This Body Is Mine, Right?

A messy journal entry about body (and life) ownership as a creative.

So this was just going to be a post about some cute, sexy photos I took in Portland last weekend (content warning: they’re at the end of this post, naked but covered) and a blurb about how I’m so brave about showing my body.

Bull shit.

It morphed into protection and ownership. How I constantly evaluate boundaries, how I remind myself that I am mine and I can change my mind or try something new, especially if I don’t feel at ease or comfortable.

After ministry, it felt good to have freedom to do what I wanted, especially when I was previously expected to give and sacrifice and restrain myself, but as I explore my sensuality and desire sexual discovery, I realize people take and take, like ministry. Then add the expectation to open yourself even more to create.

(Thankfully, there are two very special people in my life that I gladly offer myself to, not including my kids.)

I give a lot, so my circle is small. If you make it in, don’t you fuck it up.

There’s still so much noise from people who need want, but at the end of the day, I get to remind myself that I set the rules, and I can put myself in a delightful time-out.

I don’t know what this piece of writing is. I just needed words out of me and into the world. “Destination: Myself” started out as a messy journal entry. It’s still messy (does this fit in The First Cut or The Gnawing?), but future good work starts from present desperate attempts to understand and grasp the loose threads of life.

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“Destination: Myself”

With the ticking down of last light, the automation begins.

My universe clumps together like mismatched Play-Doh.

The continents of my mind seek Pangeal unification.

I fold, tuck, clasp, relocate, click into place like the dramatic little Transformer I am.

No worries, this is just my body balling up for the night. My ritual. Sanctifying myself. Driving myself deeper from mantle to core where my breath and compressed flesh offer a warm seal.

(I tend to make everything a performance.)

The magic of dusk signals that my body is my own once again. I contort my limbs, scrunching, to believe it.

Feet rub, fingers in creases, teeth perforate my lips.

Taking an inventory of myself before turning off the world for the night.

I’m still here. Shhh.

Because when I wake, I am a sprawled offering, a rich treasure out in the open.

I seek to discover myself, but I let myself be discovered.

I allow a select few travelers passage on an arduous journey. I sometimes permit easy pilgrimages over my borders, and for others, the most stubborn of explorers, I concoct long short cuts and forced respites.

Don’t take too much from my resources, explorers. I can offer more than enough, but don’t be greedy.

As the day wears on, I sometimes tire of serving as a compass, my capacities stretched beyond the four corners as I traverse my own expeditions.

I have no maps for:

Pushy pirates.

Counterproductive conquests.

Prospectors of pittance.

Sly surveyors.

And as the sun sets, I cease offering strong winds and reliable currents.

I will look at you through the “We’re Closed” sign of my reconnaissance shop and lock up my supplies tight. Supplies you keep forgetting for your own voyages.

I cannot navigate for you because I forget my own routes, so I compact myself again.

Feel all my faculties by pressing and caressing. Remind myself where my paths lead as I prepare myself to foster purposeful direction tomorrow.