Relax B*tch, it's meditation time
I've got damage from the storm to deal with, and everything feels very difficult right now. So, let's have some meditations (a few you may or may not have read but should return to anyway!).
Be kind to yourself. Stay safe x
You are an adolescent bottlenose dolphin who just yesterday left your mother's pod off the coast of South Africa. You have joined 14 other teen dolphins, and you've spent the day surfing and generally being unruly. Suddenly, you spy a puffer fish. You begin playing catch with the puffer and then pass it around your group. You each chew on it, passing non-lethal doses of the pufferfish's potent neurotoxin around your group. You get high as f*ck, and think:
"Being a dolphin is so good. Water rules. The universe is infinite, and it will go on and on forever, and I am part of it all, and all of it is part of me. I have a tail! How good?!"
You are a sunflower seed struggling to grow. You fight the pressure of the dirt and reach upward, bursting forth from your safe home into the great unknown. You must try; all your strength is used for growing. You won't give up. Each day you're stronger, taller, you're yearning for the sky. Raindrops cool you, the soft breeze dries you - the world around you wants you to grow.
One day, you turn toward the sunlight, and you know this is exactly where you're meant to be.
You are the costume designer on the set of Pillion. You are helping Alexander Skarsgård into his leather pants. You are both laughing as he struggles into them. Then suddenly there is heat in the room. Desire crackles. Everything changes as his fingers curl around your wrist, your heartbeat pulsing under his firm touch. You look up at him. He is so tall. He's really, really tall. And his eyes are so sad. He drops to his knees to be at your level, and you find you're sharing shuddering breaths between you as he touches your cheek so gently. “Do you want to watch Heated Rivalry episode 1,2,4,5 + 6?” he whispers.
But he already knows the answer.
You are on the Glacier Express travelling from Zermatt to St. Moritz through Andermatt in the central Swiss Alps. Outside, the snow falls gently. You are warm. The window is a constant picture. You consider that you’ve never felt so at peace. The carriage is quiet. The hum of the train is a gentle requiem. Your Kindle is full of stories so sexually graphic that you feel like the plastic casing might melt and drip sensually through your fingers. Nobody knows you’re reading a re-telling of Snow White that involves her getting banged by seven hot farm workers who are also somehow Amish.
Life is good.
You have a bedtime routine that comes easily. You don't have to fight with yourself to put your phone down; you just sip your chamomile and honey tea and read your book. Your eyes are getting heavier. The duvet is fluffy and exactly the right temperature. You have a cat snuggled behind one knee, and when you get a little bit too warm, you can stick your foot out from under the covers without the cat getting sulky and biting your toe before leaving.
Your pillows are arranged just right. They smell like lavender and clean linen. In fact, all of your sheets are clean. Someone even ironed them before making the bed. Your hair isn't tickling the back of your neck. You know where to put your arms. You put a moisturising face mask on before you get into bed.
You don't think about the things you forgot to Google today. Your mind doesn't come up with any sudden and urgent thoughts. The room is dark and quiet, but not so quiet that you can hear your own blood pumping. There is a very gentle sound of rain on the roof.
You don't wake up in the night. You don't have an alarm set. You wake up naturally, and you feel ready for the day.
You are at a Chappell Roan concert.
There are no straight men there.
Your children rush into the room, they’re excited - their faces flushed with joy and happiness. “Guess what!?” they shout in unison. “We decided that we’re only going to talk about Minecraft with grandad from now on!” They sadly explain that it means you will never have the chance to watch 30-minute-long videos they’ve made of themselves playing Minecraft while they explain what they’re doing both in real time and on the video. This is something they will only show Grandad. You try to look disappointed.
It is impossible.
You are a tiny mouse. You are proud of your whiskers and your cute little pink nose. You have ventured out of your warm and cosy little home on the hunt for something to fill your furry little belly. You step out onto the hay-strewn barn floor, and suddenly the breeze carries you the most delicious scent. You scurry along following it, and before you know it, you bounce into an enormous wedge of Gruyère cheese. It is huge and golden, and all you can hear is the beating of your good and tiny heart. There is nobody around. It’s just you, a little mouse with a very big cheese. You decide to nibble at the corner of the wedge. Oh, it is incredible! You are overwhelmed. It tastes salty and sweet and succulent. You nibble and then chomp and nibble and chomp. Your tiny belly expands to make a place for this tremendous treat.
You are little, the cheese is big, and life is perfect.
You have lived for two years. You are deeply loved. You wake each morning reaching for the one who loves you best. She is always there for you. She reaches down into your cot, and her moon-like face is all that you can see. Her smile is so soft and so familiar, her eyes are filled with tired love. She lifts you high, and you nuzzle into her silky hair. Every need you have ever had has been filled. You’ve never known any trials in your short life. Everything is easy, smoothed over by the adoration of the adults around you. More than anyone, it is she who holds you, who makes all of your days so perfectly gentle and joyous and hopeful.
You grab a clump of her hair in your tiny fingers and pull as hard as you possibly can.
Pedro Pascal nudges you at the bar and immediately apologises profusely. He says "My gosh, I would trip over my own feet if I"... and suddenly he stops. He looks at you properly for the first time, and you feel a shock of desire. Of recognition. Of lust. He smiles slowly, pushes a curl from his eyes, and leans back. "Wow", he says. You smile, and in a voice you don’t really recognise that sounds cool and calm and collected, you say "wow, yourself". He points to your glass and says "can I?" but you shake your head. A deep melancholy washes over him, but you say, "I can’t have another drink because we’re leaving". He looks around, confused. He sees your wedding ring and says, "Oh, you’re married?".
You quickly pull the ring off and hurl it across the room. "No, I’m not" you say. Pedro Pascal looks confused again. You take his hand and lead him out of the bar. As you slip out the back door, you see Leonardo DiCaprio on the floor, screaming while holding his eye. A bored 26-year-old model stands next to him, holding your wedding ring up to the light. You feel Pedro Pascal’s hand on the small of your back, and your whole body throbs with longing.
The cool night air does not satiate the heat between you.
You are a tiny pomeranian. You are mostly fluff. Your new family adores you. When you chase a ball, they cheer. When you sit, they celebrate. When you snuggle up to them, they coo. They delight in everything that you do. They are easily manipulated. You have figured out that you get a treat if you just pretend to pee. They have given you so many toys. You have a soft bed, a hard bed, and a bed shaped like a bun with a sausage in it. You have a tiny hat. They dote on you, give you everything you could ever want or need. They love you. You love them too. But you also feel an urge that is so strong to bite them sometimes. You bite their tender flesh and feel a deep thrill. Your teeth are tiny and razor-sharp. You know this because the family shrieks when you bite at their ankles. What a joy it is to know you are so small, but you are so mighty. You lick their ankles in an insincere apology. They forgive you immediately.
You see a leaf and bark at it for 20 minutes.
You are a rescued cat. You know this because they caught you and put you into a cage, and you finally had food, and then a child came, and now you’re in this child’s house. You scarcely remember it - the before. Before you were hungry, you think. And now you hunger for nothing.
The child loves you, there’s no doubt about that. He jostles you from sleep and presses his face into your belly. At first, you found this to be an offensive disregard for your body autonomy, but now you accept it. The child talks to you all the time, and you sense that your presence calms him. His movements, sudden and jerky, used to frighten you, but now they don’t. You realise you are growing together.
When he scoops you up suddenly now, you no longer freeze in fear - you know the child would never hurt you. Sometimes he cries, and his tears wet your fur. This is when you look up at him and touch his nose with your nose. Usually, this makes the child smile, or if you’re lucky, he will laugh, and it will sound like tinkling bells. This makes you feel like you are an important cat. You have a job. You were rescued and now you rescue. You are proud.
You are at a Pride event. For some reason, the organisers have invited politicians who are actively harming trans people. You join the chants, but it doesn't feel like enough. Suddenly, you remember what's in your Lavender Menace tote bag. You reach in and feel the heft of the 3kg 12.9" sparkly dildo. You pull it out and, without thinking too much, hurl it. It sails above the crowd, it stays true and beautiful as it flies through the air. It hits David Seymour in the forehead and sticks there. He can't get it off. The base is a flared suction cup and it's covered in superglue.
It's Raining Men starts playing, but you know only a woman could throw that well. You smile to yourself as you walk toward the markets, the sunshine on your back.