Concrete Musings

When I was a teenager my dad’s friend told me, “Kid, you are one of the only people I can picture being okay single for the rest of your life.” I was furious at him. The prospect of being single forever sounded lonely, isolating, and terrifying. I wanted to find deep love, and spend my life with someone. Marriage and kids were never really a fantasy for me. I would still rather donate a kidney than live in the suburbs. But I did want to have a partner that could be an ally.

Now I am wondering if he may have been right. Could I spend the rest of my life single? I am single, but I don’t feel single living here amongst thirty or so other people. There is always someone to eat with, talk with, cry with, have sex with, cuddle with, and love with. If I need support someone will give it to me. If someone else needs support and I can provide it, I do. Granted, the someone is not always the same person. But last week I was sick with a fever and I had a ride to the doctor, a person to bring me soup, and someone to kick my ass out of bed when it was time to get up.  Does it have to be one person that provides the comfort, love, and attention in order to cultivate deep intimacy? I’m not sure. I know that I get what I need, but at the end of the day it doesn’t feel like I owe anybody anything. I know that I am whole and someone else does not need to complete me.

And yet there is still a part of me that wants that thing, and feels a little bit broken without it. Part of me wants the gooey, messy, sticky, sweet chocolate cake love in my life. The type I see in romantic comedies, complete with fights in the rain, one-line revelations, and make-up sex. I met a girl last night at a party and caught my mind wandering to that place. “Could she be the one?” I asked myself.  The one that does what? Tames me: puts me in a house in the east bay with a dog that I treat like my child. Do I really want that? I think not. But there are those things: sex that feels like coming home, someone telling me that I am impossible to live without, knowing every story of her past and her knowing mine. The soft, sticky, cotton candy that dissolves in your mouth feeling of love that I miss.

During college I was a Women’s Studies major, with an emphasis in queer studies. I read theory about sex and sexuality, talked about sex, and yes, even had some sex myself.  I was enthralled by the power of sex and sexuality. It could turn someone into a monster, inspire worship, and cost thousands of dollars. Everyone seemed to be wanting it, obsessed with having it, or trying not to think about it. Sex and sexuality seemed to seep into every facet of human existence. But, as college ended, I decided I was going to be an adult, which meant focusing on more practical, socially acceptable things. I went to teacher’s college. And while the high school students I taught have full societal permission to wear tennis ball sized hickeys on their necks like Olympic make out medals, teachers are supposed to be contained, controlled, and sexless. I have spent much of the last three years trying to shift the focus of my life from sex to language, teaching, and social justice.  I keep failing. Sex and sexuality keep drawing me in. I realized that I am not more peaceful and focused when I’m not having sex, like I had planned. I have seen that my desire does not dissipate when I ignore it. And larger than just my own sexual needs and desire, I have rediscovered how important sex is in the world. It is not only a ploy for marketers, but also a path towards awakening senses and spirituality. It can be the secret ingredient that enriches someone’s whole existence. It is worthy and beautiful work.

Last month, I was one of the many lucky victims of the great recession.  When I started this blog I decided that it was going to be G-rated, a happy, light, and blissful blog about zen moments in everyday life. But here’s the thing, I live in a community dedicated to helping people explore and open up around their sex. Sometimes, especially now that I don’t have any witty teaching anecdotes, a sexual encounter is the most interesting and enlightening part of my day.  I realized yesterday, staring at the blinking curser on my screen, that without sex there is no blog. There is no Zen in my life without orgasm.

Yesterday, I attended the lesbian mega concert known as Lilith Fair at the Shoreline Amphitheater about forty minutes outside of San Francisco. We were seated in the general admission section, on the lawn behind the expensive seats. After hours of build up, the music finally started, and of course, from our seats the stage looked like an elaborate ant farm. Most people were lounging and talking, and some were texting on their cell phones, others were taking pictures. A few proud couples were dancing, they were sticking up like blades of grass missed by the lawn mower.

One such blade was a slightly overweight middle-aged man with a pot belly and long straight stringy hair. He had round John Lenin glasses on with blue lenses, cut off shorts, and a yellow t-shirt like tank top that hung down loosely to his upper thigh. He was dancing like no one was watching. He swung his arms back and forth like a pendulum, and along with the beat bent his knees and raised his fists like he was playing drums above his head. Someone, I’m not sure who, started dancing behind him, following his every move.  Soon, there were a dozen people dancing along with the man in the yellow shirt in synchronistic pleasure. The crowd grew, and the entire lawn sat and watched in amazement as the Man in the Yellow Shirt lead a group of 50 or so lesbians into unbridled, smiling joy. Kids were picked up on shoulders, and people started to forget to watch the Man in the Yellow Shirt for cues and spontaneously  started their own organic dances. Some people tried to take the spot light. They stood in front of the entire crowd and created ridiculous movements on the spot. They would self-consciously look over their shoulders to see if others were moving with them, but to no avail.  The Man in the Yellow shirt continued to be the leader. Everyone on the lawn forgot about the stage and watched the spontaneous happening.

The Man in the Yellow Shirt, throughout the ordeal, kept dancing like no one was watching. Eventually the band played a slow song, the crowd dispersed, and the concert fell back into normalcy. But the Man in the Yellow Shirt continued to dance. It didn’t matter to him if he had two hundred followers or if he was dancing alone. He was still dancing when I left more than four hours later.

I would like this blog to exist in that same vein. I would like to write with the same integrity and honesty with which the Man in the Yellow Shirt danced. In my own journey, fueled by the desire to live a deep and meaningful existence, I experience the most unexplainable things. Sometimes they are magnificent and other times they are ridiculous. And of course, there is struggle and sweat. The Man in the Yellow Shirt was not always pretty. But he was honest in that moment, and that is what I am striving for.