Self-belief

I am becoming more comfortable now with this need to write. I'm understanding more about the need to wrestle with the themes and preoccupations of my life and to shape them into a story.

For many years, there  was no time to write. Four busy children and a fully occupied husband absorbed my time. As well, in those child rearing years I didn't have the strong desire to write that I do now. There was adequate succor for me bringing up the children. There was also plenty of worry. It can deplete desire to be creative in another medium.

It is true that my husband would say from time to time that I should sit down and write, but the impetus was not coming from within. I give full credit for my entry into a writing life to my psychologist, who I saw for about ten sessions a few years ago now.

'What would you really like to do?'
'Well, I'm not sure that I have any talent, but I'd like to do a writing course.'
'I don't doubt that you have talent. What is really stopping you?'

I don't remember what I said. I've been sitting here for a few minutes trying to reconstruct that conversation. I probably said that the children still took up a lot of time and I wasn't sure which course to pick. I no doubt gave her any excuse that I could come up with in the moment.

What I didn't say was that I had zero confidence; that the thought of actually doing what I really wanted to do filled me with fear and anxiety, because somewhere in the doing of the course it would be proven categorically that I had no talent.

I do remember her telling me to research writing courses and that next time we met I should let her know which course I had decided on and my reasons for choosing that particular course. She was tough under that sweet surface of hers!

I did do the research and I chose a course that would give me a smattering of choices for a possible writing life; subjects concerning journalism, writing critiques, writing film scripts, adapting one form of writing to another, starting a novel, and so on. I was hedging my bets; that if I was useless in one form of writing I might be better in another. Truthfully, I really wanted to go to the same institution that my youngest son attends now, but it is highly selective and I simply didn't think that I could ever be chosen. So, I downplayed my interest in it.

She was happy with my selection and explanation of my choice, though she did question me about the generalist, academic nature of my selection.  I think she would have been happier with a course that focused specifically on creative writing. It probably would have been a wiser choice, in retrospect, although the course I did expanded my mind and that's a good thing. She was happy enough until I said that I wouldn't enrol in the upcoming study period but rather wait until the new year which was in several months.

'Oh no you don't,' she said more forcefully than any other statement she had ever made, or would make to me. 'You're enrolling right now!' So, I did. I felt I had no choice and that was probably also a good thing.

I remember beginning the very first subject and there were twelve in all. I remember thinking, 'Well, I haven't a clue how to do this so I have nothing to lose.' I remember it being a huge accomplishment in my mind when I could find all the material and sites and discussion boards; you name it. Technologically, I was a dinosaur being drawn into a new era.

I remember having to choose another writing student as a writing buddy and I quickly formed the impression that one young man would be ideal for me. His style of writing and interests were entirely different to mine, but he was smart, witty, open and friendly. We got on very well given all the differences. I remember him having to formally critique a piece of writing of mine for the first time. I had made so many fundamental mistakes but he saw something fresh and honest in the writing and he's always been encouraging to me. I remember getting a Distinction for that subject and that gave me some slight optimism in my own ability to survive the course.

I remember taking on two subjects the next semester and at one point half way through the semester my nerve cracked. I wrote to the tutor of my 'Writing History' subject and said that I had taken on too much and perhaps should withdraw from her subject. She wrote back to say that was unnecessary since I was well on my way to a very high score. There it was again, a fundamental refusal to believe in myself, and to be genuinely shocked at the positive comments she made.

I remember getting back the result of one story I had submitted and the tutor noting in her comments   that she was sure that I would be published very soon.  I thought she was 'bullshitting'. I wanted to believe it. I just did not.

I remember writing to another writing student and sharing with her that I had no faith in my own ability at all. She wrote back and said, 'Sweetie, if you have no confidence in your own ability then we are all doomed. Everybody on that discussion board can see you have ability.' More bullshitting. It was kind, but it didn't mean anything to me.

Conversely, I took constructive criticism very personally. I didn't disagree with it. It just went straight to my soul as a wound. High Distinctions did little to deter me from my fundamental belief that I was winging it somehow; tricking them.

Towards the end of the course another writing student asked for stories for her online literary magazine. I sent her a story that I wrote immediately the course was over. It was a story for myself; relief from the academic rigours of the MA; kinky. She liked it and published it. But, guess what? I showed it to no-one and only mentioned it in passing to the family. She asked for more. I have yet to provide them.

Then, something shifted. I had read Elizabeth Strout's The Burgess Boys and loved it. I listened to her being interviewed on a podcast and something about her comments about her writing life resonated with me. Then, I starting reading Colm Toibin - his collection of short stories The Empty Family, and two of his novels, Brooklyn and Nora Webster. I listened to everything I could find where he was being interviewed. Then, I returned to Strout and did the same thing.

Ever so gradually it began to sink into my psyche; the sort of writer that I was, what it was possible to do, and how it was possible to do it; that I'd make many mistakes before I could produce something I was happy with; that I wasn't a normal person at all but a writer who must write; that the events and preoccupations of my life were enough to create many stories.

I am what is known as a spare writer, and a writer who needs to create characters with rich internal worlds, and that was acceptable. But, I needed to work on creating muscular sentences. I needed to sit down every day and write so that the writing would improve. I wasn't talentless, but nor could I be lazy. This is what I learned from those podcasts and Utube videos. God bless the Internet.

In the past few weeks my internal world has changed. The possibilities seem endless. I am beginning to talk to my family in a new way. My writing is my work I told them; not housework or cooking or arranging things. I'll do my share, I said, the lion's share, of course. But, I wanted them to pull in too. I want time to sit and hone my craft.

On Tuesday, I noticed myself slip. I'd exercised in the morning and the plan was to get to my Meditation group at noon. However, the state of the house overwhelmed me. In the end I wasn't going to be able to meditate in a group knowing that I had endless things to do at home. I stayed home and sorted so that I could write later in a clear and tidy space. In my defence I am not the sort of person that needs to clean the entire house in order to write, but nor can I alter my mind such that I can write surrounded by mess. It's not even an excuse. It's just the environment I need to be able to enter my sub-conscious and draw out what I need for the scenes.

I remembered this morning a lovely man who was a correspondent of mine for some time. He wasn't shy in sharing his opinions with me and he said that it was funny that I longed to travel and yet I loved to be at home. I finally figured this out. I do desperately want to write. It's a huge need. I look to the outside world for inspiration and energy, but I look to my internal world and my home as the place where creativity lives. This makes home very important to me.

I have a very long way to go, but there is a modicum of belief in myself right now. I have my fingers crossed that I can build on this small start.

Herd mentality

If you are looking to get married and be married for a lifetime I strongly recommend marrying a partner who is interested in talking to you at depth. Engaging conversation is the mainstay of my marriage. It doesn't matter what topic he opens or I open, we can end up talking for hours and hours. You won't ever find us sitting opposite one another in a restaurant wondering what there is left to say.

This morning I opened up a conversation about a character. It's sad but I'm afraid it is what writer types do. He listened and then he made a 'spot on' remark.

"It's like a marble in a bowl. It will eventually come back to the centre."

"Exactly! This girl is White Anglo Saxon Protestant. She's a good time girl. She wasn't ever going to be able to take a lifetime of melancholia or sacrifice."

"It's not her."

"Yes. That's not her."

"Often, in the early twenties, a young person has to go and experience something else; to be sure who they are, they have to go and experience something wilder than themselves."

"Yes, she did that and realized that the wild side wasn't going to work for a lifetime. She needed safety, familiarity; comfort."

"Well, it's not safe to stray away from the herd. That's when you get eaten."

And, so it went. He expounded his theories about primal instincts, one of his pet topics and I told him that it seemed that more men were wanting to express submission than women, according to my research. That's when he expounded on his theories of there being a scale of femaleness and a scale of maleness and that I just happened to be to the far left of femaleness.

It's true. I am to the far left of centre on the scale of femaleness. I do believe in achievement in life. I believe in making a day count, whatever that means to the individual. However, I have the strongest urge to express my nature; the strongest desire to be aroused and to let my nature unfold; to relax into that state where I am fed upon; where I give of myself freely and where I receive the dominant energy that  allows me to be so unencumbered; so free.

This matters a great deal to me. Without expressing this nature of mine I feel restless and at times ambivalent. Expressing my submissive nature fills me with some sort of feel-good endorphins that allow me to enjoy all facets of life.

And yet, words whisper in my ear regularly enough to give me pause.

You must never tell. You must never tell a soul...

The doll must keep her council if she is to be safe; to express herself in ultimate safety. Trust for her is paramount. She must not stray too far from the herd.  She must always be protected and nurtured. This is the role of the dominant: to keep her safe; to protect her; to ally her fears and allow the doll to thrive.

Intuition

Today's school work focuses on writerly identity in part and one of the questions I am using to get into that concept is 'What is happening when you are at your best?'

Well, that's a fascinating question, I think and I had to pause and contemplate before I could even begin to answer it. These are very initial thoughts. It really is a very deep question.

When I am at my best I feel...translucent; I allow light but not certain images in. That is to say, I feel completely in my zone, at one. I have a strong feeling of well-being and that I am doing what I should be doing, in the place where I should be. There is lightness of being; an accord with the world and the sense that it is a wonderful place. I feel love in a very general sense and I'm happy both within and with myself. I'm functioning in a fluid way, not thinking too deeply or worrying too much. I'm happy to be alive and sure of my place on this earth. I'm doing what I was meant to be doing.

As to the writerly identity, well, I wrote a piece a few weeks ago in just the state as I described above and it had a different feel about it to other pieces of writing in that particular subject. In turn, I got very different responses to it. I'd touched something within the reader and they had responded in kind. I think this is what we call authenticity. We are writing from within us; we have touched the mainspring of ourselves and out flows something very authentic.

Is that sort of writing Australian, the writing of someone who is Australian but has lived many years in the United States, the writing of a woman with a submissive nature; the writing of a mother, of a content person? Or, is it something far more personal; the writing of my soul, the place that even I can't tap into on most days?

As a writer I must trust my intuition. As a woman with a strong desire to live according to my nature, trusting my intuition is also imperative.

Self soothing

In my younger days, when my husband said something to me that offended me, I would, surprisingly enough, feel offended. I would feel out of sorts because even if I told him that he had offended me or that the comment wasn’t called for, he would not necessarily acknowledge that he had done something wrong and/or apologize. He, to put it in a nutshell, would stand on his dignity. 

It could leave me feeling out of sorts and not feeling particularly close to him for minutes, hours or sometimes, days. Such a situation presented itself on our first date, so technically speaking, it should have come as no surprise and I should have been ready for his flamboyant approach to life, but are you ever really ready?

The pattern often was that eventually I would go to him and sort it out. I would take that responsibility on myself because I do so deplore that feeling of discord with someone. Sometimes, he would come to me and rough me up a bit psychologically – sort of, cajole and tease me out of my funk. He got his girl back without actually acknowledging his mistake and that worked well for him. Of course, occasionally he would admit that he may have been indiscreet or spoke without taking into account my feelings. He knows he has a temper and when younger, he would say “sorry” to me quite frequently.

Time wore on and I searched for a better way. I read about the process of ‘self soothing’ and this, for me, was the answer I had been looking for. I didn’t need to allow his sense of drama, or speaking without really thinking or telling me off without knowing all the details of the situation, derail me. I could go away and “cleanse myself”. I could use deep breathing and silence to settle me down. 

Perhaps later, when the situation had passed on I might note that it was upsetting when he got cross without giving me an opportunity to explain, or whatever, but the point was that I wasn’t bogged down with feelings of anger or upset at what seemed an unfair situation. I had yet to recognize that it was my comments that were often at fault in the first place and I had to learn how to say certain things such as what I wanted from him.

I frequently use a method of not saying much when he needs to verbalize his emotions out in the air; my air space particularly. I use an enormous amount of tact these days and this pays the most wonderful benefits for both of us because when his emotions are whirling, to confront him or accuse him at that moment has negative consequences. He won’t respond to the rightness or the wrongness of the matter there or then but merely digs in his heels and asserts his position. Far better to self soothe, to hold my tongue and bide my time until it is the right time to tell him how that little episode affected me or what my intentions really were.

Even then, it is rare I will go into too much depth about it. I am most likely to brush over the event, perhaps noting that he may have been unreasonable. We both know he can be unreasonable at times and even after the fact I have to watch how and what I say. He can still be feisty about it hours and hours later and what is the point in reheating the stew really?

This is all to suggest that my husband doesn’t take my feelings into account which is certainly not at all true. He is a very sweet, kind and considerate husband and expresses his love for me in a countless number of ways.

But, from the very first day, he made it patently clear that any girl who called herself his girlfriend would understand who held the power in the relationship. Tackle him if you wished, but be prepared for a long, protracted discussion about the fitness of your argument and complaint. 

The mentoring gave me ample opportunity to hone my skills in self soothing (boy, are they alike!) and except for those absolutely stupid moments when I choose to tackle I find I have self-soothing down to a fine art. When you give yourself  the responsibility of calming yourself and settling yourself; enabling yourself to think rationally and clearly in any situation, solutions present themselves much more easily and much angst is avoided.

I don’t see this as giving in, or not having a voice but rather using my voice to maximum effect in the most appropriate ways and moments. It certainly has aided harmony.

Intuition

The vast majority of the readers of this web journal reside in the United States and Europe and hence I doubt many of you know of the death of Ruth Park a few weeks ago. Ruth is the author of 'The Harp in the South', well known to many Australians who read that book in their final year at school. She was a prolific writer and perhaps some readers are familiar with 'The Muddleheaded Wombat' series heard on ABC Radio. My husband certainly remembers listening to them.

In the late 1990s my mother sent over to the United States Ruth Park's two autobiographical books. I loved reading them then and on hearing of her death I had a desire to revisit them. One of the first things I did when I reached the holiday house was to cast an eye along the bookshelf and there I found them, to my delight.

I am currently immersed in her second book which largely takes up her adult years - those years after she marries the enigmatic D'Arcy Niland. I hope you will excuse me if I return to this autobiography many times over the next few weeks, picking up on a thread of thought here and there. Ruth's words has my mind aglow with ideas - ideas about writing and ideas about living - and I know I will feel a desire to share some of those ideas with you. You see, she captures that time of Australian life which is entirely enthralling to me. It is an era long gone but through her words, I am reliving it and somehow reaching into a part of myself which I thought had also gone, but I now realize is alive and well.

Ruth was not inclined to philosophize about life; at least not until she realized later in her life that she had to find her way out of "the pit" after D'Arcy died long before his time . She is a storyteller at heart and 'Fishing in the Styx' (part 2 of the biography) is busy telling the tale of her life. But, in spite of this she does, at moments, reveal the workings of her mind. She remembers well looking back on how she felt at certain key moments of the tale. She writes:

"After so many years of hard running, I acknowledged I did not get from my life much that was satisfying....This disquietening and deeply melancholy feeling may have been what is today termed burn-out, when the validity of what one is doing is in question...On the other hand, it could denote entrapment of my mind in the vast religious and ethical error of construction - that all life is nothing more or less than a storyline - a linear plot moving onwards, onwards, towards The End, which will prove either satisfactory or otherwise. Satisfactory, if they want it to sell. This variety of time-travelling is not programmed by culture into all races, but it is a part of our own, thereby robbing us of awareness of the moment."

Ruth lived most of her life at an extremely fast pace. Often poverty stricken, she and D'Arcy lived according to dead lines for stories and series and articles that procured enough money to feed, house and clothe themselves and their growing family. She really had no choice but to keep moving forward and in any case, I think it was her predisposition to do so.

Nevertheless, I feel sure that the above words were said with sincerity and the writer in me also feels that it is hard to move away from the notion that a person's life is a story. We can't really see the story line until much later and so the story unfolds rather unwittingly, almost as if we had no say over the story.

But, here's the thing. I think we do have a say over the story of our lives. I think we make choices all the time that dictate in large measure how the story will go. What interests me particularly about what she said in that paragraph is that in order to make the best choices, we must be aware of 'the moment'. We must take the time to really listen to what is in our hearts and minds and follow that intuition inside ourselves; the conscience too that speaks to us and guides us in our decisions.

On a personal level, I always put my husband and children first. That is what my intuition and my conscience told me to do. But, the time in my life is now here when I have some time, energy and courage to let the characters and events of my life out of my head and put them onto paper. This is a chapter in my life that I can look forward to immensely. It was Ruth who made me see that I can do that. What does your intuition tell you to do?

The whole entity

In my last post I expressed some frustration that my true nature is kept under the radar. I don't necessarily look like a person with kinky thoughts running through her mind night and day is meant to look. Certainly most people don't respond to me in any particular way that relates to my submissive nature. Only the rarest of people have caught on to what lies below the surface and have sought to interact in person with the whole entity that is me.

Last Saturday, my husband and I enjoyed one of our most kinky of days all morning and again in the late afternoon. There was just enough time for me to get ready for a dinner party with a group of friends and whilst 'cindi' was present all night on the inside (my husband said I was "aglow"), on the outside all that was visible to the untrained eye (I suppose) was "the girl".

I admit it bothered me and it particularly bothered me that when the word "spanking" was used by one of the men, I became particularly silent. I feel fear (and elation) when the word is used in such a vanilla setting because I worry that I am one step away from exposure.

But honestly, exposure from what? Exposure from the fact that I am happier now and more content than any other time in my life? Exposure from the fact that I enjoy living and loving in a certain kind of way? Exposure from the fact that I have special friends that have enriched my life and made me feel complete?

On one level, it's not that I fear exposure at all but rather that I covet that which is so very special to me. I don't want a bunch of people making lurid, smutty comments about me or those special to me when they don't really understand me, what makes me tick or the lifestyle of my choice. The exposure I worry about is an exposure than would alter something truly wonderful and transformational into something cheap and lurid. I covet my privacy in this space by way of a different name(s) because I fear that to not do so would let the sunshine in and void the magic of the experience for me and others.

I want to be very clear about one thing. The entity of Vesta/cindi allows for the whole personality and spirit of me. If I am kind, obedient and truthful, if I am honourable, if I am loyal and honest and reliable; if I can keep a secret and take it to my deathbed - and I am all those things and can do all those things, then those qualities are all part of the whole me (wife, mother, citizen, daughter, submissive woman who seeks containment, to name but a few of the roles in my life). The open expression of Vesta and cindi enable me to express all that is me.

And, who is me? I'm a girl who took a chance and reached out to her husband first and foremost and then to a few significant others about thoughts that had run through her head all her life. With the help of one or two special people, I'm a girl who opened her mind on these pages (and others) to allow other people in to read and explore her mind and heart and soul.

I'm a girl with the greatest of respect for other people who have also pursued the expression of themselves (semi) publicly in whatever form that takes. We all here reach out for interaction with like minded souls, for self expression and to live our lives as honestly as we can under the restraints of a community who may choose to judge/mock rather than seek to understand/accept how we choose to lives our own individual lives.

Would I prefer to look like a kinky person? Would it enrich the experience for me? Not really. I choose the clothes and appearance that are right for me, much as we all do. It is enough for me that only very special people know me for all that I am. I never needed a crowd, never needed to be the centre of attention and never wanted to be the life of the party. It is enough for me to live exactly as I do because it is part of me to be a very private person with very special people in my life.

I am a trusting but careful person. I choose who I trust and do that carefully. In the same way I can be trusted by them. A secret is only a secret when you tell someone and the secrets of others will never see the light of day on these pages or any other pages. It is said that if you have a handful of friends in your life - true friends - you are doing well. I believe that.

There have been times on this journal when I have wondered if I have anything more to say; anything more to offer the reader. The thought I return to is that this is my chance to be brave and to do something bold and good and true. This is what keeps me coming back to these pages.

Restlessness

I heard Hugh McKay speak the other day about his book, 'What makes us tick?'. He has identified 10 desires that we all have and one of them, of course, is the need to connect. No-one knows that better than me. I hate to think how many times I have typed that word over the past couple of years in this journal. We aim to connect in three important ways: with ourselves, with others and with the natural world/the cosmos.

In blogs I read regularly much thought has been given to the notion of balance and I can't deny that balance in life is important: time for oneself, time for others, time to work, time to play. You get the idea.

I feel extraordinarily guilty right now about that: that I don't have a balanced life. I still look after my family. I still have lovely times with my husband. We had a particularly connected day yesterday and I know that made him very happy. I still walk the puppies every day and I still engage with other people and place dates for events in the diary. I am still functioning all right on a superficial level.

But, on a deeper level, I know I am in trouble. I see a play or a musical event I'd like to see but have to really remind myself over and over, literally force myself to buy the tickets. I know I should arrange lunch with my mother but rather picking up the phone, I put it off to later. I would probably enjoy the Garden Day coming up but can't seem to be bothered to ring a friend to join me. At this time, I have such little motivation to engage with others that circle around my life - to arrange a dinner party or put together that outfit for the Derby.

I search my mind for the explanation for my ambivalence. Am I a bit depressed? Is a black dog chasing me, barking at my heels? I don't think so. The truth lies in the fact that at this time in my life I am engaging deeply with myself and that engagement with myself requires engagement with others who understand that process and don't find me barking mad for revelling in it.

I could sign up for the Garden Day. I could force myself to do it and I could spend a whole day talking about this and that. I suspect once I got there I'd enjoy myself as I almost always do: engagement with nature, a lovely lunch, possibly even some good conversation. But you see, the thought of it exhausts me right now; the effort required to dress up and say, 'Here I am as you know me to be. Here is Vesta. She will smile. She will engage. She will give you her full attention as you tell her about your trip, or your family, or your car park details for the Cup'.

I think what is happening to me is that I am becoming increasingly frustrated with splitting myself in two: one part "gurl" and one part bimbo, who seeks to be controlled and plenty of it. I am as trapped in the spider's web as any fly has ever been and the more I fight it the more bloody entangled I become!

I've broached the subject with my husband now three times; the possibility of heading out; catching a plane to see my daughter in the U.K. for a few weeks. "Where would you stay?" he wanted to know yesterday. "A little boarding house nearby," I suggested. And, I do desperately want to see her. I have been just fine about her being away but the need to see her enveloped me last Friday and the lack of her presence suddenly hit me like a shot. But mostly, the thought of running away from myself and my obsessive launch into this dark side of myself is incredibly appealing because the interaction with a unknown environment would force me to come to the surface and smell the fresh air; retrieve my balance.

To explore your own mind is very brave I think because once you start digging you just don't know what you are going to find.

About cindi

As much as we might try to 'walk in the other man's shoes', we never really can know what it is like to live the life of another person. We can empathize and do our best to understand, but we cannot experience life as he or she experiences it. And, in the same way, a person may keep a web journal, and people may stumble upon it and read it but never really understand what that person is trying to say. Keeping a web journal is rather unlike story telling or writing a novel, because in those instances, the story can be crafted to be appealing to many people, with a beginning, a middle (a crisis perhaps) and an end. Web journals are not really stories in the sense that they are not crafted. In any case, my web journal is not crafted but rather a diary of sorts; of my life and the thoughts in my head.

It has been said to me that my web journal is indicative of who I am. I am "serving" the perverts (and I mean that in the nicest of ways, of course). I admit that sometimes I am motivated by the desire to help or educate. I have a desire to give hope to those who want to turn their lives around in some way; to make a difference through sheer will. I was in a dark place before I found the light, and if my experiences can assist someone else out there to find their bit of light, then that would make me very happy. I actually trained as a teacher, so that motivation is there within me.

But, I would be lying if I said anything other than this: that I write here regularly because wild horses could not stop me. I have a strong desire to write and an even stronger desire to write about submission and dominance. I love to read about it, to write about it and to discuss it. It is magic to me; the opportunity to feel completely me.

I can appreciate that my efforts to explain 'cindi' and that place I go as 'cindi' may not be appreciated or desired reading for some people. If that is true, it changes nothing. I chronicle my experiences as I do because that is what is honest and true and I have no interest in doing things any other way. But, perhaps I, as Vesta can assist (and it is one of the reasons I maintain that persona) in explaining 'cindi' a little, to those who wish to understand.

I doubt you can create an alter ego (an ego less state) such as cindi if it is not there in the first place. Yes, I was led towards that persona but I most certainly did not need to be dragged. I did not just go willingly towards her but with a rush of excitement and thrill that can only occur if she had already lived within me. Her 'birth' was one of the most thrilling days of my life and she finds expression in almost every day of my life.

Far from living only in the bedroom (although she certainly does shine in that room) she is a part of my every day and night. She finds expression in every choice I make: how to communicate with my husband, how to make use of my day, what to eat, what to wear; how to think about myself and how to think about my body. The opportunity to let her breathe and shine and express herself in her own inimitable way has made me breathtakingly happy. Just when I think that I have reached the crescent of the hill in terms of happiness, I find that perhaps the opportunities for happiness for cindi are limitless.

It is such a formidable task to explain all this. But, let me put it this way and see if it helps. A few days ago I was watching a documentary about the remaking of 'A Chorus Line' on Broadway. The dancers/singers/actors were subject to recalls, those of them selected, and of course they were very anxious. One girl said this (or thereabouts):

"Dancing is the best part of me. I am only really alive when I am on the stage.

I connected with that for when cindi is on show, I feel most alive. cindi is the best part of me.

It is not lost on me that I had 'Lady Luck' on my side. I had the opportunity to speak with someone who somehow intuitively sensed this about me. And, as someone dear said to me, either I have been very lucky or I have had exquisite intuition about people for my relationships/friendships in this space have worked out so very well.

To those few out there for whom these ramblings might mean something, let me say this. It is not dumb to let yourself go. It is not foolish to allow your inner voice to be aired. Follow your heart. Make use of your instincts and use your god-given intuition. There is hard work to be done to find and embrace your submissive voice, if that is what you want, but also a sense of peace, happiness and fulfilment that will blow you away.

Compliments

All girls enjoy compliments, I think, but when you are a kinky girl those compliments can be different to what a vanilla girl might enjoy or find acceptable.

I've the dearest friend who can suddenly splice into the conversation,

"You may be too weird for me, Vesta."

Do I take offense? Of course not.


"Cindi beri slutti tots."

"Sumtimz"

"Sumtimz?"

"Well, mebbe bit mor dan sumtimz."

What a huge compliment that is!


But, my favourite, my absolute favourite compliment of all time was this:

Remember when Deity was dressing up in that latex suit of his and we girls were giving him grief?

Vesta said...
"You may recall that in one of my stories Susan complains of her dress code and Edward explains that he too has a dress code; for example, when he attends a formal event and needs to wear a white bow tie.

This is just an extension of that thought really, but I can't help thinking of the efforts you went to, to convince the authorities that you were the exception to the rule.

Giggling her head off... "

Well, when he replied to my rather naughty and provocative comment he said this,

"Vesta,
Go on. Go ahead and giggle ALLLL you want, you little tart. *sigh*"

How deliriously exciting it was to be called a tart! To my recollection it was the very first time someone has called me a tart and I loved it.

There are so many words to describe a woman - girl, tart, wench, vixon, harlet, scamp, babe, baby, trollop, a boiler (my mother used this word recently and it refers to a woman dressed very badly usually entirely unsuited to her age and body), slut, bimbo, doll. Is it any wonder that women are sensitive to the use of these words to describe them?

Yet, the words that are used to describe me - doll, bimbo, slut, tart, little girl, cindi - all make me feel very special actually. I'm completely comfortable with my own sexuality and where I go in the process of experiencing that sexuality and I know that those words are used with a certain reverence and pride and they please me rather than insult me.

But, I should point out that my approval of the use of these words to describe me is due to the fact that when these words are used, respect for me as a woman is intact. Or, that is my feeling. I think I'm right about that. It is the secret ingredient. Those men and boys who choose to use those words amongst their friends over a dozen or so lagers at the pub can go their hardest. No self-respecting woman has the slightest interest in them if their words are demeaning.

But, under my refined interior is a slut. It's completely true. And, only me, my husband and you get to know about it. That makes those naughty words not insults to me, but rather the most pleasing of compliments.

Erosion

Some years ago when my husband was immersed in post graduate study, I packed up mychildren and we headed into the country to stay in the mountains. The house I rented was humble but the huge advantage was that it had a big back garden with a place to burn a fire and toast marshmallows. After we returned from climbing mountains each day, the children stayed outside for hours by that fire, lost in their imagination.

Recently, I was given a voucher to stay in a very comfortable hotel with a wonderful view not too far from that humble home and my husband and I escaped for two full nights of naughty time together. Perhaps I can catalogue more about that another time.

My husband and I drove one afternoon to the beautiful waterfall that my children and I had visited, and after climbing down to the bottom we marvelled in its beauty together. We love to be alone in the country together and by that I mean, completely alone. It was mid-week and we had the place virtually to ourselves. There was a special magic in the air; a soothing balm for us both.

As I watched the water jump and cascade over the rocks I thought of a line from Deity’s poem.

“I want to do with you what wind does to a rock face.”

I asked my husband, “What does wind do to a rock face?”

“It erodes it...wears it down.”

It made perfect sense. That is what had happened to me...was still happening to me. I was being worn down.

I’m not the girl I once was.

I am settled.

I am content.

I am peaceful.

I am forever grateful to be transformed into someone who feels comfortable in her skin; alive in a way she only dreamed about; able to share her inner thoughts and for them to be given life; set free.

Transformation takes work: diligence, commitment and a steady hand.

It rates as one of the best things that ever happened to me.

It is said that nothing stays the same. The rock cannot stay the same. Life is a state of change.

How thrilling it is to say that as I age I become so much less!

How enriched I am that as I age I am so much more than I ever was before.

Truly

Richly

Deeply

Blessed.

Not just a fantasy

One of the best parts of the mentoring process for this girl is that she has coped so much better than she ever did before with stressful and worrying situations. She is a much more relaxed person. But, this weekend she was tested as her household experienced an enormous amount of stress. Her husband and she are decent people and wish no one any harm. But, when they see wrongdoing such as became evident to them in the past few days, they needed to take action immediately. Again, they are subjected to the instincts of others to do whatever it takes to procure a pot of gold.

First of all, the thinking girl had to suppress her anger. It takes a lot of energy to be angry and knowing that, she had to put it aside. Nor was her sense of sadness of any use to them at all. Yes, people calling themselves “friends”, promising to work together had been disloyal, manipulative and dishonest but her sadness was also sapping the energy required to respond to these events.

In their individual shock and despair, her husband and she separated for a time; he to his study and she to regain her composure and focus. She thought about her training. What would the doll do in such a situation? Being of service, sexually speaking was out of the question. Time was of the essence and the task required all their adrenaline to be put towards stopping these cheats.

She took a deep breath, made a cup of tea and brought it to her husband. They hugged and chatted briefly. He had no choice, he said. His responsibilities required him to act. She said she understood. These past few intense months where he worked on the project day and night, robbing them of time together may be for nothing, but in spite of that it was his responsibility to do what he must do. She said she understood and she did.

As a submissive woman, she is asked to quieten her ego; to even become ego-less. Cindi is ego-less. She has nothing to prove and she has no negative states. She is always relaxed; always happy; always wanting to please. She is a thing of beauty; perhaps an angel on earth. She is good. It was to cindi’s goodness that she would aspire. The girl was clear as to how to respond and in their shared focus, the girl and her husband were reconnected.

This morning, alone in the house for a short time, she put on some music that might allow her to relax whilst she did some housework and these lyrics popped out at her: “...hoping to find some peace of mind...not just a fantasy...”

Cindi is not just a fantasy in the girl’s world. Cindi has a real place in her heart, her mind and her soul as she reaches out for peace of mind. She lives not just in the girl’s bedroom but in her psyche; in her every day.

It is true that in her egoless state Cindi is not a thinking doll. Dolls do not think. Nor does the doll have a burning desire to write. The girl knows this; acknowledges the contradiction. Yet, since the day she could hold a pen, she has put words to paper in her efforts to make sense of the world.

This morning she has given in to her instincts to do what is right for her at this time and recommence writing on this blog. Is it her ego talking? Perhaps; she is far from perfect. Yet, she derives comfort in her return here, having searched her mind for the motive in doing so. She requires no kudos or praise. She returns to write for the best reason of all: for herself. A little company along the way shoud do no harm and is appreciated.