Making it About You; a Diva's Path to Healing

Good Christian Men rejoice, with heart and soul and voice,
Know ye what he came to do?  Love!  Love!
Jesus Christ was born for you!
Laden with your grief and stain, He suffered all your souls to gain.
Christ was born for you!  Christ was born for you! 
Christ was born for you!  Christ was born for you!
Christ was born for you! Oh, born for you!

If you are in the Millennial Choirs and Orchestras, you might hear what I hear when I read those words.  I stand in the center of the choir, tenors on one side, altos on the other, two rows back.  There are no words to describe the way this verse sounds.  Brandon Stewart arranged it.  That tells more than anything the glory of the sound.  It is a capella and painted so elegantly as to portray emotion with every harmony.  By the final, "born for you," there is this magnificent resolution that seems to portray as nothing else save the touch of the Master's hand himself, the glorious joy of a repentant soul who feels his love.  This song takes my spirit and flings it heavenward to behold the face of God for a moment.  What joy!

When I was on the plane to New York City last month, I was working on "The Shame Tree," and looking out the window at the clouds.  This song was playing in my head as if I was listening to it on earbuds or something, but it was only a memory.  The words hit my soul as if they were not words but bullets, penetrating every defense with their truth.  "Christ was born for you!"  The gorgeous clouds were stretching out as if to show me heaven in all its majesty.  My soul soared, "IT IS ABOUT YOU!!  HE CAME FOR YOU!  HE DIED FOR YOU!  ITS ALL ABOUT YOU!"

As children we learn it is not all about us.  I try to teach Austin to think of his brothers when he wants everything his way.  I plead and persuade my boys to see my point of view, their dad's point of view, their teachers' point of view.  The fact is, and it is very well researched, the human brain is not really capable of empathy in childhood.  Young children, like Austin, may kiss and hug their mothers, but they don't really love us.  It is all about them.  Their mother, their lollipop, their toys.  It is like the child lies at the center of a great black hole in which everything orbits around the gravity of their own needs.  Other people do not exist with wants and needs independent of them in the psyche of a young child.  Social values are taught and trained into a child, and although some children may put on a good show of empathy, it is just that, a good show.  There are no "good" or "bad" children, there are just children.  God recognizes the inability of children to commit sin.  They are not morally good nor bad.  They are like lions, mice, cats, and elephants, we project human morality upon them, but we all know that they are neither good nor bad.  They are the evidence of the fallen state of the world.  Nothing more.

The journey to adulthood is the journey of social adjustment, of learning that it isn't all about you.  There are other people who have places to go and things to do.  You must wait in line, take your turn, think of the needs of others, and place nicely.  Once we reach adulthood, then the Savior tells us we must return to childhood again.  He tells us, now you have to unlearn what you have learned and become like a little child.  You have to understand as a newly reborn spiritual being, that it really is and always has been about you.

How so?  When I repent, I don't go with a committee.  I go by myself to the Savior's feet.  I let him into my soul and he sees my truth.  What is my truth?  It is what is in my heart and mind, right or wrong, good or bad, accurate or not, it is the way I perceive and experience the world around me.  I let him in the way that Antman enters the quantum realm.  I love Antman because it reminds me that not only is the universe eternally large, it is also eternally small.  Nothing is too small or insignificant for the keen eye of the Master as he examines my truth.  Usually this probing process is not painful at all.  He observes every part of my soul largely without judgement.  He knows I am a fallen person living in a fallen world.  He expects me to be broken and hurting, and he is never surprised by what he finds.  Sometimes I will try to shut him out, to make excuses, to insist that what he sees is not really as it seems.  He looks at me and says, do you want to be healed or not?  It is all about me.

One of my favorite works of fiction ever is the Chronicals of Narnia by C.S. Lewis.  One of my favorite parts of the Chronicals of Narnia is in the book, The Horse and His Boy.  The boy Prince Cor of Archenland is on an important mission to save his people.  After a series of humiliating experiences, Cor, or Shasta, as he is known through most of the book, is walking through a cold mountain pass when a lion appears next to him in the misty fog.  At first afraid, he comes to realize that the lion means him no harm, but merely wants to hear about his feelings.  The boy tells him what has befallen him and how difficult it has been.  He is cold and hungry, his feet hurt, he has been travelling for many weeks and months and feels that there is no way for him to succeed.  Of course, the lion is revealed to be Aslan, the great King of Narnia who reveals that he has been working in the background of Shasta's journey all along, that his life has been part of a grand plan to save everyone.  He breaths on little Shasta and he gets renewed strength from the divine beast.  Only one thing has him concerned and that is why Aslan had attacked his friend and given her scratches on her back.  The wise old lion says, "That is her story.  You only get to hear your story."  Essentially the lion is saying, "Its all about you."  Don't worry too much about other people and what their story is.  They have their story, and they have their relationship with God.  Only you know your story, and the only person God cares about when he talks to you is you. 

It's all about you!  You are an eternal being, and if you choose to focus on yourself the way God wants you to, you realize that you really are all that matters.  Your children?  They have their path.  Your parents?  They have their path.  They are accountable to God for their actions.  You are accountable for yours.  I used to wonder if Christ only died for the sins of those who repent, or if he suffers for all sins.  Some scriptures seem to indicate that he only suffers for the covenant people, the house of Israel.  I used to think that maybe if we don't accept the atonement and we end up paying for our own sins, does that make things easier on Him?  Now I realize that none of that matters.  He didn't die for anyone else.  He died for me.  He suffered for me.  I am eternally that important.  It is all about me.

It seems all backward that the most important thing that we learned in becoming fully adult mortals is the very thing we have to unlearn in order for Him to heal us.  We go from being children who think it is all about us, to good socialized adults who know it is not all about us.  We learn that we are insignificant specks in the universe, that there are millions, billions, and trillions of other human beings on this planet that are just as valuable and just as important as I am.  Then I have to unlearn it.  I have have to learn that the universe is also eternally small, where every idle thought is brought to account by the Master who sees all.  My relationship with Jesus Christ is the only thing I can control and the only thing that will determine my salvation; not my works, not my church, just my choice to let him in or keep him out.  It doesn't matter whether I've done my visiting teaching, what kind of mother I am to my children, what kind of car I drive....all that matters is that I let him in and do what he tells me to do. 

Ironically, the more I become the Diva and realize that it is all about me, I am able to look outside of myself to those in need.  I'm a better mother, a better sister, a better daughter, a better wife, and a better member of my church when I put myself at the center of my spiritual universe.  I stop being so afraid of how I am perceived and whether or not someone else is going to do something that will rock my world.  (ie. Donald Trump, my kids, my husband, my church community)  It is all about me and my Savior.  Everyone else has their path and their story.

You Can't Fix What You Aren't Willing to Face; A Life Beyond Darkness

I've been watching a T.V. series on Prime TV that is called "Surviving Evil."  Sometimes I wonder what draws me to these horrible shows about sadistic violence.  Each survivor has a similar "victim" profile.  Like me they are kind, empathetic women who are determined to overcome the evil that tries to dominate, overwhelm, and destroy them and the people they love.  I see myself in each victim no matter how similar or different I am from them.

One victim resonated disturbingly close to home.  Her name was Bridgette and she was a first grade teacher when she was abducted by a stranger, assaulted and terrorized, and taken to deserted area where she was shot three times.  As she recounted her survival, she talked about crawling to the closest house she could find.  She felt that angels carried her.  When she rang the doorbell, someone came to the door, saw her, and then shut the door and locked it.  She had to crawl to the next house before a compassionate stranger called the authorities and stood guard over her until they arrived.  After many surgeries and nearly dying, she managed to recover.

How often have I felt kidnapped by depression?  How often have I felt brutalized by an unseen presence, determined to destroy me?  How many times have I felt that all I can do is crawl, hoping the angels will look down and have mercy upon me?  How many times have I looked for help, only to see the door slam shut, and realize that the journey to recovery is still agonizingly far away?  I see in this woman, a sister who knows the sorrow I feel and the pain I suffer, and I cry my tears with her.  I find strength as she says, "I went to the authorities because I don't want this to happen to anyone else."  No one deserves to feel this way.  No one should be shamed and tormented as I have been.  The enemy is real and he needs to be called out.  My brothers and sisters who suffer will not suffer alone.  Even if all I can do is stand guard, as the man did in the show, and wait with the victim for help to arrive.

The episode I just finished watching was about about a woman named Adriane Fields.  I watched the show because she lived in Ft. Worth and was assaulted by a serial killer who killed women in Arlington.  I practically live in Arlington and I had never heard of a serial killer here.  The show resonated with me because of the strength and power of the survivor, Adriane. She had a premonition that she would be attacked by the bathtub killer, a name people had given the killer terrorizing the DFW area.  She was so convinced of it that she actually moved to a safer apartment complex in a better neighborhood to avoid it.  In spite of this, she still sensed danger.  For months she lived in fear of her imminent attack.  The very night she was determined to put her fears aside, sleep soundly with the light off, and not worry about the killer, he broke into her apartment.  However,  her months of vigilance and study of the evil that stalked her, enabled her to survive.  She was able to talk to the attacker and convince him to let her live.  Her eye witness testimony, along with the careful recitation of everything the killer had said, made it possible for the authorities to find the man.  She testified against him and saw to it that justice was done both for her, and the two women who died at his hand.  He was executed in 2009.

I was impressed by a couple of things about this survivor.  One thing was her beauty.  It shined out of her eyes and in her complexion.  She had chosen to learn from her experience to trust her instincts and her intuition, to see herself as an instrument to make the world a better, safer place.  At the end of the program, she had some wonderful wellness advice.  She said, "You Can't Fix What You Aren't Willing to Face."  In my recovery journey, that has been my unspoken mantra.  If you can't face it, you can't fix it.

Is it in your childhood?  Is it an abusive relationship?  Is it a traumatizing experience?  What does your mind avoid?  If you can't face it, you will never fix it.  It will haunt and stalk you like the bathtub killer.  You won't see him, but he will be there, sabatoging your life, victimizing you, keeping you down where he wants you to be.  There is no way around the pain.  Only through it.  There is no help and no hope unless you decide to face it.

For the last couple of days, I have been paranoid and anxious.  Satan is angry at me.  I can feel his fury like hot breath on my neck.  For so long he has muzzled me with fear.  So long he has been free to torment me and the ones I love.  Like the victims in "Surviving Evil" the ultimate thing you must avoid at all cost is angering your tormentor by disobedience, rebellion, or independent thought.  I have rebelled.  I am speaking out, revealing his secrets.  I am facing my fears and saying no to my doubts.  It is terrifying.  Revenge is as certain as the sunrise in the morning, if not for my Savior.  I pray for strength.  I pray for wisdom.  I pray that I can be an instrument in his hands to bring my tormentor to account, and free other victims of his dark embrace.  There is goodness, there is light, there is freedom.  There is a life for me beyond the darkness.

The Curse of the Fig Tree

Sometimes scripture stories are repeated so often that we fail to see that they are really mindbogglingly strange.  Consider one of the oldest stories, Adam and Eve.  If God really didn't want Adam and Eve to partake of the fruit of the tree, why did he put it in the garden in the first place?  Why didn't he get rid of the snake?  Why were they only able to have children, AFTER they left the garden?  Didn't God kind of set Adam and Eve up to fail by giving them two commandments that were impossible to obey at the same time?

Consider Abraham who was promised a  posterity numbering greater than the sand of the seashore and a promised land to dwell in.  He lived his life as a nomad having left the idolatry of his father's people and land, wandering homeless.  Also, his wife couldn't get pregnant.  When she was finally given a son, Abraham was commanded by God to kill him.  Why didn't God just give him a lot of kids, and a homeland?  That would fulfill his promise and would have made sense, right?  Strange.

Then there is Isaac, the boy who was offered in sacrifice to God, was spared by an angel and dedicated to God as the birthright son.  His wife was not infertile.  She had twins.  Why make this so complicated?  Couldn't God have just sent one baby at a time?  Or a set of boy girl twins?  Then, why didn't he make sure that the boy who was supposed to be the birthright son came out first?  Strange.

Maybe you might think that these are anomalies in the way God interacts with mankind.  But when you look closer, you see a clear pattern.  A clear pattern of convoluted, confusing, backward events that eventually result in the promises and gifts of a loving God to his covenant people.  Not for nothing do they say that God works in mysterious ways!

It just gets stranger as you progress through the Old Testament.  Jacob marries two women, who also give him their handmaidens to be servant wives.  He has a staggering number of rowdy boys who do all kinds of horrible things and make their parents' lives hell.  The birthright son, Rueben decides to have sex with his Dad's wife in a misguided effort to show dominance over his father.  He looses the birthright.  Now who gets the birthright?  Does it go to Judah, first son of the first wife?  Rueben was technically Leah's first born since he was the son of her handmaid.  Technically the birthright would go to the first son of the second wife, Joseph, but one could definitely see that Judah had a claim to it, as did Rueben's next younger brother.  With this kind of raging testosterone competition going on, it is not so surprising that the brothers take out Joseph, and compete to take his crown.  What a mess!  There is all kinds of drama in the family including rape, murder, adultery, and deception.  Of course, we know the strange and convoluted way that God chose to save Jacob's family using the Egyptians led by Joseph, who was not as taken out as his brothers had hoped.  And so, the tribe of raucous and betimes disobedient, yet humbled and repentant Israel was taken into Egypt to be saved, only later to become enslaved, by the same Egyptians.....strange.

Let's fast forward to the birth of the Savior.  The Aaronic Priesthood is still held by the church of God which is at this time, practicing the Law of Moses, the prophet deliverer of Israel.  The Jewish people are enslaved by the hated Romans who find them an especially haughty, particular, and rebellious people.  The church of God has been over-run by "church people" who love to appear righteous and spend all their time and energy giving one another titles, making one another feel important, and enlarging their own power and influence.  They have created a thriving marketplace inside the temple courtyard which helps to finance their activities.  They seek to make the Law of Moses so complex and restrictive that only they are able to follow their interpretation of it- or at least they appear to.  This facade of righteousness solidifies their authority over the rest of the people and ensures that they remain in power, along with their children and children's children.  These church people are called Pharisees, Sadducees, the Sanhedrin, the Council of Elders, the scribes and various other names.  They lead in the synagogues, control the education system, control the temple, and oversee the ordinances of the law of Moses.

Overall, I imagine the people to be quite cynical.  They know, as all people do, when their leaders are being hypocritical.  Justice, prosperity, and freedom are only for the privileged or the lucky.  The Roman leaders are brutal and unconcerned with the human rights of those they rule.  The church leadership is corrupt and self-serving as well.  The poor and the widow are oppressed.  The faithful seekers of truth are despised or even killed if they become too outspoken.  Everything is pretty sad.  Suddenly, strange things begin to happen.  A descendant of Levi, of the original sons of Jacob, entered the temple sanctum to do his appointed duties.  He sees an angel of God who prophecies that his wife, a woman who has long been barren, will conceive and bare a son who would prepare the way for the Messiah.  What????  Then Mary, an obscure descendant of David has an angel appear to her, letting her know that she, a virgin, is going to give birth to the Son of God who is already growing within her.

And so begins the slow unraveling of the social order of the time.  Satan fights back.  Zacharias is murdered.  King Herod tries to kill the baby Messiah and succeeds in slaughtering all the boy babies in the land.  Thanks to the timely dream of his guardian father Joseph, the baby Messiah is saved.....in Egypt.  Of course.

Let's fast forward again to the triumphal entry of Jesus Christ into his city, Jerusalem.  This is the time foretold by the prophets for hundreds and possibly thousands of years.  Jesus Christ, the Messiah, the great deliverer has come to his people.  He is healing the sick and the infirm.  He has revitalized the faith of the children of Israel who follow him joyfully proclaiming his gospel unto all who will listen. The children are proclaiming that he is the promised Messiah.  They are singing!  It is beautiful.  He enters the temple courtyard and scatters the merchants and money changers. The time of their corruption is over.  The King has come to claim his rightful place to rule and reign in righteousness forever.  Right?

It would seem so.  If I had been there, I would have thought so.  Anything was possible.  God is walking among men and sickness and death have no power.  The words of life come from his mouth.  How can the Romans oppress?  How can the apostate church leadership stand against this man, the Son of David, the half God, whose right it is to rule over mankind?

At this crucial moment in world history, the Savior passes a fig tree.  He looks for fruit and he finds none.   I imagine his piercing gaze falling over each branch and leaf, perceiving with his superhuman senses that everything about the tree is functioning properly, and yet there is no fruit.  No blossoms, no ripening orbs, no sign whatsoever of the thing he was seeking for.

Liken this to the Master's search these years of his ministry.  Entering synagogues, preaching the truth, beckoning men to come follow him, to spiritually nourish the precious souls fainting all around.  City after city, time and time again, he is cast out, reviled against, and rejected by the leadership of the apostate church.  He has searched high and low among the churches in Judea and has found no fruit.  No charity, no truth, no genuine connection to God.  Not a sign of it.  There are buildings, a temple, offices carried out with laser precision by the sons of Levi, lawyers and scribes that study the words of the prophets with zeal and know of the workings of God in past times.  And yet, just as the fig tree, the church is producing no fruit.

In the only instance that we know of in the New Testament, the destructive wrath of the Savior is released-onto the fig tree, the symbol of apostate Judaism at the time he came to the Earth.  That one destructive act was like a judgement/curse issued with power and authority upon those who claimed his title and yet failed to be good stewards.  And what a curse it was.  From that very hour, the tree wilted and died.

And what of the apostate Judaism?  Of course, we know that the Savior was murdered by the very men whom he had passed judgement on in the withering of the fig tree.  They killed him as he knew they would, but their fate was already sealed with the curse of the fig tree.  It wouldn't be many years before the Romans would kill them all and destroy their temple leaving not one stone standing upon another.  Such is the doom of all those who set their hand against the chosen vessels of the Lord.  Such is the fate of those who profess the authority and sanction of God and yet do not produce the fruit!  In fact, if you look back on some of the strange works of God in the scripture stories, you might find some not as strange as they appeared without this principle in mind.

Could it be that he wants chosen people, a chosen church, a blessed flock of obedient people, but at the same time, he doesn't want them to THINK of themselves as chosen?  That is the ultimate irony!  The moment the Lord begins to bless someone, to elevate them because of their obedience, then they lift themselves up in pride and bring upon themselves the curse of the Fig Tree because they don't prove themselves worthy of the blessings and elevated status he has given them.  The pride of their hearts makes them unable to produce the fruits of the spirit which was the whole point of the blessings to begin with.  And so the strange workings of God are not so strange after all.  He continues to put the last first and the first last.  And men, and churches, and nations who fail to produce the fruit- beware the curse of the Fig Tree!

God has said since ancient times, "Thou shalt NOT take the name of the Lord thy God in Vain."  Each of us has the gift and privilege of calling ourselves Christians, of taking his name upon us.  We, like the Jews at the time of the Savior, have a peculiar place in the world to show all men that by casting off the natural man and obeying the commandments of God, he can transform us from mortal to immortal, from sinful to sanctified, from death to life eternal.  But woe be unto us if we take his name in vain!  Woe to us if our churches are not filled with his love!  Woe to us if we use his name and his doctrine to inflate our own pride and serve our own selfish interests while despising those with broken hearts who seek after him for healing and grace.

The time has come to inspect ourselves.  Those who cry "America First," are our fig trees baring fruit?  If he came to our political rallys would he find a nation that fosters charity, mercy, and a connection with God?  Are we worthy of the privileged place we hold in HIS world, as HIS people?  What of our church?  If he came to our meetinghouse, would we recognize him?  Are we filled with humility and willingness to confess our need for the Savior in our lives?  Are we feeding the spirits of those with whom we worship, as he has commanded us to do?  The Master has said, "By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples.  Ye shall have love one to another."  Does that love mark us as his own?  In our families, in our wards, in our communities, in our nation?  If not, it is time to repent.  It is time to return to him and bow ourselves before him in humility.  Imagine what might have happened to the leadership of the Jews if they had done that?  They and their children would not have perished at the blade of a Roman sword.  The stain of the Innocent blood would not follow them.  May we be more wise than they were and change the tide of our doom before it is too late.

Joyful Psalms to the Savior

Since starting therapy last spring, my dreams have gone through a change.  Mornings used to be tortuously difficult.  My REM sleep was full of nightmares seething with anxiety, full of shame and darkness.  I would wake, but remain still in my bed, immobilized by fear, dread sapping motivation.  The sounds of boys eating breakfast and gathering supplies, Ben performing the duties I knew were mine, and me lying in a depression induced paralysis, wanting to help, but unable to move.

Contrast that to my journal entry yesterday:


"I have had a lot of dreams lately, but I savor them too long.  My conscious mind grabs onto them lovingly and then falls back into the dream. Instead of pulling the dream to the conscious realm, my conscious is pulled back into the subconscious along with any memory it discovered.  They have been happy dreams.  Perhaps I know that their beauty would not translate well to the consciousness and to preserve it, they must stay bright, dancing in my subconscious only to be released at the second coming of the Savior.  Perhaps they are in the Adamic language, and will burst forth as a song when I see his face."

What accounts for this change in my mornings?  There is one large difference between my mind six months ago and my mind yesterday, and that is my total embrace of the Savior and his atonement in my life.  The author and designer of depression is Satan.  Of course it is.  Only he desires for me to be miserable.  Only he knows me so well as to design attacks on my soul with such precision, able to penetrate all the defenses that might save me.  Only Jesus Christ could save me.  Even his church, with all the light and truth it possesses was not enough.  Even the modern marvel of medical treatment combined with the church was not enough.  I had to venture, at his direction, into the world of therapy, and drink deeply of the wisdom of men before at last, I feel the darkness begin recede in earnest.  It was He, and none other who directed me into therapy.  It is He who directs my path.  He knew what I needed, and he has saved me.

I sat in the foyer of the church yesterday, not with my head bowed and tears rolling down my cheeks, but with light and joy and a desperate desire to express to my Savior, my adoration at his marvelous healing.  I read in my scriptures yesterday of two blind men who implored the Savior, the Son of David, to have mercy on them.  The crowd tried to get them to be quiet, but they persisted.  The Master healed them.  Can you imagine their joy?  Can you conceive of the love and gratitude those men had for the Savior when they saw in brilliant color, his face appear where before there was only darkness?  That is how I felt.  This is what I wrote.

"How I love my Lord; him who has ransomed me!  He holds up my face to sunlight, to eat he gives me the fatted calf.  A fine robe has he secured around me to replace sackcloth and ashes.  How unworthy I am!  See his mercy!  Behold his grace!  He has esteemed the lowly handmaiden and has caused my soul to soar as an eagle to see the marvelous works of his mighty hands.  He has sharpened my eyes to see more than mortal eyes can see.

"He is mighty to save!  MIGHTY TO SAVE!  No enemy can take my soul.  He has redeemed me from the tormentors and made my heart to be light.  The dark designs of my enemy, forged in the bowels of the Earth and conceived in sin and hell, has he overcome.  I will praise my God and my King forever for he is Mighty, Mighty to Save.

"I fear that I have delusions of grandeur.  How can it be that he loves me?  How can it be that he has seen me and had mercy upon me, for I am nothing and no one, least of all and last of all.  If he has had mercy upon me, how much then for you!  No man, woman, or child is beyond his love and rescue.

"I feel, now that I know this thing, that I cannot hold back from singing praises to him forever!  How can we hold back from rejoicing, for he has overcome all things.  Satan, that crafty snake who has laid a trap for me.  Like a mouse, I was afraid.  I could not escape.  My doom and my fate was certain.  But my Lord has had mercy upon me.  He has redeemed my soul from hell and made me a home in the tops of the mountain where none will come to make afraid."

He lives!  He loves us!  He has power to save.  He is mighty to save.  All those with broken hearts, he can heal you.  The path may not be easy, but he will guide your steps.  No obstacle is too great, no illness too unknowable for him who is Lord of all.  Come unto him, cast your burdens at his feet.  Find refuge in his embrace.  He waits for you.

Sex....Can She Get More Awkward? Yes She Can!

This title is a little bit of a click bait one.  I want to get views and I've found that controversial titles get more views.  My "church people" post the other day got a hundred views in one day!  That's a record.  So the sex I am talking about is going to be less about the verb and more about the adjective.  More about boys and girls and less about women and men.  Sorry guys.  Made ya look!

So today I went to a Zumba class with some awesome ladies from church.  Most of us in the room were members of my church, moms of a least a couple of kids, and in happy stable marriages.  There we were, rolling our hips suggestively, expressing ourselves with our bodies in a most open and joyful way, without shame or self consciousness.....well maybe a little bit.  At first I was in my left brain, trying to make sure I got the steps right, was using the correct foot, and following directions like a good girl.  Then I got into the zone, I thought, "This is easy stuff girl.  Just use your right brain like drawing.  Feel the music, and move your feet.  No one is watching you, the important thing is that you move and you feel good."  I stayed in that zone for the rest of the class, I sweat hard, I danced like no one was watching.  It took me back to my dancing days.

I took dance classes as a little girl like a lot of people do.  I stood awkwardly in my leotard in front of the big glass mirrors.  Julie, my teacher, was a fabulous dancer and I worshiped the ground she danced on.  I, by contrast, always seemed to be all wrong.  Always stuck in my left brain, trying too hard and afraid to mess up, I never really danced in class.  I danced at home.  My stereo pumping my favorite song, the mood would take me, and I would stand up and dance in my room, in the basement, in the backyard....I was a Goddess!  I put together random routines that had no counting and no wrong steps, and I danced.  It was glorious.  At one point I started dancing in front of the back patio doors after the sun went down.  The light from the dining room lit me up like a stage and the glass on the patio doors reflected like a mirror.  I danced like no one was watching and it was amazing to see myself, uninhibited- a real dancer....until I realized that the whole neighborhood could see me.  My adolescent self was mortified!  How embarrassing. 

Eventually the dancing stopped.  Women don't dance.  Little girls dance, and women have more important things to do.  Like laundry.  I hadn't danced for many years until one day on the way home from counselling about ten years ago.  My session had been especially good, and I was in a euphoric mood.  I imagined I could see, dancing in my right brain, a happy girl.  She had glowing streamers in her hair, and her body flipped and sprang effortlessly through space, a gorgeous and happy dance of light. 

Ironically, in counselling, you learn to unthink stuff about age.  People who are quick to grow up, despise the things of childhood, and rush into being important and adult too soon, are often stunted in their emotional growth.  They are afraid of the childhood things that they left behind too soon, and in order to heal they have to go back in time, find their lost "inner child" and nurture themselves into emotional maturity and wholeness.  Those most emotionally immature are most resistant to revisit their childhood and find that inner child, abandoned, shamed and neglected, crying out for love and attention.  They are also most likely to want to "take it like a man" or woman, and can't admit that there is anything wrong them, or by extension, their family of origin.  Like a wounded animal determined to keep helping hands away, determined to protect themselves from imaginary danger until death takes them, a wounded soul despises the cure it most needs.

Yesterday I was irritated with the boys who hadn't done their chores on their day off.  I had been too busy with parent teacher conferences and errands to get after them.  They had found a way around our efforts to ban You Tube and were playing videos off of the Wii U.  Curiously, I spied what they were watching.  I saw a strange sight.  Four or five middle aged men with their faces creased in laughter, pure euphoria clearly smeared across the screen in all its glory.  My boys saw that I was watching and they drew me in excitedly, "Look at what they built Mom!  It's so COOL!"  It was very cool.  These men had pooled their resources and expertise to build a working remote controlled airplane that they had equipped with an airsoft gun.  As it flew through the sky, it shot air soft balls menacingly at a cardboard tank that was similarly equipped and fired uselessly into the grass of their make believe battlefield.  They had clearly invested a lot of time and effort into their fantasy war, and my boys got to see what they rarely get to see, grown men living the dreams of childhood!  What a glorious sight.  Better still, there were no grievously wounded soldiers, grisly corpses, or mourning wives and children involved.  It was all the fun, and none of the horror.  Men being male and loving it.

So now let's get awkward and talk about sex.  Dancing girls and warrior boys.  I don't pretend to be an expert on gender, but I used to be a girl, and I'm raising four boys, so I have some experience and observations to share.  Before I do, I want to draw attention to the urgency of this issue.  I personally know two wonderful people that I sing with who have made it into adulthood and are just now, in adulthood, discovering things about their sexual orientation, which from my lexicon means, their sexual identity: maleness, femaleness, and how they relate to other people.  Sexual orientation is actually a really good word.  A lot of lukewarm meaningless terms tend to come from the political left and political correctness has graced us with some of the stupidest words and phrases like, "happy holidays."  No one celebrates "holidays."  I know people who celebrate Christmas, Haunakkah, etc, but no one celebrates "holidays."  Maybe I'll do a post about that later.  Sexual orientation is a great word.  It clearly indicates that we are talking about the social expression of biological and spiritual realities about ourselves in relationship to other people.  Everyone has a different sexual identity and it's extremely complex.  I believe it is quite possible that every person is as unique in their sexual orientation as our fingerprints are unique to ourselves.  It is just as personal and just as sacred as you can get which brings me to another point.

Human sexuality is awkward, scary, taboo, sacred, beautiful, and essential.  It is the closest any of us will get to being like God, creating and raising other humans, becoming God to them; pretending to be what only our heavenly parents could adequately be, nurturers to other eternal creatures.  There is nothing more emotionally charged than sex and gender.  As we explore these issues we enter a minefield of triggers.  I dare to write this knowing that there is a good reason sex is awkward and taboo.  It is because sex matters!  To everyone.  As such, it is emotional dynamite and needs to be treated with care.

I venture into this minefield with my right brain.  Like in my zumba class, I am going to dance to the music I feel pulsing inside of me, write what I feel and hopefully it will shed some light on a subject that is so sacred and so unknowable, that the left brain just can't get a hold of it yet.  Like a Sci-Fi movie that has technology far beyond the scientific prowess of the present, the artist can imagine far more than the left brain can discover.  It is for the artist imagination to dance among the clouds, and leave the left brain thinkers to muddle through the details.  Here I go.

Why do girls dance?  We dance because we are beautiful.  We know we are beautiful.  There is nothing more beautiful than the female form, the dainty softness, the curve of a breast, a  hip.  The soft pink blush of a youthful cheek, the bouncing curls...all artists know that to find beauty, we look to the female.  And yet in the animal world, the female is usually not the most beautiful of the species.  Usually it is the male that is brightly colored and eye catching.  Why did God decide in his crowning creation, to make the female the more beautiful?  I don't know.  I just know that he did.  Many people get really upset about the female body being exploited.  Some of this outrage is totally justified, and some of it is misplaced.  When societies get in trouble is when our appreciation of female beauty becomes too narrow.

I have a dear friend that is in her nineties.  She helped to nurture me through my last major depressive episode.  I would come to her house and talk to her for hours.  Her gentle face, with it's lines, was especially beautiful to me.  In her bright eyes, I saw friendship and wisdom.  In her embrace, I found a kindred spirit.  I would tell her how beautiful she was and she would laugh.  "I'm as ugly as a mud fence.  That's what my dad always told me."  I have beautiful memories of another woman, my Aunt Minnie.  She was my mother's aunt and her soul had uncommon beauty.  She loved me and I loved her although I knew her only a few brief years.  She called me her dancing doll because I loved to spin and spin and dance in her living room while she watched and relished my performance.  Old women have a special kind of beauty and a unique kind of love.  The love an old woman is constant and reassuring, her hands worn and weathered from years of service.  The beauty of age may be an acquired taste, but it is real and potent.  Too often, in our fast food society, distracted by every shiny thing to cross our vision, we don't take the time to see the beauty of the old. 

The ideal of female beauty is complex.  We tend to think of ribbons, soft curls, and pastel colors when it comes to women, but there is more to us.  We have testosterone coursing through our veins too, although not in as great a quantity as men.  Often we are at our most alluring when we venture into the male world, a strange and mysterious presence.  I have found my alto two voice to be the most sexy when, like Karen Carpenter, I drop to the range of a tenor with sultery femininity.  It is as if taunting the males around me.  "See, I can sing your notes and sound like you never will.  I can be a woman in your territory!"  Likewise, those men who have not yet shed the fantasies of boyhood can be found playing Magic the Gathering, or Dungeons and Dragons in the shadow of a warrior princess, fiercely gazing down upon them with her scanitily clad body decked out in battle gear, feminine trappings and deadly weapons in a strange and compelling juxtaposition.  The nurturing woman, a glorious angel of death!  I have no idea if such a woman is sexually appealing to most men or all men, but she is obviously appealing to many.  Why is that?  Maybe we need to switch to men for a while.

I know more about men and boys now than I ever wanted to know.  Through their eyes, I see the feminine world as a strange and foreign place, but their world, once mysterious, now makes much more sense.  Theirs is a world of battle and dominance.  As they shed infancy, they immediately find a weapon.  They find a bow to shoot imaginary arrows when they pick up a lowly coat hanger.  Their little fingers make a gun, when a more realistic substitute is not immediately available.  Today Austin ripped up a piece of wooden floor trim to make his sword for lack of a better weapon.  These little men twirl and flourish their deadly weapons and hit the closest human they can find, usually me.  There is no better game than when Mom can pretend to be mortally wounded and fall to the ground.  Their little faces squeal with delight as they see that they were able to conquer giant all-powerful Mom!  Nothing is better than that feeling of dominance, of conquest, of winning. 

Consider the game of football.  It is a game of play war in which men fight to gain territory.  It is all the more compelling because of the danger involved.  Men literally sacrifice their bodies, and more controversially their brains, on the battlefield of this sport in similar ways to a real battlefield.  I have often wondered if the sport will ever become safe to play.  I doubt it.  Part of the appeal is in the danger of the game.  Like gladiator warriors in a Roman collesium, players must be willing to sacrifice pieces of themselves for the sake of the game.  And so the controversy continues and the debates grow hotly about the where the line is between safety and letting boys be boys; warriors who want to dominate more than they care about their own wellbeing.

What is the male ideal?  What kind of man is most likely to win the heart of fair maiden dancer?  Ironically, women tend to be most attracted to men who often don't meet the description of conqueror.  There are a few archetypical males we can look at:  the strong silent type, the bad boy, and the sensitive guy.  Women can be extraordinarily complex in their tastes to the point that it is difficult even for us to see any patterns to make any sense of things.  Overall, women don't put a lot of weight into appearance, except as it expresses the type of man she is interested in.  For example, I loved the idea of a cowboy type when I met Ben.  I loved the fact that he was from the country, hunted, and could ride a horse.  I loved that he had a rugged look about him, especially when he would come home from work as a tree trimmer.  He would always be confused when I wanted to hug and kiss him when he was all dirty, sweaty, and dusty.  My heart still flutters a bit when he does his rugged man stuff like operating power tools, cooking over an open fire, or climbing our tree to do some trimming.  I suppose my taste might be for the strong silent type.  Cowboys today are not very flashy.  They don't make headlines and their jobs are not high paying, but they are steady and dependable.  For an eccentric artist like myself, Ben has been a very good match.  He is like me in that he is my opposite.  I am expressive, he is reserved.  He is social, I am introverted.  He is the pragmatic, realistic, sensible one.  I am the dreamer, always lost in the world of what was and what could be. 

Some women prefer the bad boy.  Sometimes this is pathological, but I don't think it always is.  I think women, especially ones who tend to be rule followers, are drawn to men who push boundaries because they see the courage that they want to have more of themselves.  There is also the draw of the brooding man who is full of angst.  We want to soothe that angst and comfort that pain.  We want to inspire a man to be better than he is without us.

The sensitive guy is the most paradoxical of the archetypes.  Why would the male ideal be sensitive?  He is a warrior.  Warriors are not supposed to be sensitive.  In this I think we need to look at a female archetype, the fiercest and most feared warrior, the mother bear.  Why is the mother bear so feared?  Because she is driven by strong emotion.  Often it is the most sensitive man who is the most valiant protector, the most fierce opponent, the most diligent and persistent foe.  In this ironic combination of traits, the sensitive man becomes his own ideal; the conqueror, not by suppressing and denying his emotions, but by unleashing them to maximize their power.

Sex, courtship, and marriage, is the place where dancer and warrior meet.  Each has their expectations and desires  Each person a unique and complex sexual being, sacred and eternally significant.  The individual must venture into the territory of the other and find himself or herself in the opposite.  Usually it ends up awkward, smelly, and disappointing for everyone.  Of course I don't speak for everyone, but I assume that with something this difficult, I'm not the only one to come away from the whole thing a bit disillusioned.  "That's what all the fuss was about?"  Marriage itself can become something more like an old Ugg boot than sexy stiletto.  Divorce lawyers are busy and as many times as we change partners, we fail to make the connection we longed for.  The dancer girl, craving the adoration and worship of her beauty, the warrior craving the conquest and dominance of the sexual battlefield.  In sex and marriage, we come so close to what we want, but become cynical as we find it ever just out of reach.  We set aside fantasies and dreams of our childhood days and settle for the here and now.  But you are still reading.....could it be that if we are brave enough to enter the minefield that we just might learn something that could change it all?  Let us keep the hope alive and explore a little further. 

I said before that women don't dance.  Actually, women do dance, but only with each other.  We safely dance within view of one another, without fear of arousing sexual desires, we reveal the expressiveness of our bodies to one another.  I have even thought, somewhat scandalously, that it would be so fun to dress up in one of those gorgeous belly dancer outfits and learn to belly dance.  Some women buy poles and learn the art of pole dancing, that most seductive of dance/stripper routines.  As we dance, we not only get our bodies more fit and healthy, we learn to find joy and beauty within ourselves and our own sexuality.  If we could learn to be comfortable with being awkward, maybe we could even share that with our husbands.  I suspect they would be thrilled.

On the other side of the sexual aisle, perhaps men could be a little more tuned into their own strong emotions and desires and let them spur him to greater effort and creativity on the sexual battlefield.  Maybe he can utilize some of those formidable resources he has amassed to purchase some flowers, gifts, and trinkets.  Perhaps he might find the courage to be vulnerable, show emotion, and be that "sensitive guy" who conquers with his inner "momma bear."  He could use his creativity and daring to be spontaneous, and thoughtful in his approach toward wooing her, thereby becoming conqueror of the bedroom. 

I feel that I am reaching the end of what I have to say in this post although there is so much more I could say.  Hopefully I have spurred some good thoughts.   I have focused mostly on good healthy sexual relationships and interactions although the "me too" movement has shown us that there is definitely a dark side to the interactions of men and women.  Satan has filled our world with lies and stumbling blocks like pornography and confusing messages around sexual identity, to where it is almost impossible to navigate the maze.  We injure ourselves and one another as we stumble blindly in a sea of complexity.  I begin to approach the wisdom of Socrates who said, "True wisdom is in knowing that you know nothing."  At least its a place to start!