Skinny Enough For Love

Skinny Enough For Love

From the archive: A few years I lost a lot of weight and noticed some interesting changes in the way people responded to me. Here’s a snippet of what I reflected on back then. 

I don’t make any secret of the fact that I’m as single as a single person comes – never been on a date, never held hands, never been kissed. I do consider myself to be in possession of a fairly healthy sexuality. I’ve certainly met my fair share of men who, in possession of depth, character and a sense of humour have won my affection. In other words – I’ve never been not open to the idea. In fact – if there is one thing in this world that I know how to do.. it’s crush. I’mreally good at seeing the beauty, goodness and wonder in the people around me.

Still – something in the wind has changed.

The only thing that’s changed is my physical appearance. And I’m not offended by it. It’s the most honest thing to acknowledge. Sometimes love and romance needs a trigger; sex certainly does.

Whatever the threshold of commonly accepted desirability/eligibility is – I think I’ve passed it. For the first time in my adult life, people are taking an interest in my love life. They’re suggesting people to connect with. It’s intensely strange to experience something that feels so adolescent at this stage of my life. Some in jest, some in resolute seriousness, have begun to talk about my relationship status, potential mates. From the most unusual places, comes commentary, speculation and suggestion.

The only thing that’s changed is my physical appearance. And I’m not offended by it. It’s the most honest thing to acknowledge. No more of that, true love loves regardless stuff. Sometimes love and romance needs a trigger, and sex definitely does. Chemistry might still exist but it has a hard time getting out there when you’re carrying extra kilos than you should. There’s no issue in that for me. I’m so different now to how I was and so much the same. I’m no more or less sexually aware or available than I ever was… but others’ awareness of me has changed.

In fact, it’s almost a rewarding gratification. It’s a relief to be noticed at last. It’s a relief to have my sexuality, my gender recognised and attributed to my attractiveness. It’s confirming and affirming my identity and participation within the species. I am no more woman than ever I was, but oh, you should hear me roar now.

What I wonder is – to what extent does physicality impact our overall perception of sexuality/eligibility and attraction? I’m not really that different in mind or heart than I was 10 months ago, but still I think a friend said it best, when he said “You’ll be married any minute now – just look at you!” I’m thinking it impacts us quite a lot. In fact, more so the group and community dynamic than the individual. After all, in years past – the art of matchmaking has always had a place in community ritual. So, community affirmation of sexuality and gender identity is important.

So, is there a threshold at which we subconsciously categorize people and attribute a certain level of asexuality to their persona? A point at which we stop considering the attributes of sexuality in the consideration of a whole person?

From Another Side
I’ve always felt guilty of failure, as if there was a part of my understanding of human nature that was simply underdeveloped, unqualified due to my inexperience. I’ve had to consciously shirk off feelings of “less-than” and the looks that suggested a sub-text I’d only understand once I’d had a relationship of my own.

I can agree that there are many nuances of human behaviour that I have not experienced for myself. Still, my observation skills seem to increase exponentially as the years tick by. Last night around drinks, there was a refreshing and unheard of perspective shared for the first time ever. With it, a bit of a bubble broke and I felt somehow released.

“Still,” he said (being the recipient of a recently shattered heart), “you’ve got to be thankful that you don’t have any of that baggage of poor relationships to carry into the future. Everything’s a fresh clean slate.”

Yes – there is something delightful about that. Whatever tragedies I have suffered on my own or lived vicariously through my friends … I have no significant love wounds. All unnecessary and unfounded conjecture on love may abound – but I can believe the best of love between a man and a woman. I can believe in soulmates, in connection as deep of the deepest oceans. I can believe in patience and appreciating someone for who they are, not how they make me feel. I can love freely out of knowing myself. I can believe the best of love and how it is.

Now, the world says I am qualified for love; acceptably attractive. The community expects it of me. Isn’t that strange?

This was written more than five years ago. I’m slightly heavier now than I was writing this, but just as single. A few stolen kisses and plenty of confirmation of my robust, vital sexuality. Still unscarred from love and yet, not without wounds. My community has changed expectation too. Now, those who speak say it’s my intelligence and independence. Others nod sympathetically, I just nod. I am more myself now than I was then but I have always been me. 

I Am Not Qualified For Beauty.

I Am Not Qualified For Beauty.

I did not earn these tiger stripes of mine. I am not one of the women who can claim bravery, sharing images of stretchmarks on Instagram. The hashtag is #loveyourlines. Search it and you will read some words that reveal how women really feel about beauty and its social constructs.

“Maybe we’ve been looking at it wrong. Maybe we’re not damaged, maybe these are the brands of our accomplishments.”

“I have struggled with my stretchmarks for years, but today I want to accept them. I’m not perfect, but I’m worthy of love and loving myself.”

“They’re like flames and like the Phoenix, I will rise above them.”

We talk as if the body fights against itself. As if we have fought, battled and finally lost perfection as the prize. Then we call that battle birth and say it must be worth it. Our sacrifice is worth it because of what we made.

If a woman must say she is beautiful because she made another human, because her scars are the product of love, because she sacrificed flawlessness to make another perfect little body to one day be wrecked by scars of love’ – then she does not say ‘Because.’

She is saying ‘despite’.

Qualifying For Beauty.

We are looking for one more way to qualify for beauty and find our meaning. It’s not that our meaning is solely found in our beauty but physical beauty and the popular feminine are entwined without distinction. So our language becomes muddled and unclear. We mistake our words in trying to accept ourselves fully. We are saying self-acceptance and love lies beyond overcoming the obstacle of our physical imperfections, we talk ourselves into self-acceptance by worthy cause and thus; forget – our bodies alone are not our beauty. In fact, our bodies are not our beauty, just a vessel of it. A machine.

If I didn’t know that our bodies are not our beauty, it would be easier to believe. Instead I know our bodies are vessels for beauty not beauty itself. Carriers of beauty and at times beautiful, our bodies are machines designed to slowly burn up as we decay physically, mentally towards death. We ought to use them up, wrinkled and worn down. We ought to wring every ounce of beauty from within these bodies.

Isn’t it strange that our bodies might be loved and yet our True Selves remain untouched, but when we are truly loved and seen, our bodies can be also loved?

Maybe I could stand it if the tiger stripes of birth were my story too. Little silver marks that fall delicately around my curves. Like lace over my hips and gathered like fingerprints under my belly button. Velvety to the touch, in the right light they shimmer, like a roadmap of where to touch me. In truth, the map says – here’s where I stretched. Here’s what’s left behind of the sad and heavy days, here’s what you didn’t know at 17. Here’s what you lost at 28 and found at 30 years of age. Here is my pale Scottish skin over strong thighs and proud breasts. Here is an extraordinary, sensitive machine that carries my self, my soul, my sense.

My marks are not qualified.

They are not beautiful because they came from something worthy.

Nor beautiful because they proved my womb is warm and useful.

They did not mark me as one who is connected by flesh and blood.

They are not battle scars.

They are not the remnants of some hard-fought struggle.

I am of sound mind enough to reason, these marks cannot make me beautiful – though you might tell me that, if I had given birth.

Truthfully, I have nothing worthy to attribute my marks to. Like many women who cover their first stretchmarks with the stretchmarks of childbearing, I grew too fast and shrunk too quickly, my skin could not keep up. Time has passed and those lines are faded. I do not qualify my imperfections to be considered beautiful. My body was made to be used up and I am doing a good job of that, perfecting it’s strength and ability for balance, grace and clumsiness.

In the same way, I am not beautiful because of my age or the lines on my face. I cannot be considered beautiful because I have lived so long, making this body last until my life is etched in leathered valleys.

Isn’t it strange that our bodies might be loved and yet our True Selves remain untouched, but when we are truly loved and seen, our bodies can be also loved?

My beauty is within. Seek it out.

A Second Time Around Wedding.

A Second Time Around Wedding.

I think I’m just about done writing and thinking about this marriage business. There’s maybe two more posts in me for the next little while and then I’ll be putting it aside. My friend Bethany pointed out that it’s been something I’ve talked and thought a lot about over the last couple of years. It was like a warning bell. Until recent years, I haven’t really talked about being single and I certainly don’t want to get stuck with only one topic of conversation.

Tomorrow, my best friend from high school is getting married, again. While I’ve been to a lot of second weddings, this is the first one I’ve been to where I’ve been to both events, let alone had the same job at each. Years ago, she asked me to write and read a poem for her wedding as I stood beside her in a burgundy bridesmaid dress. This week, I’ll read lyrics to a song they love and I have no idea how it’s going to turn out, but I’m hopeful. As she said, “We’re professionals, so there’s no rehearsal.” So true, my friend, so true.

Her first wedding is best left in the past, it’s become a poignant and intimate thing that is best shared between two friends who have loved each other for a long time. Together, we can laugh, groan and cry about it. Her second wedding will feel more true, more authentic at least. Less triviality.

The first time around, mutual friends and acquaintances fluttered around with reassuring and unfounded promises, the way they tend to do with bridesmaids.

“You’ll be next!”

“Can’t wait for your wedding, it’ll be such a party!”

Even the band (of friends) joked they would have to stay together long enough to play my wedding dance. They’ve long since broken up. There is no boyfriend. Nor a girlfriend, which I’m asked surprisingly a lot. I don’t have an ex-husband to roast. There are a handful of awkward first-date stories that I use to entertain people. Tomorrow’s questions will not be as fun.

In the last year, my two sisters have become engaged and one is married, the other soon to be. My best friend from high school is about to marry again, as are some of my other recently divorced friends. Whether it’s the first time round, or second I feel joy for them. It’s the circumstance however, that’s pushed me to examine the deep, dark things of my life. To look at what is, embrace it and move into a different way of living with the ‘What-If’.

Sometimes life is like going to the dentist. You think you’re fine, until he prods that molar with the sharp pointy thing. Next thing you know, you’re paying for a cavity you didn’t realise you had.

I’m selfish and afraid. I’m afraid of disappointing people, afraid of facing the same old questions and the same old reassurances, when what I want to say is ‘No, stop. Just let it be what it is.’ I’m also learning to let go of my ego, that wants to asks things like, why them and why not me. Dark, dangerous, stupid questions. I’m not afraid that I’ll be single forever and I certainly don’t care about not spending a fortune on a one-day party. I’m afraid that I won’t be ok, if I’m alone. I’m afraid I’ll be too okay and that every day I move forward with my life into a complete, fulfilling, do-all-the-things world, I get further and further from the possibility of meeting someone to share that world with me.

I’ve lived half of my life with the expectation I’d meet someone and we’d re-design the rest of it together. A halfway co-design of the future was the plan I had. That’s not what it is right now, so I’m having to design the second half myself. More on that later.

What-Is, What-Isn’t and What-If.

I’m trying to give something up here, trying to grasp on to something new, this next phase re-design of my life. I’m trying to talk myself into a new way of thinking, which is largely about moving into a new phase of life. I’ll tell you about it once I have the words, but I’m currently in transition.

We all know people who get stuck in What-Isn’t. That singular focus and deep misery that comes from not seeing the wood for the trees. Longing for something they don’t have. Not just single people, but people unhappy in their jobs, their work, their health, their relationships. People who wish for change but do nothing about it, people who live stuck in What-Isn’t.

I think you can get stuck in the What-If too. Afraid to move in any direction in case the magic you were looking for comes along. What if they really change this time? What if my soulmate lives here instead of there; I’ll just stay put. What if I won’t be ok?

I’m trying to give up the What-Isn’t and the What-If. They are addictive, slimy little emotional ego drugs. To be fair, for a girl who lives by the motto ‘do all the things’, it’s not What-Isn’t that trips me up. I’ve never been one to wallow in what I don’t have – but even the twinge of “why her, why not me?” has shaken me enough to re-think my thinking. Just a glimmer of What-Isn’t thinking is too dangerous to give a foothold, like getting high one time and liking it just a little too much.

Earlier this year I nearly overdosed on What-If thinking. It is a slippery slide of self-doubt.

Being Present.

When people write and talk about being Present, this is what we mean. Cling to What-Is and live deeply out of that. Don’t dwell or give too much time to the What-Isn’t and What-if, lest you get stuck. Of course, the healthier you are the less dangerous the What-Isn’t and What-If thinking is. Sometimes life is like going to the dentist. You think you’re fine, until he prods that molar with the sharp pointy thing. Next thing you know, you’re paying for a cavity you didn’t realise you had.

 

Daughter….You Wear My Name (Courage).

Daughter….You Wear My Name (Courage).

She doesn’t actually have my eyes. Not this daughter, anyway. Mine are blue, her’s are brown. She’s borrowed. All of my children are, for now. It’s a gift I often speak of, the joy of having young people in your life. I’m lucky to be able to count dozens of them, most of them adults now and enough new ones coming into this world each year to keep my heart full. Too many to name, but each one a blessing.

Still, when I think of this one in particular, I think, “Daughter – you wear my name, those are my eyes, keep them raised“. It’s a lyric from a Jakob Dylan song called ‘War Is Kind’. And the name I have to give her, is Courage.

You can read all about Brylee’s story here but the short story is, after multiple setbacks, my sweet girl finally landed in Sydney to attend the prestigious Brent Street dance school just a few weeks ago. It’s been a long journey that started many years ago.

My girl is tough and kind. She’s going to have a strong, robust character with grit and warmth to her. She’ll always find it easy to make friends but she’s not all the way there yet. She’s not done baking, so to speak.

My friend Marko is a pretty smart chap. He said to me at the end of 2014, over a cigar in a Zen backyard in San Diego (one of my favourite places on earth).. “You know, you’re at a stage of life when you should still be learning in whatever environment you’re in.”

It’s pretty damn good advice and a good situation to be in at 35 years, to have someone prepared to remind you, you should still push yourself into learning environments. So when I think about Brylee, I hope and pray I’ve encouraged her to do what I try to do, hopefully to do it better. To take every opportunity as a learning chance, diving deep into the marrow of life and to keep learning, no matter where you are.

If I’ve done anything as a mentor and friend, I hope it’s been to encourage young people in establishing their voice, committing themselves to constant learning, evolution and most importantly, the courage to do those things ongoingly.

If there is one thing more I have to give Brylee, it’s courage to face her fears. Courage to face loneliness, insecurity and doubt. Courage to push through the toughest of lessons, even when they come around again and again. Funnily enough, when it came time to write those words down for her… all I had was a story. A story of the women I come from; tough, resourceful and resilient women who have been brave in many aspects of life – from solo mums, missionaries, oppressed housewives and many more. I come from a line of women who have grit and warmth and so I invited her into it; my surrogate, adopted daughter.

The funny thing is, I’m trying to give this lineage to her at the very same time as trying to grasp it myself. I think that’s magical, though. All that has come to me through mentors, teachers and family I’m trying to live and work out alongside a young woman who will be braver, stronger, kinder and tougher than I. We are forging this path together. We are making a way for each other.

So I wrote to her, the story of the family lineage I’m offering her, on top of the wonderful family she has. And then I wrote some advice – the kind of advice that I’ve received and the stuff that’s worth passing on. Even a few pieces entirely my own.

Your life is about to get really practical and hard. So promise me that you won’t lose the mystery and wonder and the possibility of ‘what if?’. And remember, that you come from a line (even by adoption!) of strong, capable women who push through when they get scared or intimidated. You have grown up capable and brave. Remember that we are all cheering you on, a family of women who are immensely proud of you but also pushing you on to cross over borders and boundaries for us. We have all pushed through our own to open up paths for you. Don’t forget that……

Remember your spirituality. I’m not talking about religion and you know that, right? Still, I hope that you’ll remember you are more than a body and mind and heart. There is something bigger in the universe and the more connected to it you are, the easier it will be to know yourself, to trust your instincts and to make your way on the earth. So take time out, even if it’s just to ask questions and write a journal…..

Choose your friends wisely. There will be some people who come in and out of your life for a season. That’s ok. Don’t let every new person into your innermost circle. Let them earn your trust first……

It’s really easy for people to focus on the challenges that you’ve overcome to get where you are. Now’s the time to start living as if you never faced them. What I mean by that, is you’re about to start growing up in all the normal ways everyone does. Learning to really take care of yourself, how to learn from every experience and how to admit when you’re wrong, how to say sorry when you don’t have to. All that kind of stuff that we have to learn as we grow……

Don’t do it by yourself. Keep talking to people when stuff goes wrong. Don’t be ashamed or embarrassed if you make mistakes or get into trouble. I wish I had learned this lesson a long time ago. Part of the risk of being a strong, independent woman is that you actually become too independent. It’s easy to start thinking as if any failure is unacceptable. Failure is simply a faster way of learning. It’s ruthlessly more efficient. So you should expect to fail often……

The most important thing is to learn to fail well – which means admitting something hasn’t worked or has gone wrong, to talk about it with others and to figure out what to do differently. Failing well usually means having people to keep you accountable in the mix as well. So these are things I hope you’ll remember when it happens next. It’s normal. Just reach out and get people to help you recover well. I promise that if you learn to do that, you’ll save yourself so much hardship in the future and become a much more compassionate and forgiving human being……

No triumph or mistake is the total sum of your success or failure. So don’t crow or mope more than you need to…….

Something else I want you to hold on to – this next part of your life is an opportunity and a risk, to become really selfish and self-centred. It’s easy when the whole focus of your life becomes what you are doing and what you want. So find someone to help when you get to Sydney. Find something that gets you out of your own world once or twice a week. It will help you stay grounded and it will also help you to remember that while dance school is everything right now, it won’t be everything forever… therefore it’s not the be all and end all in your world. Don’t live for today… live for tomorrow…..

In any situation, whether it’s an argument or someone who drives you crazy with love or crazy with hate – ask yourself first , what can I do differently? Then ask yourself what else might be going on for the people involved. Ask yourself whether there is anything about their perspective that might be true or worth taking on board. Do this ritually, even when it’s uncomfortable or when you are convinced you’re right. Especially when you are convinced you are right. This will help you to learn. It will make you stronger, more rational and more understanding…..

Don’t sleep with dumb boys. Seriously. And think hard about the story you’ll tell me about any tattoos. Mine have great stories, so I expect the same from you. If a conversation is good, then let it go on all night but don’t expect every night to be the same…..

Hold everything loosely except your own heart – you should hold that tight. When you decide to give it away, even in a little piece, give it freely without needing anything back. If you give love away because you need something in return, that isn’t love, precious girl. So give love when you know you’re still happy to give it without receiving anything in return from friends, with boys, with family…..

Love because love is good, not because you’re trying to fix anything within yourself. There will probably be times you do this anyway. Just make a note and ask yourself what you needed at the time. Don’t be afraid to go to therapy ever to deal with those questions….

I love you, earnestly and truly. I love you for the wonderful things about you and for the flaws we all have, that are about to begin being knocked off by your experiences in the world. Brave girl, you are always in my heart and I will always be with you in spirit, in love and in presence whenever I can…..

Lastly, I am always proud of you even if you ignore all this heartfelt advice. You will probably forget most of it at first, but maybe in six months or even six years you will remember this letter and pick it up again. I pray that whenever you pick it up, no matter how often or otherwise – you will find something in it that gives you hope, something that reminds you of what you can do to help any situation you are in. Remember you are only a supporting actor in the lives of all those people you’ll be around… but you can still win Academy Awards for that. So live well to encourage and support others. And live well to make a great story…..

She gives me strength, when I see her persevere. When I know my words lift her up, my spirit is also lifted. I want to say to her, ‘Daughter.. when you lift your eyes, my eyes are lifted to the horizon’. When you steady your heart against the tide, my heart is steadied.. because we share a name.

That name is Courage. Sometimes I remind her, sometimes she reminds me. We are bonded in that, my girl and I.

 

 

Real Intimacy, Behind The Wall.

Real Intimacy, Behind The Wall.

Real Sex & Emotional Intimacy – These Stories Are Not My Secrets.

I’m able to put words to it now, I think – what I’ve been learning is that the healthy and whole sexual expression I crave is both physical and emotional. It should be clear by now. Therefore, my definition of sexuality has become much bigger. My sexuality is the expression of physical, emotional and spiritual intimacy.

If we want to have good, great sex (and great relationships, I suppose) then we need to learn to have true emotional intimacy with each other. Well, crap. Here’s the truth of it. I’m terrible at emotional intimacy. I think many of us are, but I’ll share with you my perspective.

*This article is part of a series; I recommend reading Part One: A Modern Virgin, Part Two: What I Learned About Sex From An Older Man, Part Three: Trying To Lose My Virginity first. I’m welcoming feedback and contributions so please email me here.

My primary love languages are physical touch and quality time. So it’s no wonder that much of my desire for love is about the physical connection. Still, that shouldn’t mean I ignore the need to share my whole emotional self and find a partner who will receive and accept me well, someone who can and will encourage me in emotional intimacy, not just physical.

I share some pretty personal thoughts on the internet most days so you might find it hard to believe that I’m not good at emotional honesty. But those are just my stories. They are things I’ve processed, thought about, discussed and then finessed ready for publishing. They are not my secrets or my truest self.

Filtering.
Somewhere in my youth and young adult years, I learned to filter. I learned to filter because my thoughts and feelings could push people away. If I said or asked for the wrong thing, expressed the wrong feeling – rejection came swiftly. Sometimes a little rejection or humiliation, sometimes total abandonment. I learned that my feelings weren’t to be trusted and should rarely be expressed. I think we all learn this filtering, to some degree or another.

Don’t think for a minute that you see all of me here on the Internet. I’ve got a collection of stories I’m comfortable enough to share and that no longer pose a risk in sharing. My bravery is in continuing to think through what I’m learning offline, in hopes one day I can share it.

Beyond the amusing anecdotes, the generous dinner parties and the many people who cross my threshold, I hide my deepest parts away. My heart is frequently hidden behind a thick concrete wall. It’s not easy to get in there. My fear is exposing my truest self to the ones I care about most. Emotional intimacy, the one thing I’m looking for is something I’m terrible at it because it actually requires more than one person.

Emotional intimacy isn’t just sharing part of yourself, it’s also having that part of you accepted and acknowledged by another person. Immediately, the connection between the emotional and physical acts of intimacy should be obvious. However, if I’ve been living behind a concrete wall, I don’t necessarily have great skills for learning to trust or making good choices around trust.

On one hand, we’re told to guard our hearts and only let the trustworthy ones in. On the other hand, we’re told to be bold and go after what we want. But the earliest lessons we learn in love can be the most dangerous. If I learn that men aren’t interested in my thoughts or feelings, or that I must be all about meeting his needs rather than my own, everything else becomes coloured.

So these days, when I bravely reveal parts of myself, I immediately start waiting for the rejection to come. Or, if a small part of who I am is accepted and not rejected, I can’t help but want to share more and more (or even all of myself), because the feeling is so rare. Neither of those places is particularly healthy. So I live with a lot of people close to me, like a party at the gates of the secret garden. Few have the key to the garden and even fewer still step inside.

It’s easy to know that I like whisky, for example. Or even how I like to drink it. A few might even share whisky with me under the stars or in a favourite alcove. But there is so much more under my skin and inside my mind than what translates to Facebook or Instagram. The fleeting, silly stupid thoughts and the beautiful, sacred ones; most of these thoughts never leave my lips. Most people have never seen the true extent of my generosity, my warmth or my kindness. The things I do are nothing in comparison to what I think of doing – but these secrets, I keep for myself for now, in a secret place.

Emotional intimacy in the future will require that at some point, I’ll have to risk letting someone inside the garden wall. I might even have to risk asking someone to come inside the garden wall.

I’ve heard too many people talk about the loneliness of the marriage bed, where physical intimacy and emotional intimacy are rarely connected. And I can see how this becomes true – after all, touch is such an easy way of expressing pleasure and approval, but without words or supporting actions it’s not always enough.

My friend Karl has some great thoughts here, largely from the perspective of a man trying to raise 4 sons, 1 daughter and with a long-standing commitment to youth work.

“Intimacy (In- to -me -see..) is an internal desire expressed so often externally. The modern expression of relationships misses the point of intimacy and encourages sexual expression as a means to an end. As I teach my sons…intimacy is often better expressed with clothes on. Our young men need to be coached on intimacy within the context of male relationship too, so sex doesn’t interfere in the early development of knowing how to be strong while laid bare. If we breed shallow men afraid of openness and transparency, they’re unable to meet emotional needs as a lover.
Unfortunately most men are lazy relational lovers. Preferring to love by touch with their hands. It’s learned behaviour from following childlike lust fuelled by curiosity and infatuation. It’s easy, like a takeaway diet. To love and be loved (intimacy) is to go to the farmers market having written a menu formed on knowing the dinner guest, not defined by the produce available at the time, but a meal crafted on tangible knowledge of the invited. (Their needs, desires etc – Ed.) Learning to be lovers, friends, companions, partners is a dance worth learning before the uncomplicated-complicated dance of sex.
To know the chef within, to add the knowledge of produce then the skill, talent of cooking is to form Michelin chefs. Society has formed men great at BBQ but poor in the kitchen. I’d love the focus to shift for our youth to becoming great lovers.. first with clothes on.. to develop a knowledge of themselves. Once the clothes come off, the heart beats too fast for the heart to listen and a language of love is dulled and hard to define. The focus of intimacy then becomes now how I feel at a muddled physical level. “

I think there’s a lot of merit in what Karl is talking about, not just for young men but young women as well. The key is learning to express love through more than just physical touch and connection. So how do we overcome the hurdle of learning to share our real selves and welcome another whole self?

I long to hear somebody ask for a key to the garden. Tell me more, show me more of yourself, is what I long to hear. Intimacy is an unending mystery, you can never fully know another person. There is always another discovery, another question, another thought or feeling to explore. I believe intimacy is both learning how to enjoy and unravel the endless mystery and then habitually engaging in the mystery.

My desire to share all of my secret self the moment I connect with someone who feels trustworthy is pretty flawed. The point is to discover those things, not to lay them out all at once. It’s helpful to observe those who are willing to do the work of discovery. Those who want to unpack the hidden woman behind the Facebook feed. Previously, I’ve thought that intimacy was to be known, but now I see that true intimacy is to be in the knowing. An ongoing process – where two people choose to continue to discover each other. Upon entering the gated, secret garden they discover it is in fact, endless. Over time, some flowers, trees and ponds might become familiar, much-loved features but there is always something new to see or discover.