Years ago, my father kept an image of my mom taken during their early courtship. Sitting demurely on the edge of a chair, her hands on her bare lap, she’s clad in next to nothing, just a bit of black lace and a mysterious smile. It wasn’t something I was supposed to see, and that alone sparked curiosity. She was sensual before I could identify what that really meant, and before the woman’s liberation movement had begun, with its prattle of burned bras.

What's in a name?

Nowadays, one might call women accomplished in their curves and femininity any number of monikers. The Brits have "yummy mummy," their version of an acronym that rhymes with F I L T H, equally devoid of charm and mystery. Maybe that’s why modern labels rankle sensibilities. Do we want someone to look our way and say, that’s a Mother I’d like F**K? Out of the mouth of our beloved, if it’s his lust and love motivated behind those words, we may purr at the potty talk – if we are so inclined for private smut or brave enough to admit it.

And so it is to be entering the blogosphere for the first time here in the Owning Pink community.  This reminds me of two shamanic experiences: one personal, one archetypical. 

"Give Love," artwork by Rita Loyd (c) 2002

I’m reading Marianne Williamson’s A Return To Love for the first time (and with each word I read, am questioning how my spirit would have allowed me to go so long without this book). I’m sure a gazillion posts are going to be born from my reading of it. However, I’ve just encountered the first moment of truth so intense that it compelled me to put the book down, march inside on this gorgeous day, and write down my thoughts.