Then, with authority in his voice, he said, “I see the goddess in you. Let her come through.”
The quivering in my belly had spread to my whole body, but upon hearing his words, a feeling of raw power began to rise in me. Like liquid fire, it seared my inner landscape, leaving a clean calm in its path.
We both turned to watch the orange orb touch the fluid teal horizon. As the sun was swallowed up, inch by inch, into the ocean, I felt increasingly refreshed by the coffee-laden breeze. James’ strong hand clasped mine, as if he were cradling the most precious object of adoration. My hand yielded to his touch, let itself be held – and loved.
We were in this together. James and I clasped each other’s hand, firm in our commitment and common vision. Without a doubt, James’ free hand was dueling with physical pain, worry for the family’s support, and the “I’m not painting” demons. My free hand wrestled with my sexual identity (alternately threadbare and aroused), faltering fortitude, and a disruptive procession of question marks about our future. But all the physical challenges had suddenly shrunk in size. They did not carry the terror they had just an hour before.
We were going to make it – together. Despite Pele roasting us in her initiation processes, son Alex glided through it all; he just went surfing.
Making the Skeleton Dance
On one of the bookshelves of our home, I had placed framed pictures of our families – parents, grandparents, siblings, and other relatives. I called it the Karma Corner. Whenever I was frustrated with their judgment of us, I would walk over to the corner and rant or cry to release the charge. Because they were family, I would not just write them off. We all had to deal with each other, bound, I figured, by some past karma. We were each other’s custom-made teachers.
Now Alex and I were crossing the Pacific, aiming at mainland America. Gazing for hours out the plane window at the continuous blue below, I gathered my strength. This visit I was going to tell my parents about Venus and Her Lover. In trying to protect and respect them and their repression, I had come to the conclusion I was repressing myself, and maybe even the whole art project.
Back in the house I was raised in, seated on the living room couch, I clutched a chapter from The Pillow Book of Venus and Her Lover in my hands. I had waited for days for a break in the Fox News and CNN programs, which never came, so I was just going to have to talk over the television.
I cleared my throat. “Mom and Dad, I want to tell you more about the book I’ve been writing. I’ve been devoting myself to this project with James for six years. It is my passion.”
Suspected terrorists allegedly linked to Al-Qaeda have been detained... the TV reported.
When they both looked up at me, I proceeded to explain about the historical imbalance between the Feminine and the Masculine.
“No one understands how much women do,” my mother said. “But they shouldn’t get pushy and start acting like men, like those feminists.” She often spoke tangentially.
I talked about the role models presented to us by our mythologies, like Adam and Eve.
Another beheading in Saudi Arabia... the TV decried.
“You mean Bible stories?” my father asked. “Because there is a difference between history and myth. The Bible tells us our history. Myths are false stories.”
“Myths or stories – it all depends on what you believe is true,” I said. Then I pointed out that the Masculine and Feminine meet in sexuality, so I was also writing about sexual relationship.
“Oh, why do you want to do that?” Mom whined. “You should not talk about that sex stuff, Becca. You have a child. Be self-respecting, for Heaven’s sakes!”
Tell me you miss me, Tell me you want me, Excite me, Delight me, Bring me to my knees... the TV cooed. An ad for Victoria’s Secret.
My father knitted his brows. After all, sex is not to be spoken about.
“And our project includes art,” I told them. “I’d be happy to share more with you as you like. To start with, here’s a chapter I wrote on human history.” I set the clip-bound pages on the coffee table.
Neither one of them looked at it, as if acknowledging it might be dangerous. And that was that. To my amazement, they did not pick it up, they did not ask to see more, they did not inquire further about Venus and Her Lover.
America’s Top Gun! Re-elect President Bush, the TV advised.
With the TV droning on in the background, I sat in stunned silence. All these years I had led a double life, hiding my true calling from my parents, soft-pedaling into near oblivion such a centerpiece of my life. So afraid they would berate me, disown me, or keel over with heart attacks! Why all the efforts to hide, when here, in plain sight, they did not even glance at Venus and Her Lover?
The fear, the cowering before authority, the shame – all had played out their existence in my mind. That’s the power of the Karma Corner and its internal jailers.
Weeks later, as I was packing to return to Hawai’i, my father walked in and handed me the manuscript. He had read it. My mother had not. “What do you think?” I asked him.
“Interesting. You’re a good writer,” he said. Then it seemed his words got jammed up so that he could say nothing more. Certainly my re-writing of history must have challenged him. What does he think about all the goddess talk? And the references to sexual suppression?
Before I could engage him in further discussion, he hugged me and said, “My Becca, a kis mókus.” His affectionate Hungarian name for me and my sisters. He turned and left the room.
The day after I landed home on Hawai’i, my father suffered heart failure. Though I was ready to get back on the plane, my sisters assured me that he was recovering, and since I had just been there, there was no need. When I talked to him on the phone, there was a new warmth in his voice, a genuine appreciation.
James joked, “So you were afraid all those years that Venus and Her Lover would give your parents heart attacks, and now look!”
“Hey, thanks a lot for reminding me,” I cried. “I think I’ll just take it as my dad opening his heart a little bit more, and a little bit more, and that can be dramatic.”
As my father adjusted to life with his new pacemaker, I relaxed into my more authentic life, less burdened by my habitual fears of authority. Given the sexual repression inherent in my family – typical of the mythic-minded, hard-working, God-fearing, middle-class society of my generation – I saw how evolution and my own karma pushed me into a destiny of illuminating the sexual shadows.
As George Bernard Shaw said, “If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance.”
The Passion of Pele Tour
In response to the uncertainties over our survival in Hawai’i, we pushed ourselves onto the stage to give it all we had. The Hawaiian debut of our paintings and poetry, dubbed “A Blue Moon Tantric Evening with Venus and Her Lover” (because the date fell on a blue moon) was a surprising success. Though the Big Island was religiously and culturally conservative, we wowed a standing-room-only crowd (over 100 people) with our art, as well as belly dancing by friends Dvora and Talia. From Kona we went to Kohala for a show hosted by global visionary Jim Channon, again to a receptive assembly of diverse people. Back in Kona, James and I collaborated with musicians Armand and Angelina at a “Tantric Sensations” concert. Angelina’s clear voice woven through my reading of “Dance of Baubo” and Armand’s playful flute with “Pan’s Dawn” delighted the crowd. Venus and Her Lover also became part of the Tantra workshops of Deborah Taj Anapol and Jaiia Earthschild on the Big Island.
In accordance with the Big Island characterizing the first chakra, the island of Maui epitomizes the second chakra, with its associations of sexual energy, emotions, water, and the sacrum in the body. The sacrum, or “sacred bone” harbors the genitalia, and for many, their erotic urges. Sacred sexuality finds a natural home on Maui. Charles and Caroline Muir set up the Sour
ce School of Tantra there, and other local businesses include Oceanic Tantra, Sacred Loving, Maui Tantra Massage, Sacred Union, Talking Hearts, and Carla’s Tantra Temple, to name but a few. The calendar is full of visiting neo-Tantra teachers and sexual healers who do their workshops on Maui. Logically the Passion of Pele Tour hopped one island over to introduce Venus and Her Lover to the Mauians.
Hidden in the lush jungle of the West Maui Mountains, Dr. Sasha Lessin and his wife Janet Kira Lessin have established their School of Tantra, as well as the World Polyamory Association and World Tantra Association. Our rental car negotiated the rutted dirt road and forded a stream as we climbed to their forested retreat. Once there, I stood on the moist ground and breathed in the jungle. The faint perfume of plumeria blossoms infused the humid air.
“My body comes alive in this environment,” I said to James. The mountain jungle exuded sensuality.
We liked Janet and Sasha right away. All-Chakra Tantra is their brand of sacred sexuality, which they teach using yoga, breathwork, counseling, and many therapies (Gestalt, past life regression, and hypnotherapy), the goal being complete openness so that energy can flow freely – on all chakra levels – within the individual, as well as between partners. After our presentation to their Club Tantra, our mutual inspiration led into a photo shoot, with Sasha and Janet invoking the roles of Merlin and Vivianne.
While on Maui, our art and poetry headlined Devaka’s Tantric puja circle. “Rebirth of Venus” opened a goddess workshop presented by The Divine Feminine, a new group formed by Caroline Muir and Joan and Tomas Heartfield. Our art shows on the islands of Hawai’i, Maui, and Kauai were what we called The Passion of Pele Tour.
We figured the more people we met, the farther our message would extend, and the more possibilities would open to us. Everyone who attended our shows could identify with the title, for while Pele was widely known as a passionate goddess, there had been very few depictions of her sexual zeal, so people were curious. Everywhere, as usual, people met us afterward to confide their own sexual questions or thank us for our work. How gratifying it was for us! In our audiences, by chance, did we find a benefactor or patron? Goddess willing, a publisher or financier? Amazingly, no. Was Pele just holding out on us? Or was she telling us to stop looking outward and rely, instead, on our inner resources?
HONORING THE ‘AINA
At the end of 2004, life on Planet Earth was noisier than ever. The bloodthirsty God of War was running rampant, Death was cutting a wide swath with its sickle, and Mother Nature had jumped the tracks – all at unprecedented levels. Tornadoes hit Brasil, snow fell on the Arabian Peninsula, and Scotland was hit with 100mph winds. A 9.0 earthquake and resulting tsunami yanked over a quarter million souls out of the Indian Ocean region and devastated coastal areas of Indonesia, Malaysia, Thailand, Myanmar, the Maldives, India, Sri Lanka, and Somalia. Should we move our family and the paintings to safer ground? Should we retreat from the rising tide of social polarization and fascism in the United States? As far-flung as Hawai’i was, we still felt the waves of desperation and fear.
My year-end accounting revealed cold, hard figures in black and white: we were nearly out of money. Hawai’i’s high priced living had been a sponge to my alchemical house. If we were going to move with the library and the art, we would have to go soon. At a family meeting, Alex whined about leaving his friends and surfing. He also suffered the sad fact that his father had sold our property in Puerto Rico and then had a sudden case of amnesia about my existence. In other words, Will had not shared the sale with me.
“I did not invest the money from my house as I should have,” I lamented. Unstable financial times notwithstanding, we had basically just spent the money.
“You did invest it, Becca,” James argued. “You put it into Venus and Her Lover.”
Firm in our resolution to return to work on our Tantric art project, James and I prepared to emigrate to Mexico. We had deemed Mexico to be the best option for Alex’s teenage years and for our working environment. The New Year would propel us into our new home, or so we thought.
Maria, one of the Black WHole Sheep Ohana, had asked me to assist at her birth, and having arrived from her father’s funeral on the mainland with inheritance in hand, proceeded to pay our rent through February, when the baby was due. Then James fell painfully ill for weeks, struggling with infected gums. “This is the end of the line for your teeth,” the dentist pronounced, referring to the final conclusion of the life-long ordeal with his cleft palate. “They all must come out.” Not wanting to face oral surgery on the road, we opted to stay longer and get the dental work done in Hawai’i, where Fred the dentist had agreed to trade his work for art. Although it certainly seemed like forces were preventing our departure, there was still no physical support for us to remain in Hawai’i.
We had, nonetheless, been granted a grace period. While I coached Maria in labor breathing and James prepared for his oral surgery, he and I redoubled our visualizations of our artistic life in Hawai’i. Could it be that we were supposed to stay? Every day I prostrated myself before my altar, which was presided over by the Snake Goddess of Crete. The small statue we had acquired on our trip there reminded me that this bare-breasted goddess had seen earthquakes, tsunamis, invasions, and the destruction of her people, but she still stood magnificently in her power, for those who had eyes to see. I began my daily meditations and mudras with this mantra:
I bow before the Great Mystery.
I surrender unto my Divine Plan.
I stand in my will as a co-creator of my destiny.
I open my arms to give my gifts to the world, and to receive the abundant support of the Universe.
I am a channel for unconditional Love.
Living as we were at 19.5°latitude, I believed that my affirmations were boosted by the sacred geometry of Earth, as well as by the clout of my active emotion. My homemade rituals with candles and incense were mere exercises for me to focus my personal power, which is but one current in the surging power of all Creation... or one could say: the power of the Earth Mother. Pele, the reigning Earth Mother here, was honing my practice: Only prayers from the heart! No requests without gratitude! Mandatory celebration of the abundant, nurturing character of Nature! My spiritual practice had to be impeccable to invoke the archetypal force known as Pele.
In Hawai’i, where the ‘a-ina (the land) is recognized as hallowed ground, I felt summoned beyond my home altar to the sacred spots of the island, and to the spirits that dwell there. One week in January had me faithfully responding to the call, making pilgrimages to Waipi’o Valley, on the northern coast; Mauna Kea, the gargantuan mountain in north-central Hawai’i Island; and Kilauea, the active volcano which is constantly adding land onto the southern coast.
Waipi’o – the Breath of the Underworld
Ann, one of the Black WHole Sheep Ohana, invited the whole group to an outing to Waipi’o Valley, the “Valley of the Kings.” Her friend Peter hollered and whistled at the mules pulling our wagon through the remote valley, as he told us of his 20 years living there. Surrounded on three sides by steep, jungle-covered walls, it is open only to the sea, creating a humid sanctuary for tropical foliage, birds, and wild horses. Most of the human population was eliminated when the 1946 tsunami swept the canyon clean of its taro plantations and farm plots. The air in the valley feels swarming with life force, reason enough for its sacred spot status. A meeting place of the old Hawaiian kings, it was also known as the entrance to the Underworld. Certainly a place of mana. While our group was building a campfire, Ann skipped joyfully down the black sand beach, and Amalia did her yogic salutes facing inland, toward Hi’ilawe Falls, which makes a spectacular plunge from a 1,600-foot-high (500 meters) cliff ledge.
I forded the river where it met the sea, and walked the black beach, peering into the jungle. Alone on the beach, I thought of the old Hawaiian way. Before the arrival of Christian missionaries, the island p
eople admired and adorned their naked bodies. Perhaps on this beach couples would have unashamedly made love or hula danced their prayers to the ancestors.
Standing in the deepening shadow of dusk, I called out, “Spirits of the Underworld!” Only the crashing surf answered me. “Spirits of the Underworld!” I shouted. “Venus and Her Lover asks for support. Help us to do our book here in Hawai’i, or lead us to our next home. Please remove any obstacles to our Tantric work. We want to lift sexual fears and misconceptions out of the Shadows. They are demons for many people, but they need not be.” While the waves pounded the beach, I felt the cool, dank exhale of the valley. It made me shiver. I stood there awhile at the threshold of fear, feeling naked before the Hawaiian spirits. I thought of how many people were frozen in their tracks, terrified of their sexual demons, and how my own sexual healing was a process of encountering these demons.
Suddenly I felt a displacement of air, as if the valley was breathing in, pulling me toward it. The allure of the Underworld... It was then I knew my prayer had been received. I realized that the Underworld was simply the place of underlying forces – not to be fearfully hidden, but to be welcomed with the light of our awareness. Even with this realization, it took me a few minutes to still my knees, which were inexplicably shaking.
Did we have the strength to see Venus and Her Lover through to completion? Was James faltering? Was I? Where was the best place for our family? How could we support ourselves? The answers to these questions were as hidden as the crickets in the murky jungle thicket before me. Nevertheless, my presence here had been received.
The campfire at the other end of the beach, where friends were setting out dinner, was a welcoming beacon in the gathering gloom. I should ford the river before the inky night engulfed it entirely. With a grateful bow to the spirits of Waipi’o, I turned toward the light.
Poliahu on her Icy Throne
Mauna Kea means “White Mountain,” and the day a group of us drove up its flanks, it was indeed covered in snow. As our car strained against the altitude, we beheld limitless vistas to the horizon. Mauna Loa and Hualalai, the two shield volcanoes south of Mauna Kea, looked like sleek-backed lizards swimming through a river of foam, their rounded crests just visible above the puffy clouds.
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