Garden Heart

My morning meditation is a walk

through the garden of my heart 

as I ask the universe to show me 

her:

      The Divine Feminine. 

I construct, deconstruct and re-

construct through my thoughts 

and actions the idea of the wild -

woman.

Unkowingly, she comes to me. 

Increasingly, I see her in every

woman I meet. 

She is embedded in me.

I hear her in my mother's cackle, 

that's become my cackle, 

that's become my friends',

my sisters', my child's.

Wrestling with the present.

Sitting in it. Letting my 

intuition rise up like a flame

to warm and illuminate

the crevices in my chest. 

I pause. I feel joy. I think:

This can't possibly be 

reserved for me, for us,

for women. 

Then, like fog rising in the 

morning sun it dawns on me:

The divine feminine is 

in us all. She tends and observes

and is simply waiting for

us to give her a call. 

John Smith

What of this obsession with the colonizer?

I jog my memory, I run the hard-drive of 

my mind. My dad's voice ringing in my 

six year old ears: Call her Safia so that

her name is not a tongue-twister. 

Twisting whose tongue? Do I twist

their tongues now? Titillating, 

tempting, triumphant, truce. 

Sadistic seething. Sinister 

satisfaction. 

Desire me so that I can learn 

to love myself. No. Lay your

hands on me so that this emptiness 

is filled with something close

to the feeling of 

an existence. 

Wait. 

Think about that. Without the 

affirmation of your gaze, lust, 

eyes on my soul shifting face 

fleeting floating. I am stuck 

somewhere between the void 

and nothing.

Now tell me that colonization

brought boons? My bones

bereft of belonging.

Or maybe it is about possession

of power? For me. Pretty plight

pleaing to prey.

Freddie Prinz Junior

Let me tell you a story that makes my heart
    beat with intention.
Okay, I lied. I don't even know
                     if my heart beats anymore.
I actually think that it's drowning  -
          in the sludge of shame. I know that it
longs, though and I know that it feels.

I hear the crackling of the fire
   and remember the time I almost burned
the house down - alone in it. An involuntary
  suicide.
               Irony in the face of all those bottles of
                   pills.

Relief.
My belly sits on my thighs.
          The monk, she told me to relax it.
                                                          Let it hang.
           Breathe in and
                                                        let it expand.
           Breathe out and
                                                       let it contract.

How does that
          make you feel?
                                   You fatphobic fuck!
See, that's funny
         because it's usually:           fat fuck.
There is power in turning the words around.
There is power in words.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't somewhat fond
        of the pain. I mean, my joy was stolen from me
the day I pulled the Freddie Prinz Junior poster
                                                         out of my locker.

Smothered by vacuous righteousness.
                      And the false promise of belonging. 

The Cox Phenomenon

Here it is again. The gallows of woman-
   hood - the debilitation which validates
the condition.

Someone tell me; does living through
  a pandemic give you license to breathe,
in the midst of those who cannot?

Or shall I shift the gearstick into neutral
  and roll into a pasture?

Maybe you'll drown with me at the bottom
  of the lake?

Like the time I read
       that we have just three minutes to live
but every time we breathe it resets the clock.

Wrap your head around such a fragile
    existence. And contrast it with the
woman born limbless
                                   who flies planes.
 

Butterlies

Do you know what it's like 

To be ten 

And carry everything

Of meaning- 

Every type of love 

You could ever fathom 

Or imagine 

Or even recall 

Having experienced -

In a purse 

With you 

Shiny butterfly clips

Lady bug springs 

Glitter wings 

Taken away 

While you slept. 

Never to return. 

Except 

In a distant memory 

A childhood 

Vignette 

In the visage 

Of a mind 

That has grown

To be so sad.

But only from 

Time to time. 

The Politics of Body Hair

I stopped removing my body hair about three years ago. I think I've really taken this to the limit. I've regrown my monobrow. I don't shave my legs (unless I go to something like a wedding). My armpit hair is longer than most mens. My vagina looks like a ferret, but I think it's cute.

I can't tell you why I did this. I just had enough of paying ridiculous sums of money to wax. I did it as an act of resistance and as a fuck you to the patriarchy. Most of the time I'm happy with my decision, but often there is a hypocrisy I feel when I hear women talk about removing their hair.

I can't explain this. I know women must do what empowers them and what makes them feel good, but I often feel angry and repulsed at how the removal of body hair is normalised. I was listening to a podcast the other day and a muslim woman stated proudly that muslim women were the first to remove body hair. "It's a hygiene thing", she said. As a muslim woman I felt really fucking irritated. It's an understatement of the burden the patriarchy has placed on us to be vessels for what men find enjoyable.

I get a lot of flack for my body hair. When I take a new male lover I often worry about whether or not they will find it attractive. I had one lover tell me that he wouldn't eat my pussy because it was too hairy, and I have never picked up a razor so fast (I am not perfect!). I had another lover ask me if I considered myself a "natural" kinda gal, and I said "no, I wear makeup", and he said "but you don't shave", and I said "do you mind it?" and he said "it doesn't exactly get my dick hard, but it's alright I guess". And I spent the whole day wondering if I was automatic dick repellant.

My family hates it. My mother has come to accept it but she looks at me with disgust and disdain. When I visited my older sisters last Christmas they didn't shut up about it until I let them wax it themselves.

I follow lots of hair positive movements on instagram. I post a lot of photos of me with my armpit hair out. The response is mixed. Women hardly ever comment on it. Men do. And it's polarised. They either fetishise me with statements like "Hair good. I want lick armpit. Sexy amazon. Make sex.", or "You look like a man, that's disgusting.". I'm not here for the men. If I don't know them I would like to say that I don't give a fuck about what they think. But I do. Is this the condition of an empowered radical feminist? Why does it make me feel so dirty to have men say these things about me? Why can I really not just give zero fucks?

This post is starting to sound like a rant. I suppose I am lamenting the fact that in 2019 body hair on a woman is still a contentious issue. I just wish I could find a space where it is considered natural, and sexy and beautiful and I could come to my fullness in it without being made to feel self-conscious or worry about whether it may jeopardise getting my pussy eaten.

Do you grow your hair? If you do let me know how you feel about it in the comments.

XX

Questions about divine orgasm

The female orgasm is something that mystifies most of the world. I am not above this group. In the last few years my sexual awareness has grown, but has generated more questions for me than answers.

In short I have found myself able to orgasm from no stimulation to my vagina or clitoris. Often I orgasm from nipple stimulation and french kissing. At other times from just being touched, on the arm, on the leg, on my belly, anywhere really. And at other times from not being touched at all.

Here's a little anecdote. I had a crush on a guy at work. He was (is) super steamy. One morning we went out for a coffee on the terrace. We were talking about unions and wages. NOTHING sexual. I was looking at him, and bam! I started orgasming. I had to cut the conversation short and run upstairs. I'm still shook.

I've told my friends about this and they always have questions. Is it the same sensation that arises from clitoral stimulation? Is it the same as an orgasm from penetrative sex? The answer is both yes and no. There is a release, there is tension in my vulva when it happens, there is deep pleasure, but it is very spiritual. It's not directly comparable, but there is no doubt about it: It's an orgasm.

I suppose I'm writing this because I'm stunted by it. I want to know if other women and men experience this type of energetic orgasm. I have friends who definitely come from nipple stimulation, so that one is sorted. It is more common than you think. But I have yet to meet someone who can come from no physical stimulation whatsoever.

I've read about it. Most of my reading has led me in the direction of tantra and kundalini energy. Kundalini energy is basically the opening of one's base chakra. I resonate with this but it still doesn't explain why it happens. It's just some mysterious "awakening" and that's it. Tantra seems to be more of an active practice. This doesn't resonate because I haven't been actively trying to awaken anything sexual within myself.

This morning I was meditating and midway through I started orgasming. In my meditative state I chose not to indulge it, but just to observe. I managed to let it go and the sensation stopped. But afterwards I was astounded at this ability that my body has. Something has shifted. And when I think about sex now, I yearn for, more than anything, just to indulge the spirituality that comes with this kind of orgasming. It feels divine. It feels like I am connected to the earth. It feels wholesome.

I feel the sensation in my vulva. But also in my being. In my belly there is an excitement. For it. For life.

Anyway, I am writing this blog because I have more questions than answers? Is there anyone out there who can explain why this happens? Are there any other people who its' happened to?

If you have some intel. Do share.

In pleasure.

x