Tag Archives: embodiment

Little Boys

How many little boys never get to snuggle on their father’s chest, or feel that closeness with another man, without being preyed upon?

How many little boys never get to cry in their father’s arms, or feel that closeness with another man, without being shamed for it?

How many little boys never get to feel vulnerable or scared in the presence of another man without being attacked for it?

How can we keep ignoring these wounds and also expect to grow as a people?

We cannot.

We are collectively dying, smothered under the weight of all that unacknowledged pain.

Look to your little boys and see where you can listen to their wounds.

It will hurt.

Don’t look away. Don’t plug your ears. Don’t harden your heart.

We ignore them at our peril.


Little Boy, Abandoned

The last few weeks, I’ve been *really* pissed off about men “holding the door” for me. Unrealistically so, it seemed, given what I know of my patterns. Something just didn’t make sense. I finally had to acknowledge I didn’t quite know what was going on, and that was okay. I would continue feeling and giving voice to this piece that felt like so much bottled rage.

From the perspective of inside my body, my rage feels like it comes from two directions: up from my genitals and down from my esophageal sphincter (where the esophagus meets the stomach, right in front of the solar plexus). The part in my stomach, I can clearly feel is a result of swallowing decades worth of rage.

Don’t talk back. Be a good girl. Smile. Don’t make a scene. Be kind. Stop throwing a fit. Forgive and forget. Tone it down. Smile. It’s not that bad. It could be so much worse. Make the best of it. You’re just crying to get attention. You’d be so much prettier if you smiled.


Those phrases encapsulate my experience of being born in a female body. They are the oppression and coping mechanisms I learned from my mother, grandmother, aunts, teachers, sister, and peers—all the females in my life. Horizontal violence tastes like swallowed rage, tone policing, and denial; and it feels like poisonous burning embers in my gut.

The rage coming from my genitals has been less clear, more obscure; it hides in a way I haven’t been able to put my finger on. Actually, that’s not quite it—from an embodied point of view, I’ve been able to hear my vagina and clitoris and uterus, but I haven’t been able to hear my asshole. I can hear the “female” parts of my genitals, but not the “male” one. I knew my asshole had something to do with my father wound, but the particulars have remained hidden, occluded from my newfound ability to feel into these parts.

And then, one morning while meditating, I found out why. There’s an abandoned little boy living in my asshole. A horcrux.

He’s younger than the little girl who also lives at the bottom of my psychic well. He’s also far more fragile, volatile, violent, unrestrained, and incoherently angry. He’s the one that NO ONE has ever been able to or wanted to see. Not even me. They wanted to see a girl because I had a vagina, but I’ve always struggled to “act like a girl,” to become what they projected on me. It always felt like an act. A cheap suit.

From the perspective of this new part, my father wound story is that he DID see the little boy, which is why he raped my asshole, and then left us to deal with and suffer through the consequences. After my father left, no one wanted to or had the attention to care for a rage-filled, 5-year-old boy in a girl’s body who was carrying around the seed and memory of a vicious sociopath.

So they walked away and left that little boy behind in the dark. In his stead, they welcomed the (mostly) quiet, compliant, and less volatile little girl. This little girl took his place and, along with it, inherited the heavy burden of trying to convince everyone Christina was actually a girl. Even though she knew otherwise. She knew who she stood guard over; who she protected down there in the dark.

A little boy who has forgotten what it’s like to be held in loving arms. A little boy who was good for nothing more than getting fucked and holding his daddy’s shame. A convenient little boy that an entire family could abandon without remorse because they were also wounded and hadn’t the resources betwixt them to see. A little boy whose resentment and rage and sense of betrayal has bloomed like a vengeful and terrifying mushroom. Tended, carefully, down in the dark.

The little boy who lives in my asshole.

He’s the one who doesn’t want adult men holding the door for us. He’s confused why everyone thinks he’s a girl. He’s confused as to why anyone would think he isn’t smart enough or strong enough to open a door all by himself.

He doesn’t want to smile at those men for “being polite.” He doesn’t want to allow their eyes to rove over our body, assessing, condemning, or desiring us as we walk by. He refuses to play the fucking chivalry game.

Because most important of all, he doesn’t want those men getting BEHIND us. He knows what it feels like to be preyed upon. He KNOWS what it feels like to be terrorized, for your asshole to clamp down and literally vibrate in terror. To be so terrified of the pain that you believe you’ll die. Waiting there, in the dark, for death to come.

I don’t want to be reminded of that terror when I walk through a door; even if it’s JUST THE TINIEST AMOUNT. I shouldn’t have to feel like a piece of meat when I walk through a door. I resent feeling like property to be admired or abandoned at their whim.

So, no. We don’t want you to hold the fucking door for us. Because we aren’t going to give you power over our asshole. This is OUR body and it is OUR right to claim this space.

This time, you get to walk in front of ME, motherfucker.

My Martyr

She touches nearly everything I do. She’s always been here, since the beginning. Ever present. Vigilant.

Daddy was terrified and ashamed of who he was and what he wanted to do, so he made Martyr carry a chunk of his load and blamed her for being so sexy. Like he used to be.

Mommy was terrified and ashamed of who she was and what she’d been forced to endure, so she made Martyr carry a chunk of her load and blamed her for being so precocious and huge and full of her self. Like she used to be.

The system was terrified and ashamed of what it had become by killing and raping and plundering, so it made Martyr carry a chunk of its load by pressing on her wound and leveraging her inability to say No.

Pushing me. Pushing me. Pushing pushing pushing me.

So much panic and anxiety and terror.

Martyr feels the terror that lives under all that panic. She pushes me to go faster as she tries to match Mommy’s panicked, frenetic energy. Survival energy. She was driven by it and she used it to drive me. Faster faster faster.

Martyr has made going faster and matching panic energy a virtue. When I’m fueled by panic and pushing myself, I find comfort in the belief that my suffering is noble. How virtuous I must be if I can rush to get everywhere and fulfill the needs of those waiting for me.

I’m doing such a good job. Good girl. HURRY UP FASTER

It soothes Mommy and she praises you for matching her speed, for getting it done. All you have to do is close your eyes and hold on tight. Tight tight tighter.

Run until you can feel the heaviness in your chest, the shortness of breath that signifies panic and terror and worry and anxiety. Match it. Feel it.

“Are you scared now?” asks the Martyr. Good. Thank you for feeling me.

Martyr doesn’t believe it’s ever going to be okay. She can’t relax. She can’t slow down. Her life depends on her load of inherited terror and shame reaching its destination in one piece and if she lets go…. if she drops it, it will shatter into a million pieces.

And it will All Be Her Fault.

Impressions and Depressions

Sink down and depress into the Earth; feel your shadow reflected against Her gnarly roots.

Breathe down and out, empty the lungs, and feel into the chaos at their depth where breath ends.

Push… release… let go… drop.

Collapse into Earth’s embrace.

Shudder, diaphragm

Ache, heart.

Churn, belly.

Sob and heave.

And then come back to center; the channel.

Breathe and breathe and breathe and breathe.

Let the Earth reflect the impression that body makes upon Her.

Let the perineum and solar plexus and diaphragm and heart mirror reality and what is so for the body.

The central channel represents the Earth, but inside.

Inside me.

It is the root, the trunk of who I am and the chakras are its knots.

Inasmuch as I allow peers to impress themselves upon me, I also do this with my self and my channel and the Earth.

As I feel who I am and trust that felt sense, I can more vulnerably and powerfully impress my self upon other people.

The manifestation is that much more clear because the Earth has already shown me an image of who She sees me to be.

The Snail Priestess

I am deeply grateful to Chani Nicholas for the following incantation, which speaks so directly and clearly to my current focus. I seek to embody the pace of the snail. My energy is slow and purposeful, not rushed or urgent. It’s focused on the breath moving inside my body, always in awareness with the ground, feeling the Earth.


I break the spells that keep me busy doing nothing. My time is sacred so I keep a watchful eye on it. I break the spells that keep me wasting energy where I don’t need to. I use the space in my days to work on my skills of constructive daydreaming. Giving myself some time and space to just be can be revolutionary. I use this new moon to break the spells that have me thinking in the same way about a problem, opportunity or situation. I use this new moon to refresh my way of seeing what I am looking at.

I am dedicated to seeing solutions.

If I can worry about my problems, then I can imagine their solutions. I can conjure up the understanding, the strategy and the wisdom needed to find my way around anything that life throws at me.

This week offers me a unique opportunity to benefit from my commitments. Especially the ones that I make to my home, family and healing my relationships with parents and childhood issues. No magic is made without a serious commitment to the elements that I work with. This new moon can help me to see that I have all the ingredients that I need to make a stable, sound, solid place to land, root down and grow from. This new moon can help me to see how much easier healing can be when I am willing to meet my life where it is.


The Origin of All Things

Meditation awareness: Inside my pelvis there is a portal to primordial space, the origin of all things. I feel gravity and allow it to pull me down toward the portal. It is my cervix. And on the other side is spaciousness, creativity, possibility. My womb is an ocean of space and it holds awareness of the infinite.

I use my awareness to seek this point and embody it. I come back to it over and over with my breath, with focus, with my mind’s eye. I imagine the portal’s heat and pressure, how it burns when opened. I practice inhaling my breath from the womb space, through my cervix, and then exhaling my breath back into the space.

I imagine my lips gently making contact with my cervix as the breath moves into and out of my body. I imagine exhaling hot, moist air into the rich compost that makes up the origin of all things. The blood-rich pocket deep inside my body that creates life.

I inhale from the origin that is my womb, and my lungs are filled. I exhale into the origin and my lungs are emptied. I am a recursive bellows, simultaneously breathing into and out of my own body with each breath. I attempt to follow my breath into the space so that I may feel its vastness, so that I can be surrounded by space that is aware of itself.

I inhale from and exhale into a space in my body that I am aware of at only the most primal and cosmic level. The origin of all things.


Olly Olly Oxen Free

You know the bittersweet feeling that comes from being an Awesome Hider? You’ve found this great spot and you fit inside perfectly and you’re concealed so well you may as well be invisible. You can hear your It-friend walking by and they don’t even get a whiff of your presence. You feel so proud because you’ve found a Great Hiding Spot.

After a while, you can hear more, and then all of your friends running back and forth, yelling for you, but they can’t find you. And you get a thrill down your spine because you’ve actually found The Best Hiding Spot. You want to see how long it takes them to find you. So you stay put and breath through your mouth, and don’t dare to move.an.inch.

And then it gets really quiet. You can’t hear your friends anymore. And you wonder where they’ve gone. They wouldn’t stop looking without telling you…would they?

And the longer you sit there, pondering this turn of events, the stranger it feels. Maybe you start to wonder whether you CAN be found. Maybe you disappeared. Maybe you aren’t real anymore. You realize that no one is going to find you here.

I’ve been hiding all my life. From monsters both real and imagined. From disappointment and failure. From other people’s emotional outbursts, manipulations, and fits. From pain and grief. I’ve created an internal life that’s perfectly suited to all my patterns and preferences. I’m well adapted to living inside my head. All. By. My. Self.

When I was 4 and then 14 and then 24 (and then 34), suffering through growing up, hating people for dozens of reasons, living inside my mind seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do. I learned how to perform normalcy, a semblance of happiness. But now I’m 44 and in a relationship with someone whose trying desperately to See Me. He wants to connect with me. Has wanted to do so for the eight years we’ve been together.

And I’ve come to realize that my perfect hiding spot is actually a prison. A prison that’s exactly the same size as my body. A Christina-shaped prison. I can’t move in here. It’s hard to take a full, deep breath. My solar plexus trembles when I do. I’m 500 feet down inside a cold, dark well and I can’t hear my friend’s voices anymore.

The more I use somatic, breathing meditations to grow my awareness, the more this becomes clear. My breath is forcing me to bump up against the walls of my prison. And it hurts. It hurts being this alone. Alone in the dark with my breath and my shame.

Because it’s shame that keeps me here. Shame who tells me it’s better to be “safe.” Better to remain hidden. Better not to try. Better not to breathe fully or lean into creativity. Better not to risk being seen. Don’t call attention to yourself. Don’t let them see you. They’ll eat you, rape you, kill you, hate you. The monster will find you.

Shame is the monster. And while I didn’t put it here, inside my body, down deep in the crevices of my chest and pelvis and heart; it’s my monster to battle. I’m the only one here. The only one who can climb up and out of this well.

I have to give up this hiding place. It isn’t actually safe here, isn’t healthy. I’m suffocating, smothered by my shame.

I found me. I’m right here, breathing. And I’m coming out.