. It provides the coordinates for Belonging. The solution that would surely bleed Big Pharma dry.

Patience

The other holy grail. It seems rather synonymous with presence. They must at least be kissing cousins. They both thumb their noses at industry. They both require awareness and trust, which is to say surrender. It has been said that patience is simply trusting life, which means finding the resolve to accept what is hard or confusing or, unresolved. Patience is a willingness to stay with what is, regardless of how we feel about it. Patience is willing to feel all of it. It is abstaining from escape. It is the magic elixir when pursuing pleasure. The potent clarifier when wielding power. Patience contains the pause that guides us towards truth. It offers space for life to enter.

Potential

What could be. The name we give to what is hovering on the edge of becoming. Potential is the measure of what expectations have the power to shape. Which brings us to another P word, Pygmalion.

On the ancient island of Cyprus, there was an exceptionally talented sculptor named Pygmalion. Disillusioned with the dating scene of Amathus, he opts instead for celibacy and throws himself into his art. With the fire of passion and the tenderness of longing, he sculpts a woman so perfect he ends up falling in love with the alabaster beauty of his own making. He names her Galatea. Full of desire he prays at Aphrodite’s altar for a living likeness. Aphrodite is moved by his love and devotion and decides to grant the stone softness and breath. Pygmalion returns home daring to think that perhaps, perhaps his prayers have power enough to work. He kisses Galatea and finds her lips warm and moist. They marry and have a daughter named Paphos.

In 1965, a Harvard psychology professor and an elementary school principal conducted a year-long study which would give name to the Pygmalion effect. This is the phenomenon where higher expectations lead to greater outcomes. A self-fulfilling prophecy is when a person’s beliefs determine their actions to the point of their beliefs coming true. This of course can work both ways. I can expect a man to disappoint me and by golly, he will do so with flourish! The question is, can I risk my old self by expecting something new? Can I expect a man to meet me in my courage, my care, my tenacity? Can I expect a man to delight and surprise and inspire me?

Persistence

What is required to be living. The persistence of the breath. The opening of the eyes. Oh, that persistent heartbeat! How we do not thank it enough. I find there is too little persistence these days when it comes to love. The exit hatch is overused. The second things get real or raw or confronting the tendency is to reach for our phones to scroll the limitless alternate feelings. We click, click, click, away from the discomfort that causes growth. With the ease and polish of the two-dimensional realm, it can be tempting to abort any and all expeditions into deeper dimensionality. Greater meaning and healing wait for our willingness to risk our smaller selves to the larger life that is waiting. That may require us throwing our phones in the lake in favor of taking in the view.

Purpose

This word fascinates me. It has become something we want to have, when originally it was something we gave. It was what we offered in the form of our intentions. Now it is something we are desperate to possess. Worth considering, what if our purpose is to give?

Power

A word that holds a lot of, well, power. Stripped to its essence, it simply means “be able to.” One could be able to exploit or harm or deny another. One could also be able to assist and nurture and support another. One could be able to hold a hand, to make a sandwich, to watch birds wait on a wire. One could be able to be oneself, perhaps the greatest application there is of power. To be true. The power to be oneself, otherwise known as freedom. The power to inspire freedom in others. The power to remind every closed heart that all it aches to do is open.

Perfect

What everything is when I let go. What feels impossible to achieve when I am trying.

Possibility

Endlessness. The void. What contains every beautiful thing you have ever seen or touched or tasted or smelled. Everything you have ever held in the beauty of your hands, in the beauty of your body. What we don’t know and therefore fear even though possibility contains something so good you haven’t even managed to imagine it yet. Can you brave leaving space for some unknown outcome you haven’t worried a better outcome for? Can you open your metaphorical legs for what is to come?…

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