Ruminations on Sexuality part 2: All That Matters is not Gold

Scientists have substantiated that all matter is energy. From the cells that give us life to the most inanimate of stones or metal, molecular theory proves that every single thing is made up of anatomical particles bouncing around.

This understanding transforms a world once flat into a globe of inter-connectedness: all that matters is energy.

As there is a difference in the way those particles bounce around not so randomly that determines a chicken or an egg or a hen house, so an act can be defined by the intent of the energy creating it, so much mortar holding it all together. As arbitrary (not) as atoms, the lives of people who are raised in a tract home, a third-world cardboard shelter or Frank Lloyd Wright’s Falling Waters might likewise be very different, but still their hearts are so full with potential gold.

Intention and circumstance shape energy into action. We all are sexual beings, but how we express our energy is as varied as the population on this planet, so many planets in a universe of galaxies.

Easily, we can identify the ideal characteristics of sexuality as being an expression of love, creation of life, a place of union and commitment. As necessary to survival of our species as food on the table, even more than clothing and shelter, the act of sex cannot be denied nor prohibited. It is as natural as birth and death.

As vital as sunshine, therefore. Yet some how, in some ways mysteriously and in others more obviously, in some cultures more and some less, in so many individuals, the sexual energy has been darkened, eclipsed by moral commandments that broadcast fear and judgments across so many landscapes of expression. My own particular culture describes a garden where innocence was corrupted and our parents were banished in shame.

Approaching surgery on my penis, I begin to see how the emotional scars around my sexuality can be traced to this very fundamental concept that the manly energy charging so much of my daily actions gets repressed, feels some how wrong, inappropriate, even shameful. My environment growing up was not at all religious, yet thinking back, the tale of Adam and Eve continuously appears as a cautionary image perfect to describe my relations with many others and most importantly myself.

The pleasure that feels like paradise will be taken from me if I fully embrace and acknowledge its beauty and wonder.

Messages can be subtle and insidious, often unconscious even to those giving them, but I consider today that we as a species, and most certainly as so many individuals, through generations, struggle to reconcile our morals with our basic urge to feel our most passionate energy. Far from a scholarly academic, with little knowledge beyond common sense, I’m just sayin’.

My intention, heading towards this surgery, is more suburban ranch than Falling Waters, yet with every word I am more impressed that the particular atom which is me is not bouncing around alone in the Universe. Occasionally, I have collided with women who have ignited my nucleus and aroused my genitals at the same time, yet we have struggled and the paradisical garden of union has remained elusive, the fire difficult to sustain. More often in these recent years of growing insight, I speak with men especially or witness others of both sexes who seem to be living out parallels stories to my own.

The more I focus inwards, the more my vision goes outwards. Our generation has made a giant leap forward, taking small steps to open communication between men and between men and their partners. Raised to be sole providers to our families and protectors in any crisis, we are learning to shed tears and bare our aching, wounded souls.

Vulnerability was not in the job description when I was born, but events in this life lead me to believe my fall off the scaffold was divinely orchestrated. My recovery may serve as a beacon to those (of either sex) who have been wounded by penises (“penii”?) less obviously than mine.


Happy day to my mother's memory.

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