late bloomer

I've been blogging for almost four years - longer, if you count my old xanga blog. But it's only been the last four years where I have really come into my own, come out to myself, and to the world at large about who I am.

When I was a high school student, withdrawn and ashamed, I would never have believed that I could take the stage, that I could speak or sing words that people would listen to, that would resonate with any audience. And here I am, in my mid-forties, discovering things about myself that I never realized were possible. My performance anxiety, my ignorance of my true self-worth has held me back more times than I care to think about. I sense that this phase of my life is coming to an end.

It is never too late. To come out, to learn new things, to build your confidence, to take on challenges, to put yourself on a different path. I've sensed for a few months now - and dreamed, and visioned - that this is my year to take my inner changes and forge a new outward path. It began last week.

When I was preparing for Cliterature 2012, I read the piece I chose to a good friend of mine, someone who always tells it like it is. And she challenged me - what I had written was good, but she felt that I could go further. If I am writing about my own sexuality, why skirt the issues. She suggested I write about my first experience with a woman. And I did, but I realized I had more to say.

Four years ago, give or take a few months, I discovered that I was not the only woman who waited until her mid-forties to fully explore and discover her own sexuality. I met women who were experiencing exactly the same thing - and I was so relieved to find them, to share experiences, joys and pitfalls with a community - however formed, whether or not we ever met in person - that I will always be grateful for their presence in my life. You know who you are. We've commented on each others blogs, emailed and messaged each other, connected through facebook, and twitter and sometimes even in person, although most of you are scattered across the continent.

I want other women, those beginning this exhilarating and frightening process of coming out, remaking their lives, reveling in self-love to realize what I learned - in such a difficult way - four short years ago. You are not alone. You are loved and loveable. There is joy and fulfillment on the other side of coming out.

I wrote  and performed this for you.

from the archives

 I haven't much time to post this week - I'm getting ready to do a performance piece next Saturday at a local women's  event  devoted to women's sexuality called Cliterature.  

Am I nervous? You bet I am. I suffer from acute, shaking, nerve-wracking performance anxiety. Fortunately, I've been building my confidence with vocal and guitar lessons....and I am reading, not singing. I am determined to let go of my fears and have fun.

In the meantime I've been going through some of my old notebooks, again, and pulling out things I like. This one is a few years old...please enjoy. And perhaps, if the video works out, I can post my own performance right here, after the show is over.

Morning muse  

  

She says “Wouldn’t it make sense to stay home with the cat, curled up soft and purring on the blanket?”

Snow flies past the window, swirling, and it obscures the houses across the way. The window is open the tiniest crack, and bits of white cold are floating in, not far enough to reach the bed, but enough to singe the air with frost.

“Don’t go,” she begs me. "Whatever it is can wait. See how the cat sleeps, tail wrapped around his body, covering his cold nose? He purrs mindlessly, surrounded with warmth. He doesn’t care if his shift starts in an hour, or if there are uncaught mice scampering across the snow. His body says sleep, and he sleeps.”

Shift him over a bit, that’s the way. Goddess, your feet are cold. Closer, now.

"You could call in sick. Or maybe school is cancelled. Checking the road conditions requires movement and I’m staying right here."

I’ll move my hand with the

rhythm

that makes you squirm.

I like to watch that.

And while I watch, and sink and purr, like the cat, and the snow flies outside, while the leafless branches moan with the wind’s caress, while we are, I know you are somewhere else. I can’t follow you there, although I’ve tried, I don’t know the words that might unlock you. 

And I want so much to see you open, your heart mind body, but I can’t get there with you.

Why?

What closed you, and when?

"It shouldn’t be this much work. I’d rather have it all served up on a big platter and know instead of guessing. Instead of having to penetrate, I want to guide my fingers effortlessly through the fluid of your inner workings. I constantly watch the mirror of myself as we evade what’s tough. Each of us immutable, and yet unreachable."

"Can we start with something simple? What do you like, for instance?"

 I answer “I like to watch you sleep.

I like the way coffee smells in the morning.

I like layers of soft, warm blankets and silk pajamas that rub against my legs.

I like the sun as it hits the western horizon and spreads red across the sky.

Colour, I like colour. And the way the hills roll softly on the drive from Waterloo to Wellesley.

I like the spice of dal, the heat of curry and cayenne,

the coolness of the yoghurt, the sweetness of chutney all together in my mouth.

I like to coax tiny plants that cling to life.

I like the smell of basil, the crisp taste of garden-fresh spinach.

 A clean house. Apple butter dripping off a knife.

Aimless wandering and long stretches of sand. Darkness, no light."

"What about you? What do you like?"

"No, don’t reach for your clothes yet...."