by tashmcgill | Feb 8, 2015 | Culture & Ideas, Health, Youth Work
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.
by tashmcgill | Feb 7, 2015 | Culture & Ideas, Health, Youth Work
Part 2: What I Didn’t Learn At Church.
It frustrates me that I didn’t learn about sex being good and beautiful from the church. While the language is changing in some select spaces, largely the message about sex I heard from the church was conflicted and confusing. It wasn’t even informative. Largely, it was based in an idealized, impractical kind of fairy-tale within a punitive capital punishment-led kingdom.
If the church wants to claim any kind of precedence of understanding humanity and how things work best due to their relationship with the Creator, you’d think we’d be doing a better job of advocating for the good stuff, like sex – being an awesome way of building intimacy. Instead it seems as if all the ways in which sex can break us and harm us is the focus of the Church’s teaching on the subject.
While certainly, there have been some harmful sexual experiences in my life (using broad definitions and refusing to dwell on what’s past), I’ve seen people caught in cycles of fear and denial, refusing to treat sex as something we should be engaging in as liberally as possible.
So instead, I learned that sex was good, beautiful and necessary from an old wise friend over coffee, in his backyard. I learned about sex as a philosophy, not as a practice. He was a musician and a philosopher some 40 years my senior. We became friends when I was 17 years old, he was in his 50s and we remained friends until his death, when I was 32. Here’s a warning – you might find it hard to believe that this was as beautiful and pure a friendship as what I describe. But truly, it was.
This post is part of a series that begins with A Modern Virgin. I’d love your feedback and input. If you’d like to participate in the conversation email me here.
Our friendship and conversations gave me freedom to explore previously taboo subjects. Not surprisingly, it helped that he was a nudist at home. I discovered this fact in the most practical way; I visited, he made coffee. We sat down in the back garden of his central city cottage and he took off the sarong he was wearing. I had thought little of his attire on my arrival; it was summer and hot, he was a tennis player and had an older, but well-kept physique. I, having been raised to be unflappable in most situations, simply continued in the thread of conversation. We were talking about writing, as we often did.
So there was I, sitting with a naked man completely at home in his own skin. Nakedness and sexuality, therefore must not be the same. Ideas of modesty and how we clothe our sexuality were torn down, just like that. Yet, there was a certain provocative freedom that would come from this. I being young, curious and in an environment free of evangelical propriety, had free rein to ask questions without the shame and humiliation that so frequently inhibited other conversations.
I should be clear – there was nothing incendiary about our relationship, but eventually it became as natural to talk about our collective human sexuality as it was to talk about good books we had read and interviews we had listened to. He had a long time love and she held no qualms about our friendship.
My complete acceptance of him was a continual matter of wonder, he said. No surprise given his upbringing in the church and knowing I had come from a similar background. So we went, regularly meeting, his body at times like a life drawing class and at other times fully clothed. It wasn’t for a few years that my sexuality came into the conversation.
We were discussing provocation; as an art-form and as a weapon. How people can use tone, voice, words and action to provoke and manipulate certain tensions and outcomes in any environment. I was fascinated by social sex at the time, the way that groups of people arrange themselves around powerful chemistry and charisma.
Even now, the way that we can engage and use our sexuality through social dynamics and in all manner of both corporate and casual settings is a matter of fascination to me. Why am I drawn to touch, embrace and hold some friends and not others? How do I use my body to command attention in the room? These are questions I become more aware of as I use my presence in a room to draw out certain responses, when needed.
My friend said, “Well of course – you’re an expert at it.”
The truth is, I wasn’t then but I’m getting better at it now. Perhaps as I have become more comfortable in my skin. But truthfully, some fifteen years on from this conversation, I’m often still lost as to how to engage my body in the pursuit of outcomes I want outside of the workplace. Which sounds worse than it is, but there is a certain art in how you carry yourself in a presentation or negotiation. In the lounge room or the bar, I don’t want to work that hard.
I replied, “Hardly – I’m not sure I’d know where to start. I’m a theorist by observation, only.” The rest of the words are a bit of jumble in my memory, but my confession of virginity still took him by surprise.
“But surely, after all this time – I mean, it never occurred to me that you might be. You’re so vital and full of life, you need to be having sex. You’ve got to engage, it’s a waste if you don’t.”
I explained to him, much as I have to you, that it wasn’t a matter of choice but rather accident and the occasion had never arisen, so to speak.
There was a pointed break in the conversation while we allowed ourselves to laugh. Then, perhaps the sweetest gift I’ve had to date, he took me by the hand and assured me, it was nearly impossible for things not to rise in the presence of such a vital, living, passionate and inspiring creature as I was. To this day, he remains the only man to tell me so – that I am beautiful for more than my philosophy. I mean, there are plenty of people who appreciate my wit and intelligence, my discourse on theories, music, whisky and theologies. But to tell a woman you find her to be beautiful – it moved me then, it moves me now.
Oh, to be seen. To be affirmed. Not only was he telling me, teaching me that sex was beautiful, good and essential but also that my unique sexuality was good. Most importantly, he recognized that it was within me already strong and with that, freedom came. Not wrong, not rejected, not clumsy or ignorant but good.
From then on, we could and would often speak of sex in much more personal terms than we had before. I wanted to know how sex between two people might heal something and could it also break something? Could it be meaningless physical expression but then the next time be deep and soul-connecting?
I learned that it could be all those things. He gave me rich, clear understanding of the power of being present to one another’s bodies, the sacredness of touch even between friends. And I learned to laugh about sex with him, clothed or not
I learned that I could be a sexual, vital and alive creature; that I could know and understand sex without having engaged in it. Certainly, it raised more questions and curiosity within me but it was good curiosity. A catalogue of experiments and experiences to one day explore. We shared more intimacy in those backyard moments that I’ve probably shared with many. Through it all, sex was a sacred ritual for bringing humans together and building relationships, expressing something of ourselves to another, even in a conversation about it.
Ever since, I’ve been alive in a way that I wasn’t before. Tuned in to how both my body and my soul needs and draws on the philosophy of sex. I saw my friend naked all the time. I watched his body age over 15 years of friendship, before my eyes. I learned that sex is not about bodies, but the body is an instrument of sex, just like the mind.
My friend never saw me naked, although he did invite me to try it, once. By then, it wasn’t intimidating to be asked nor offensive to say no. I had no doubt that he accepted me, flaws and curves and irregularities; and more than that, he called me beautiful.
From Learning to Having.
Long before I realised it for myself, he knew I’d wasn’t suited to a one night stand nor did he want me to be. ‘Promise me,’ he said, ‘it’ll have to be good, ok? Don’t let it be some drunk mother***ker or a kid who doesn’t know what he’s doing, alright? Make sure it’s someone I’d approve of, if I don’t meet him first, ok kid?’
It was his voice I heard in my head the first time and only time I was propositioned in a bar. I didn’t hear a clanging moral bell, nor an angel sitting on my shoulder. There was no devil either, just a friend who knew me and knew a lot about what mattered in the world reminding me what good sex is.
It’s his voice that comforts me when I am alone and feeling unseen, untouched in the world. When what my body craves and what my soul feels empty of is the loudest voice in the room. When I’m trying to make good decisions about dealing with my sexuality, I hear him say again.
‘Hey man, you’re going to be so good at this, it’s outta this world! Someone like you, with all that fire and creativity – unbelievable, man, unbelievable!’
For some people, maybe sex and love is less complicated, but for me, living without both for such a long time, I am full of fear and insecurity. I fear not being any good at it. I fear not being attractive enough or interesting enough. I fear being mismatched in sexual desire with a partner, I fear so many things but mostly I fear that I will never know this deep, body and soul connection with another human being. I don’t pretend that my desire is solely for an intimate and meaningful relationship, or that I simply want hot-blooded sex. I fear that I want more than I deserve or can have.
Then I remember that this intelligent, passionate, wise and slightly eccentric man saw me and acknowledged me, called me beautiful. He didn’t answer all of the question, but he certainly gave me hope that one day I might find expression of all that was within.
What I could admit to him, but few others over my lifetime, is exactly how defined and motivated by my sexuality I am.
by tashmcgill | Jan 31, 2015 | Bodies, Culture & Ideas
“What can I do with these small hands?”
There are a few things about my body I’ve always been self-conscious about, not the regular things but little details. I always aspired to have elegant hands. The kind with long, graceful fingers and delicate wrists. But very little in my body is shaped that way. I’m compact, with bold and sure lines. I’m formed of curves and muscle. My hands reflect those same short but strong characteristics. Square palms, straight, squat fingers. My hands are working hands, they are not beautiful.
My hands, can’t seem to stay still while I’m telling a story or expressing a point. I imagine my gestures are as graceful as I’d like for them to be. I would be satisfied with a perfect manicure, then practicality takes over; for the sake of knife speed, guitar playing and heavy lifting I cut my vanity down to a short, unfussy length and splash them occasionally with bright colours.
I know those long, elegant fingers wouldn’t belong on my body. I can see for myself how my father’s more delicate wrists would look strange at the end of my arms. My hands are small, generally speaking, but not with a natural deft flexibility. I have to work hard with delicate tasks. They are covered in tiny knife scars, the way that chefs’ hands often are. Just this morning, I glanced a too sharp blade against an unwary finger. There is a blurred spot from my knuckles brushing against concrete in youthful exuberance. A trace of where a lighting rig stole some skin, a pocket where a nail got a shot in. Some fade over time, others remain. But I see them all.
I turn my hands over for a new set of callouses. A knife scar might be mistaken for a number of things but these callouses tell you what I do. The actions I’ve repeated over and over. What I do tells you something about who I might be. So these callouses I’m more fond of, because they are telling a story I don’t mind so much.
There’s no mistaking the callous of where my knife blade rests against the base of my index finger, or where my pen sits pressed against my middle finger for hours of writing at a time. And at my fingertips and the side of my thumb, my skin is made tough and worn smooth by guitar strings. These marks have corresponding stories on the rest of my body. A scar hidden by my tattoo, from a sweaty summer night where a blister formed and burst under my strum. A near permanent bruise on my right thigh where my guitar sits inside my arms. In the same way, an indentation on each of my wrists from where I sit at this laptop cataloguing my thoughts.
All these stories, telling you something. That I am a maker of things, I hope. That from my functional, sturdy, un-beautiful hands something beautiful is being made.
But there is something more. If I look at my hands the way a palm-reader would, I can see what is possible. I see these clear lines, soft valleys. What is unseen, what leaves no mark is touch. My touch is strong and warm. My hands are almost never cold. I twiddle my thumbs without irony. They are endlessly curious, exploring new territories. They almost never stop moving, even at rest my fingers curl around themselves. I love to touch.
There is one thing, though, from these practical, unbeautiful hands. My hands are capable of making something that lives inside of my flesh and yours. My hands can make home. A safe place, a healing space, a comforting space. My hands can show you my love in silence. I feel it when I take a newborn into my arms, or when my 10-year-old nephew climbs into my lap and asks for tickles. When I walk in the forest I place my hand on the totara and the pohutakawa and say thank you. My pulse warm against the aging bark, I say a thousand things with these hands that could never make their way into words.
When moments come and my hands touch you and hold you, other human – I thank you too, for letting me make something beautiful.
by tashmcgill | Jan 25, 2015 | Culture & Ideas
I saw an article posted on Facebook the other day and I couldn’t help but click on a link. One of those headlines meant to draw you in, with the promise ‘12 Qualities That Mean You Should Never Let Her Go‘.. or something to that effect. A young woman I know had posted it with a message to her male friends – they should be paying attention, she said.
While I know she didn’t really mean it as a passive-aggressive criticism, I sighed and clicked the link anyway.
I read about a woman who I want to be. I don’t really care that this woman they are describing is practically a super-hero and seemed far less pre-occupied with sex and self-indulgence than I am.
It’s not scientific, nor particularly egalitarian or even politically correct, but in this instruction guide for men, the writer states that if you think a woman is….
- Smarter than you
- Beautiful in your eyes
- Kind and nurturing
- Vivacious
- Loves you with all their heart
- Willing to make compromises
- Feels like home
- Is happy to tell you when you’re wrong
- Strong, but feminine (which aren’t opposites, anyway)
- Passionate
- Driven
- Means the world to you
… then you should hang on to her.
This woman sounds like a good one, to me. The kind of woman I’d like to be, but I’m not sure I am yet. I’ve been trying to be a good woman, but that also means trying to decide what that is! I don’t think women are doing a great job of defining it for ourselves or the world.
I was momentarily confused as to what to do as I read the comments. This is a man writing to other men, to say ‘Here’s what a good woman is,’ and the world could use a few useful descriptions. But if we want to seen that way, we really ought to try to be that way. A woman isn’t born good anymore than a man is born bad, so we ought to be more interested in the ‘becoming’.
I’m disturbed that the response of women to that article wasn’t ‘Oh boy, how am I doing on that job description.’ I know I certainly did, so I don’t feel confident asking any man to see me that way unless I feel confident enough that’s who I actually am. Instead, women posted, commented and shared the link saying, ‘Yeah, that’s how you should see us!’.
Here’s the sticky truth: you can only really be seen as you are. Anything else is a myth.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggesting we should sit around each morning chastising ourselves on our failings, neither men nor women need any further checklists or admonishment in that regard. However, we should at least be chastising ourselves on the right kind of attributes.
I’ve realised that what I think makes for a good woman isn’t what most men seem to be looking for. That’s not a criticism of men, by the way, because I’m not sure that we women have figured out what we think makes a good woman either. We’re the ones populating Instagram, Facebook, Pinterest and the blog world with snapshot images of what we think perfection is, in a confusing, contradictory kind of way.
I might post photos of delicious home cooked meals, deep soul ponderings and my earnest efforts at the gym; but I also love to laze in bed on a weekend morning with unkempt hair and slight stubble on my legs. There’s a big part of me that would rather throw all that other stuff to one side and be simply declare good womanhood to require 20% laziness, 30% domestic skills and 50% sex goddess flagging any other kind of fiscal, social or emotional responsibilities.
A shallow glance still says a good woman falls into two stereotypes; the nurturing, homemaking, nice girl and the self-sufficient, comfortable in her sexuality career girl. Both come with dollops of sex and always just the right amount of sassy. I suspect that a good woman is in fact, closer to that 12 qualities list than Instagram can aptly communicate with one exception; a good woman apparently has her crap together. And fair enough, it’s a significant starting point.
Further to that, really – what’s the difference between being a good woman and being a good human? Not much I’d wager. Society spends a lot of time propagating mythology around gender stereotypes. It’s unhealthy and unnecessary. I’m much more interested in becoming a better me – in my instance, a better woman.
Swap out the pronouns in that 12 qualities list and it’s a pretty good indication of what a great man might be too. Seems like we could all just work on being better humans and appreciating each other more.
*Image features the beautiful Dita Von Teese, reportedly shot in her own kitchen.
by tashmcgill | Dec 31, 2014 | Culture & Ideas, Strategy
The Scots have a few bloody brilliant traditions. Most of them have to do with feasting and drinking, a few of them have to do with fighting. But hospitality and celebration is something they do well. One of the traditions I appreciate the most (because it lends itself to whisky drinking) is Hogmanay. This year I’ll be turning over the New Year with a select group of friends with good food and drink to hand. The celebrations will start early in the day as brunch with a friend then carry on into the night. I intend to drink some good whisky and start this year of life change well.
The season between my American Thanksgiving and the New Year is always awash with sentiment and good intentions. It’s in November that my heaviest reflections on the year past come to light and I put choices, desires and wishes into words for the coming year. Now, that they’ve had a little time to settle in – I set about my New Year celebration as a fine-tuning of the discipline required to see it all come to light. Hogmanay is more than just a party, it’s closing one chapter and very purposefully opening another with very good intentions.
So, here’s to a year in which I have big plans and I hope, so do you. Here’s a short list of good intentions for us all to share.
- Love well.
I read recently that love is part chemistry, part risk and part choice. I think it to be true, but in the opposite order. Choose well first and then risk bravely to love well. Love with compassion, with self-awareness and with honesty. Don’t love people because of how they make you feel, love them for the gift of your love is enough.
- Make bigger, bolder changes.
I’m shamelessly applying some lessons from my work here, but they hold true. Over time, incremental shifts will result in change. But it’s within your capacity to make bigger, bolder changes with faster, better results.
- Where you desire change, focus on what process, habit or behaviour you’re going to change, not on the end result.
If you want something to be different, focus on what you can change in your everyday life to get that change. Don’t focus on the change itself, because you never know what you’ll learn along the way.
- Spend time with children.
Children have a vitality and innocence in the way they see the world. Spend time with them so you can see the world through their eyes every so often.
- Work with your eyes on the horizon.
Don’t let your eyes stay so close to the immediate work of your hands that you forget to look up to where you are going. Go dream-chasing with everything you have. Keep your eyes steady focused on where you are headed.
- Don’t be afraid to say no, in order to achieve something more important.
If hibernating a little more will get me closer to my goals this year, I’m happy to do it. Don’t be afraid to order your life around the things that are most important to you.
- Tell the people you love that you love them and why.
Be sure to tell those you love, those that are precious to you why they are precious and how you love them. Tell them often, until it becomes uncomfortable because then it becomes an unavoidable truth. We get shy about sharing these things, but if there is anything I’ve learned from far too many funerals in 2014, it’s to express our love more frequently to one another. There are too many people who never hear it.
- Eat clean, sweat often, sleep decently, have (plenty of) good sex.
These are pretty self-explanatory – look after yourself. My goal is always to be ready to climb mountains. Those occasional, stay-up-til-dawn moments are magical if you have the reserves to do it. And by good sex, I mean, the loving, intimate, true kind – so whatever virtues you need to put around that, you do it. Unless you’re married/committed, in which case you should probably just go ahead and aim to have twice as much sex & intimacy next year as you did this year. It’s good for you.
- Choose a couple of key areas of personal development and self-awareness to grow in.
Without wanting to sound like Dr. Phil, this really is a gift you give yourself but also others. It doesn’t have to be big or even that hard, but try to work on a couple of insecurities and a couple of strengths. If you’re good at something but not doing it regularly – just find a small way of engaging that strength each week.
- Continue to be uncomfortably disturbed about a couple of things: something in your own life and something in the wider world.
Be passionate and compassionate about something bigger than yourself. It might be business-related, justice-related, social or political – but have something in the broader world that engages you. Talk about that, even if you can only do something small about it today, continue to be an advocate for something bigger than yourself.
So that’s it. Just some good intentions about living better.
My friend Jacqui posted this delightful little wish – I think it sums it up pretty perfectly. I’m down for the kissing, the making of things and definitely the surprising myself (and hopefully you too!) along the way.
Slainte mhor agus a h-uile beannachd duibh
(Good health and every good blessing to you!)
by tashmcgill | Dec 30, 2014 | Bodies, Community, Culture & Ideas, Friendship, Mind, Relationships
Your friend is your needs answered.
He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.
And he is your board and your fireside.
For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace.
There is family; whom you cannot choose and there is fraternity – the brothers and sisters you do choose.
Do I value friendship over all other things? Yes. Friendship – true, complete companionship outlasts all. Friendship is the root of love. You depend on your friend, but you are not dependent on him. It is in friendship that we learn to see someone fully as they are, we learn how to live with the differences between us and remain loyal regardless. We learn to see the truth of people rather than our ideal of them. Friendship will outlast romance, marriages, the birth and death of children, the death and decay of lovers, career changes. Friendship is a paradox – to hold another so close in your heart yet not be dependent entirely on them in the same way we need a spouse. Friendship spans continents and endures the years.
We live in a complex culture, hindered by lack of inhibition yet a proliferation of obstacles to true friendship between men and women. But if we are to navigate this complex culture, we must do with the art of friendship high in our priority. Not just friendship between like of our like, but friendship between the genders (and transgender). More than ever, men and women need to understand one another and engage with each other in meaningful ways outside the limitations of potential partnership and sexual liaison. (more…)
