Playing out archetypal roles has been hugely helpful. In the ritual of Journey of the Heart, different Shivas would come to my goddess temple: Shiva as sinner, lover, father, lost boy, fool, playmate. I forgave a man by representing all the people he’d ever hurt. I had another cry in my arms. I was accepted by one for all the people I’d ever hurt, and I wrestled playfully with another. As the mother, the child, the lover, the goddess, the fool, the playmate, each meeting explored the role in the collective unconscious of what it means to be a human.

I didn’t get the witch wound. I don’t understand that feeling of persecution or feeling silenced for being a medicine woman, healer or witch. Not my vibe in this lifetime, though I have many friends who feel it keenly.

In the earliest days of learning about kink, I got an intense rush the first time I ‘punished’ my ex for his other women, hopping around clutching his ass after my first attempts with a riding crop. He never let me do that again. 

Exploring play fighting with a sexy gardener was fun for me. Yet playing out my DH Lawrence fantasy triggered someone else, and he had to leave the room. We got closer for recognising why.

When people tell me not to overthink, it’s usually those who haven’t thought enough.

Traffic lights work: Green - let’s go. The power of Orange to stop, check-in and readjust is phenomenal. The first time I called Red, and everything stopped, I cried for the times I hadn’t. And the time I had and was vilified.

We rarely get the full attention, love and circumstances we need to shine. It’s easy to deny all the ways we need to be loved. What if you could really commit to asking for what you need and to bring what’s needed within a consensual container? What if we unlidded the box or lifted the magic carpet to see the salvage? What could we make of it if we weren’t so scared, cross or untrusting?

If I trust you with your boundaries, we can both relax. Let me know you can say no, make a choice, express a preference, and hear a no and not be offended.

Listening to men matters. I once took part in a ritual where women sat unobtrusively at the edges of the room, goldfish bowl style, overhearing a men’s circle of voices. Gently witnessing each man sharing their own journey through sexuality, shame and freedom. Patriarchal conditioning screws everyone over.

In a good relationship, you’re each working on yourself and on the partnership; it’s there to help you grow; a way to enlightenment along the razor’s edge.

The first time I experienced Soul Gazing, Great Spirit gave me a partner I’d chatted to briefly the previous day. We’d exchanged a brief kiss, sharing a piece of mango. I’d felt an electric shock go through me at the mango lips. Sitting in front of me, sarongs on, we Namaste’d in, soft tantra music in the background, silence between us. Gazing at each other gently. I smiled weakly for a few minutes and dissolved into tears. Gazing at him, I cried tears for all the things I hadn’t known, hadn’t allowed myself. I cried for myself at a life of achievement but little intimate pleasure. It’s the first time I’d ever been vulnerable like that in front of a man, crying for fifty minutes of the soul-gazing hour. I snivelled and sobbed, and he gazed at me with softness, his presence unwavering, occasional tears in his own eyes.  We Namaste’d out to close the structure. I snivelled in the group closing circle. As we left the workshop, he gave me his number.

There’s a time when we may realise that not only do we have our ladder up against the wrong wall, but that it’s in the wrong foundations; that our fundamental beliefs about who we are and how the world works are blinkered and limited conditioning. These moments of truth are turning points in our lives, raising questions of new beliefs and directions. How do we find our north star when it’s not what we used to aspire to? 

The overwhelming feeling that there’s always more to do flummoxes me. What to do? How to stop? Especially when what I’ve chosen is broadly satisfying. It’s the bloody life admin. I have a friend who thinks all the creatives should be allowed to float around on lilos dreaming, while all the people who love the order and minutiae could get off on that.

“You don’t have to like everyone, Alison.” Another of my Tantra teachers' fine phrases, which, although maybe stating the obvious to you, wasn’t to me. The wave of relief at the simplicity of that understanding saved me from having to be craven to a woman my ex wanted to open up our relationship to. He did it anyway, but I was spared having to fake compliance. I left that to her.

I love plain English and despair at artifice. A couple of my recent bugbears come from the sudden guru nature of the overuse of phrases such as ‘I’ll speak to…’ or ‘I’m pointing at …’. Since when did ‘I’m going to talk about…’ become so elevated or lofty?  It’s the same with the two-sentence paragraphs and pauses in AI writing, and phrases like ‘let that sink in’…’  which come over as extraneously portentous or self-importantly solemn. As well as being quickly unoriginal.

Getting love right in messages is an art form. Please don’t send me long squishy hugs or smoochy kisses, I’ll recoil. Extra declarations of love confuse me; I don’t know what to do with them. While the ‘hugs if you want them’ can initially feel contrived, on balance, I find there’s more space around the latter. I generally use Hugs xx. I wonder who I’m underwhelming or giving the ick to?

In the days when I was more often in rooms naked, I was surprised when one of the Shaktis said, “You have magnificent breasts, Alison”. I hadn’t realised. They’re like comforting pillows and preferred better touch than twiddling-nipple radio operators. Long, slow palm strokes up from my sides to under my breasts have a sensuality of solid dreaminess.

Impossible mothers beget impossible daughters, eggshells scattered instead of confetti. Being the prodigal daughter has and hasn’t been easy, exiling myself, and returning later to heal and make peace. Perhaps there’s a greater appreciation of finally finding the long-missing feeling of mother and daughter in mutual support. Yet loss, of what might have been and wasn’t, surfaces amid the relief and gratitude. Wondering what difference more years of belief and friendliness might have offered; perhaps fewer years of hoping for favour or acceptance on both sides. Realising the depth of impact, while finding compassion for someone else’s shoes, is the love it becomes.

I’d have rather stuck pins in my eyes than express vulnerability. It felt like neediness and I struggled with that in my preferred self-reliance. Neediness scares me. It’s been a great lesson. I danced neediness once, it was a massive relief to express the desperation, tears and clinging openly. Being seen, being understood, being witnessed are great gifts. In the mutuality I’m less alone, the generosity of spirit of friends holding space when I’ve been wobbly, of someone saying “that sucks” when my heart had yet another little fracture line, melted my harder edges.

Fixations are calling for something beyond the compulsion. Jack Morin identifies some steps to getting out of old patterns that become troublesome turn ons - the erotic drivers that bring diminishing returns. They may be exciting yet over time ultimately unsatisfying; habit, dick-driven leading to disappointment, rejection and emptiness. The steps that lead to erotic change include clarifying your intentions, cultivating self-affirmation, stopping old patterns & being in the grey zone. Mourn your losses, learn & feel sensations of embodied pleasure, then risk the unfamiliar and integrate your discoveries.  Change takes desire, courage and practical action. It doesn't mean wholly letting go of your core erotic theme or your fantasies, but having more wisdom and space around these so that you can be more aware and enjoy other pleasures as well.