In kindergarten I ripped out racy b&w magazine ads of a naked, intertwined, sweaty man and woman, and presented them, as a show of pre-pubescent instinctual flirtation, in a saucy little pile, to a boy I liked in my class. I was five, maybe six years old. You can imagine how mortified I was to return home and find said pictures in a manila envelope on my kitchen table with my mom and dad hovering above it, not quite equipped with the parental tools to know what to do with me. I didn’t go into Catholic school until a year later, because God only knows (pardon the equivoque) what might have happened if nuns attributed the sensual magazine pages to my personal (or lack thereof) development. Now thinking back on it, perhaps the entire incident was the prompting my parents needed to put me under the watchful eye of those private school nuns.
I have always had a passionate draw to sex, sensuality, physicality. One notices these interests are higher than the average levels when over 30 years on this planet provide a string of relationships with which to mirror those energies. I was a smart, mousy, unattractive kid. Although I am grateful for them now, many of my formative years I was shunned in social circles and so I spent my time buried in books, and living in a world of imagination, scheming fantastical adventures of a life far away from our little brick Chicago home. I was, without a doubt, a full-fledged geek.
Around 18 all of that dramatically shifted. I went from cute to sexy. Bookworm to bombshell. Men’s eyes were suddenly on me always, and it was intoxicating. Sex is a powerful force in our world, particularly in this country where the media phrase “sex sells” still so pervades our societal landscape, there are times I see billboards on Houston that make me blush. Although I always seemed to (thankfully) be a good gal at heart, (even if Girls Gone Wild had been around I probably would have been too socially awkward to participate) there was a bit of a feeling of someone who wins the lottery—suddenly I had access to all these resources and I wanted to play.
I bring this up because sex, at its most beautiful, is a sacred, intimate act. A woman in particular can only fully open her being to a man when she feels safe, respected, protected. As we mature we learn how to boundary and nurture this exchange; our most exquisite interactions are, and should remain, private, personal, venerated.
As we all deepen and strive to bring more soul bling into our daily bread, melding spirituality or source or spirit with our lives, I wonder if we shouldn’t treat God more like sex.
In the enthusiasm of an awakening—be it sexual or spiritual, it is easy to wear our sex or our soul on our sleeve. It’s human nature to want to go toward what makes us feel good, proclaim it loudly, to take ownership of it for ourselves, at times publicly or in a flashy manner. At 18 that meant tight blouses, in my 20’s it was espousing the miracle benefits of my newly discovered yoga practice to those who didn’t necessarily care to listen. My bestie came back from a Deepak Chopra retreat last year telling me ten times a day why I should be meditating half an hour in the morning and the evening, and it was more than mildly irritating.
So I offer, should we be treating our God connection more like our sex lives? I realize how hypocritical I am being here to some extent, considering I have 20 blog posts about consciousness, but should we be more careful? Is there perhaps a more appropriate, discreet way to outlie our God stuffs to the world?
In a reverse blasphemy, could one argue that 'Jesus Saves’ pamplets are vulgar? Soapbox preachings distasteful? Has anyone ever been "saved" by having God crammed down their throat?
A couple nights ago I was in the East Village sipping wine at a sidewalk café with two people from my real estate world. A band of Hare Krishnas walked by as they are want to do in that area since there is a temple right on 2nd Avenue. Now I probably happen to know more than the average person when it comes to what they are chanting and why, although ten years ago, I too would have designated them as a bit nutty. One of my colleagues, a touch drunk, let out a harsh remark regarding his vexation for the HK’s. The other (being a close friend and therefore aware of my spiritual bent) with a sideways glance at me, tried to soften the other’s biting comments. Obviously our reactions speak to our own fears and conditioning, but it was an interesting display to see someone respond so negatively to such innocent jubilation.
I’ve always liked my spiritual juju to be dealt with as little “woo” as possible. A personal choice, yes, and not for everyone, but I wonder if there might be some value across the board in more prudently expressing our spiritual connections to the world. As any chic woman knows, when dressing, juxtaposition is key. If it’s a tight short skirt, that is equaled out by a looser blouse. If you’re going to go for the cleavage, you don’t let it all hang out underneath as well. A little goes a long way.
When everything is on display, that speaks to an insecurity. Could the same be said for all the woo? Are not the most grounded teachers of our time not those who recruit, who are screaming, preaching, but rather those who have an innate peace and groundedness and instead, others are drawn to them?
It’s a tricky balance, and we’re all bound to misstep here and there. Everyone has to figure it out for themselves. Will I wear mala beads as a bracelet and maybe silently thank my food before eating? Yes. Am I going to hold hands with all of my friends in a hip restaurant and chant a mantra over our cocktails? Um, not so much.
I’m going to wear a short denim mini today. I will counteract that with a demure, stylish blazer. When someone asks what I do with my yoga, my mediation, my food, my blessings, I will be open, honest, but choose to keep my cards close to my chest. Because that’s mine and for me alone. And if someone wants access, well, they’re going to have to work for it.
