Category Archives: intensity

depth, pleasure, intensity

So intensiveness, and power, are huge parts of what I’m connecting to at the moment. And as I hit publish on the last post, it occurred to me that this is also important.

For intensives (see for more information on that), pleasure and depth are intimately entwined. We love to go deep. For me it actually turns me on, often the same way sex would. Pleasure is pleasure, depth is depth, and the pleasure of depth can sweep me away. I write from that place, I think and act and love from that place, it’s all the same.

When I connect to the earth, it’s depth I plumb; when I stare into the fire it’s intensity that meets me there.

This is not generally the case for expansives. Expansives don’t find pleasure in depth in the same way most of the time. But sometimes…sometimes they do. And that’s where we meet: in the depth that feeds us both. Mara Glatzel does this brilliantly (BRILLIANTLY). But if you or someone you love is not going deep, is happy with the surface float, that doesn’t make either of you wrong. The pleasure is in different places for different folks. That’s all.

And you can find a way to meet there. It just might take some looking.

security, poverty, and the magical art of enough: reflections on Marie Kondo’s work

And why not spark joy?

I don’t think my objection has ever been about “sparking joy”.  Unlike legions of her critics, I myself have been using a similar test for over ten years: “Do you love it?  Do you need it?  Then why do you have it?”


My stuff is still sometimes overwhelming.
There are a variety of reasons for that.  Sometimes I’m living in a quite small space, or one ill-suited to the things I’m doing. Sometimes I have moved fast, or in the throes of grief and heartache, which is not a time to make any decisions about joy.  I series of such moves has left me with storage units containing remnants of past lives while I try to figure out what space my current life will occupy.  And sometimes I don’t have much money.
Even with just the things of my current life, I can get overwhelmed.  My one 13×15 room with a small closet serves as office, art studio, video studio, bedroom, guest room, partial pantry, storage space, and more.  My kitchen doesn’t have to fit in here, nor does my bathroom, and I occasionally store things in my car.  But that’s a lot of activities to fit in my space.
It has its advantages.  For one thing, my rent is manageable.  For another, I have to consider very carefully bringing another object into the room.  Although I am one of the people who scoffed at the idea of 30 books, my current active collection of print books is very small (I just counted: ten–wait, no, eleven).  I tend to read books once, and move on.  The exception are professional and reference books, which I prefer to read in paper and reference by the location of the text on the page spread.  And a number of years ago I took a good, hard look at my religious texts from graduate school and realized they were not only going to be hell to store or move, but that they were perpetuating white supremacy in my studies and consequently in my work.  I can look them up if I need them.  I kept a few unique Bible translations, a study Bible marked up from class, and a handful of others.  I left all the rest of them at the free stuff room at the dump.
It was liberating.  Hard, but liberating.
Before that, when I still had the one house I’ve ever owned, I had at one time taken a tall bookcase and shelved only the books I loved (do you love it or need it?  Okay then it goes here.) by subject.  I stood back when I finished, pleased and surprised that everything not in my office at the church had fit, and as I scanned that shelf I could see the entire evolution of my life, the way the whole of my days had pointed toward the career I was choosing at that moment–which I still have.
It felt so…beautiful.  So clean, so pure, but also like such a justification.  It was a revelation that my life had not in fact been the chaotic, messy disaster I felt like the world around me saw, but a smooth ride toward an obvious result.  I had had some unusual schooling, but it led .here. and nothing could take that away.
If I could go back to any moment of home, that would be it, the moment when I saw and felt my rightness in a home that I owned myself, that was just mine.
My life did not unfold as I wish it had from that point–my feet were already tangled in the sheets that would pull me across the deck and overboard with the next big changed of wind.
That is possibly the most frustrating thing about life for me, that planning is not possible–or rather it is, but that the kind of precise planning required of a tidied-up life is a direct result of privilege.
And that is where I see the frustration and rage surface, more often than not.  It is only easy to release things if you are a monk or otherwise living in asceticism, or if you have at least some wealth.
In all the furor, I read this article: ( which explains the Shinto roots from which Marie Kondo is likely coming.  It connects me to my own version of Kondo’s method (Do you love it?  Do you need it?) and the deeply embodied question of “joy” although after reading about the animism I wonder if it’s more like a positive connection with the soul of the object.  That’s what I look for, too, essentially: do I want this thing here or not, where wanting is about a felt sense of rightness.  But whether I want it or not, whether it feels right or not, whether it “sparks joy” (I’m really questioning the translation) or not, sometimes I keep a thing because I fear being unable to replace it.  I lack the complete faith in a provident God that some of my clergy colleagues have, and that lack of faith that I will have what I need in the future is a direct and clear result of my relationship not to stuff, but to money.
The few times I have done a thorough decluttering I have been crushed to discover, sometimes mere weeks later, that the thing I was so sick of is the exact thing I need for an emergency, task, or project at hand…and that I cannot at that moment purchase a new one.–nor do I think Kondo wants us to.  It is my sense that she wants us to keep just what we need, and remove everything else, like carving a statue from a block of stone.
But here’s something else people don’t often say about poverty: it’s damned unpredictable. Things break more often; crises happen more often; because you can’t repair the tear it becomes a gaping hole and then the whole thing needs replacing more often.  At least in my circles the fierceness with which people fire back at the magical art of tidying up is often ringed with the soot and tears of poverty, of hanging on to the edges of their housing, of the tiny bits and bobs of comfort and security…and yes, joy…that have been possible over the years.  Often that’s embedded in and reflected by an accumulation of stuff–precious stuff–that doesn’t fit in the size spaces that we have (at least/especially not in the Bay Area).
That stuff–mountain of clothes on the bed and all–represents the ways in which people with little money hang on to their identities and their humanity in a world built to strip it away at every turn.  If you need public assistance of any kind you’re not to have choice or pleasure, you’re not to have dignity, you’re not really fully human.
The stuff is a bulwark against that.
I’ve had the mixed blessing, this move, of rebuilding from scratch, buying only things that suit me right now.  My wardrobe is a mix of western and Indian clothes, masculine and feminine styling, which is exactly me.  My sweetheart says I glow–I thank her for helping me buy pieces that fit who I am right now.  I have a small handful of pieces from before, and of the whole wardrobe I have almost nothing goes unused.  A few things that I held over of the one suitcase full that arrived with me are getting ready for…some new life.  As I look at my sweaters I see one that is going to be glorious covered with applique flowers, and I know someone who will probably delight in doing it.  I have one shirt I bought two years ago that shrank and needs to go to some much smaller-bodied person.  Some of my underwear has worn and needed replacing, as have some of my t-shirts.  But never in my life have I replaced things because they were worn before–always something else has happened.  So this is a new moment.  A small wardrobe, rapid turnover, and–forget keeping–even buying for joy.
And in this place, where I have bought a few things just because I wanted them–luxury!–I had a glorious moment about a month ago.  I had just purchased four saris for myself, after having gone to India and purchased six of saris for myself.  It felt like a lot of clothes for just-me, but also like an exercise in art and delight.  And with these four saris’ arrival, I felt a sudden sense of sufficiency.  Of satisfaction.  Somehow in that moment I didn’t .need. any stuff.  I had reached equilibrium.
To be honest, I had never been sure if I would ever reach equilibrium.  Like people contemplating consequence-free bags full of Oreos, I had wondered if I would ever be able to stop.
As it turns out, it’s not about being .able. to stop–it’s about noticing that feeling that you are done, and heeding it. In her first Netflix episode, Kondo has a moment–a pause in which she speaks directly to the camera, to you-the-viewer and not to the couple with whom she’s working–where she describes the feeling of “sparking joy” and how you get better at tuning into it as you go.  I’ve been practicing a long time, and noticing that quiet, calm, grounded, relief is not new to me, but I’d never had it with .stuff. before.  I have had material desires or needs for pretty much my whole life.
When the clamoring in my head ceased, I took inventory.  How had I arrived here?
  • I have food and shelter that feel secure and safe.
  • I have transportation I can rely on.
  • I have clothes in good repair that are right for the weather and reflect me accurately to the world, in enough substance and variety that I can easily get dressed for most occasions.
  • I am warm enough and dry enough.
  • I have the tools I need to do my work easily (up-to-date computer, smartphone, video lighting, microphone) and anything I add is now an improvement–there is nothing the absence of which is an impediment to my work.
  • I have the tools for enough arts to keep my heart and soul fed and happy.
  • I have communication means to connect with the people who are dear to me.
  • I can visit my sweetheart and my grandmother enough to feel like I am connected to them.
  • But here’s the kicker: for two years now I have had a partner with enough income that she can share if I need backup, and which she does share to help support me.  With my partnership has come a shift in privilege, and that, more than anything, has relieved the desperation.
I said to her with a kind of bewilderment, “I’m at a point where I don’t need anything else.”
I also don’t have to keep .everything. “just in case.”  That said, I still keep some cardboard boxes on the top shelf of the closet.  You never know.
How would this essay look different if she had not arrived in my life?  I don’t know, but I do know that staring down the barrel of life crises does not motivate me–it makes me freeze.  The odds that I would have magically made a million dollars by now are very slim.  The odds that I’d have this much stuff to consider the joy of?  Very slim.  The odds that I would have reached that sense of sufficiency, that internal signal that I don’t need anything else?  Almost zero.
The tidying is wonderful.  It’s the virtue-signaling that goes with it–a kind of virtue-signaling that may well be woven into the cultural shift from Japan to the US and not present in the original concept–that sets my teeth on edge.  I have spent so many years surrounded by the message that chaotic spaces are morally bereft and therefore the humans that abide them are failing some fundamental test of functionality (and so often that poverty is tied to this failure), that one more highly-touted, tidying expert-made-guru hit the edge of my tolerance from the very beginning.  For me the key to beginning the process of tidying is always the release of judgment, the release of rules, the release of badness or wrongness of any kind.  Want to keep 300 books?  Then do.
Need them for work?  Then keep them.  Need them for pleasure?  Then keep them.
Of course Marie Kondo didn’t say “you must only keep 30 books”, because that makes no sense. She gives permission to keep exactly as many books as bring you joy.  Maybe that’s three. Maybe it is 300.  Say thank you to the rest, and bid them farewell.
The funny thing is that Indians–half my heritage–are also very kind to certain objects, notably books.  If they are dropped the get apologized to; they are never put on the floor or treated disrespectfully.  Thanking something for serving me, for accompanying me?  Absolutely.  The grace, ease, and spaciousness of a process where one can release stuff whose presence with us is done looks like heaven in comparison to the tear-streaked hurried packing I’ve done, wracked with fear and self-loathing.
Which brings me to the other thing: it’s not just about financial privilege, although that helps.  From my list I can see that it’s also about emotional and relational security.  The freedom of release is the freedom of knowing that something has your back, whether that something is yourself or someone else.  The community and social network I have is possibly the most valuable thing in my universe, and I don’t even control that.  It’s made of shifting sands, but I’m not building a house there, I’m swimming into the beach, and rocks are far less welcoming.  Knowing that my people are there, that I am loved and supported with incredible persistence and depth, makes everything else possible.  And as long as I live with integrity, that community tidies itself.
Could my room be tidier, even with the relatively small collection of stuff I own?  Certainly.  Am I prioritizing that right now?  I am not. I’m focusing on other things for other needs, and I’m comfortable with that.  It is useful to consider whether what you have brings you joy, or is serving you well, and your choices go with that.  Someday when the time is right I will clear out the stash of cardboard boxes–or I will be vindicated when I need them.
But not right now.  Right now, what I have is exactly, precisely enough.

on not-fitting

There was a side gig for which I had four interviews.
I didn’t get it.
I’m not sure how to feel about it.  On the one hand, it would have been good work.  On the other?
On the other I keep getting nudges from the universe to re-expand my work back toward the body of pleasure material, to somehow integrate it.
I keep seeing people who are doing witchy things in corporate spaces. I keep getting told my work is much bigger than the intensives/expansives world. An executive coaching mentorship program I’ve joined has me noticing how some of the conventions of the fb coaching world are contributing to the very problems they want to solve.
Last night I had dinner with two other women clergy friends, (one I’ve known since seminary, and her wife) and my sweetheart.  I again felt that work rising up. I’m seeing how being in spaces where I’m not supposed to talk about or do or be part of myself, including my work, feeds subtle shame about it. It’s making me question the wisdom of conventions and agreements I’ve taken for granted.
In some UU spaces we have tried not to use too much god-language in case it makes non-theists feel alienated. In some clergy spaces it’s not ok to talk about your entrepreneurial ministry, only parish ministry is really allowable, because what if you’re selling to someone?
News flash: sharing the good you have is always selling. It’s always marketing. Those lines get really blurry really fast.  If we don’t get over our aversion to marketing we’re going to miss some important opportunities to share gifts and spaces that are sorely needed.
Which drives me to consider the ways in which hiding is considered virtue.
Why not pray on street corners?
The issue is, are you praying from your own heart? I don’t care if you want to pray in the street. I care that you are praying to live into your prayer.
All this leads me to believe that this is more a problem with our relationship to “no”.
I don’t care if someone offers me {a candy bar, a cup of coffee, a kiss, a belief system} if I know that I can say no or yes freely.
I get anxious when I believe that I am at risk when I say no.
There’s so much involved in that.
There is shame at not being accommodating, which is gender-linked conditioning. There is fear of repercussions: violence or anger or more pressure. There is wanting to be a “good person” and our own stories about what that means, and others’ stories about what it means. There’s how at-risk do I feel generally? Slightly? Very? How do I make myself more safe? How much discomfort can I tolerate?
And of course the other side: how to recieve no. How much grace? How much groundedness? Was this a space where I felt like I could come for validation or evaluation and critique?
Is this a place where I feel my whole self welcomed? Did I expect it to be? How whole is that? Are tears ok? Anger? Pleasure? Joy? What’s the determiner?
What’s the obligation of public and semi-public spaces? Private ones? Paid? Free?
And ultimately, what brings me pleasure? Does it work for me to be in a space where these or those are the bounds? Is what worked for me five years ago going to work now? Or do I need to shed yet another cloak of shame and leave spaces that, in their protection leave me bleeding on the path?
There’s no shame in not fitting in the glass slipper. The shame is cutting off your heel* to make it fit.
*there are many versions of the Cinderella story.  When I was a kid, I had a hobby of learning and telling folktales, so I kind of collected them.  In some of the older versions, when the glass slipper doesn’t fit on the stepsisters, they cut off a part of their foot (toe for one, heel for the other) to force it to work.  Needless to say they get found out and taken back home, their painful sacrifice for naught.

intensive: living into it

So back in February, I made a post to Facebook that became a series of posts that became a private group, about being intense.

Being an intensive, I called it.

And as intensives are wont to do, I went hell-for-leather for a while, all-in, thinking, writing, totally absorbed.  (It’s part of what we do.)

And then, emerging, I got into a car accident, and then I got sick….

and the shiny wore off.

And so my intensive-ness and my analysis of it moved to the back of the fridge.

But as I emerge from that fog, the question is this: how does one live into intensity?

How is an intensive sick?  How is an intensive tired?  How is an intensive when they’re taking codeine laced cough syrup?

How is an intensive slow?

And the answer seems to be this: either an intensive is INTENSELY slow (slow to the point of stopping, restful to the point of immobility) or an intensive is still going at 3000 or 4000 rpm behind the scenes even if the body can’t keep up.

I tried option one.  I’m on to option two.

But option two puts a lot of pressure on the system, building up thoughts and possibilities, waiting. And waiting.  It puts the focus forward, not in the now.  And I’m not getting to “all better” fast enough to keep up with my brain.  Brain recently decided, for instance, to go see if songwriting is fun.  After 30 years of not writing songs.  And then there’re the two books in the hopper.  And coaching, of course.  And a new circle of friends.  And and and.

So the challenge now, is how to manage the backlog.  It seems to involve measured progress, focusing on something and doing enough of that one thing that my intensity is satisfied, at least a little bit, that there is progress, at least a little bit.

But we shall see.  There’ definitely something here, something with gears and ratios, something with not-stopping that is also not-rushing-forward, something that is useful for moving between the not-intensive and the intensive worlds.  More to follow.

what happens when you crack open?

I’ve been thinking, a lot, about the consequences of engagement.  (And this piece is definitely in dialogue with Christine Claire Reed over at and with Briana Saussy over at  They are both brilliant.)

Which is to say, what happens when you really truly get both feet into a thing and do it like there’s no going back.  It’s commitment with a vector–a direction of movement.

What happens is that you crack open.  The energy of motion starts to tear away the protective tiles on your spaceship and you become exposed to the world and to the possibility that what you have known is not what is.

And you keep going and keep cracking open, and you discover that under all those tiles your skin and flesh and bones are exquisitely, intensely sensitive.  Anything can happen in there.  You can feel it all, feel it as sharply as the day you were born, feel lit like sunrise on the morning after, feel it like opportunity, like becoming, like the sharp slice of truth.

And you keep going.

Learning to orgasm is the art of learning not to stop even when the sensation is so big you might come apart at the seams.  It’s finding the ways to shift into pleasure and shift again and shift again, even as sensitive skin and nerves report in at blinding speeds and you can no longer think your way through anything.  Learning to go deep is the same way.

You don’t get to see the end of the tunnel.  You don’t get to watch the scenery.  You get to be present with feeling in a way that almost hurts it’s so rich.

And then you get to the core where it’s meltingly hot and you, in fact, melt and are reformed, cooled into a different kind of being than you ever have been before, impurities burned away.

This is what the old ones used crucibles for.

There’s a deep kind of meditation required to transform pain into something else, but it can be done; much of pain is a story we tell about a sensation we are having.  The rest of it is the sensation itself, about which we can usually tell a different story if we will.

It’s a commitment, then, a commitment to transformation, a commitment to re-encounter intensity, a commitment to allow intensity at all.

It’s a commitment to welcome something bigger and deeper than the everyday.

You will come apart.

And you will be reformed.

Have faith.

intensives: be perfect already!

So about being intense.  It means that I dive RIGHT IN to whatever I’m doing.  (This is kind of funny because I still have a fear of diving that prevents me from going headfirst into the water, pretty much ever.  Working on it.  Not there yet. Anyway…)

I dive in.  Both feet.  Sometimes I tell myself I’m going to Do This Forever, but that’s only true in rotation with the other hundred and fifty million or so things I’m interested in.  I never lose interest, I just keep adding things.  (Intense learner, yep, that’s me.)

I LOVE that I’m intense about learning.  But what gets in my way is when I decide that if I’m going to learn this, it’s going to be PERFECT.

I’m going to be the best.  I’m going to LEARN ALL THE THINGS.  And do them at a paraprofessional level, so help me heaven and earth.

All this does is make me SUPER STRESSED.  I’m used to high levels of adrenaline and cortisol for a bunch of unfortunate reasons.  And my body tends to lean in that direction anyway but there is no reason on earth that I have to do it to myself.

(Also, adrenaline and cortisol fuck with functions like short term memory, so if you’re stressed at a networking meeting or a birthday party you’re screwed.)

When I decide that I’m going to do it PERFECTLY that leads directly to…

Not Doing It At All.

That’s right.  Perfectionism leads to procrastination.  ARGH.  So I’ve  had to learn to be intensely laid back.


It works like this: I can do as much or as little of -this thing- as I want to.  I can do it badly.  I never have to show it to anyone if I don’t want to.  It totally helps. In creativity I’ve even designated a few things (painting and drawing) as things I am allowed to do badly.  I’m even SUPPOSED to do them badly.  If I do them well it’s a total accident.

As intensives, we need permission, support, and guidance about how to be less intense when it’s not working for us.  Perfectionism?  Not usually working for us.  When it works, it works.  But sometimes you just have to do it for sheer joy.  Do it for the pleasure of the feeling of the brush loaded with paint gliding across the paper.

We need to let ourselves play.  Let ourselves scribble.  Let ourselves be wrong.

We’re at our best when we move fast, fix fast, iterate, develop, edit, and move on.

To do that, we have to start.

intensity and…pleasure

Intensive: pleasure

So as an intensive, I’ve had an interesting relationship with pleasure.

Maybe I should start here: a few weeks ago I was sitting in a friend’s living room.  We were discussing tantra and energy and this thing called a kundalini awakening, which is basically a way of talking about what happens when you really for real unlock the incredible energetic power in your own body.

It can blow the top of your head off, metaphorically speaking.  In fact, some stories exist about people doing it before they were ready and disrupting their psychological equilibrium quite a bit.

For better or for worse, my experience has been different from that of everyone else I was talking to.  I’ve known that energy intimately from a very young age, and so I’ve had a much more gentle coming-to-terms-with-it.  It’s more like a steady, hot fire.

Pleasure was always hooked to it, but in a really broad way. On the other hand, sexual pleasure was a bit of a puzzle. 

I was aware of sexual pleasure from an even younger age than when I first connected with that energy.  I started masturbating very early in life.  But orgasm, for decades, eluded me.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want it.

It was just that I had no idea how to get there.

I was eventually very lucky to get exactly the help I needed with that puzzle.  But somewhere along the line, running on a parallel but separate track, I was doing a similar thing with other kinds of pleasure: I was sidestepping them at the last minute.

I was afraid to be loud.  I was afraid to be seen.  I was afraid to be foolish in public.  I was afraid of showing UP.  I had my reasons.  Visibility had turned out to be really dangerous for me for a long time. 

But how it happened matters less than what happens now, which is this: I’m taking the cork out of this carbonated bottle of awesome, because there is NO REASON to cap my pleasure off.  No reason to mute my laughter.  No reason to not be utterly, completely, gleefully delighted. 

This is what intensives DO.  We dive in and love the hell out of whatever we’re loving, for real, completely, totally, thoroughly, and quite possibly with sound effects.

Why be shy about delight?
Why hide that you love something, or someone, THIS MUCH?

Haters maybe gotta hate, I don’t know about that.

But lovers gotta love, and that’s where I’m setting up camp.