Sensuality

Charity and I have been spending a lot of time together lately, as we try to become real friends (as we already are sisters). One of her favorite games is called "Secrets."

"How does it work?" I asked.
"You have to tell me something that I don't know about you, and then I do the same."
"Oh, come on! We grew up together! What don't you know about me? Charity, this is a silly game."
"Just try it. Please?"

So, I tried it. And now I am humbled. I never realized how many things... small things, but somehow important, I didn't know about my sister.

"I prefer my bouquets to be all one kind of flower, not a mixed jumble."
"I want to go to Morocco someday."

Things I never knew. And she pulls out of me things I didn't know about myself.

"I don't really like bouquets at all. I prefer to wander in a garden where you can see flowers at home."
"I like manual labor."

At the last admission, Charity gave me a funny look, and said "Yeah, I can see that."

There is just something about physical labor, physical artistry, and tactile experience in general, that appeals to me very much. It shows up in little ways all through my life and daily routine. I take all my school notes on paper, even though I have a laptop. I work at making my handwriting beautiful. I keep sealing wax in my desk, and even enjoy burning my fingers on it. Today I spent an hour lying on the grass in the sunshine, just smelling and tasting the spring. But, before that, I spent a few minutes attacking the insolent vegetation (weeds) in our front garden bed. I read Peter Pan today for the first time. I read most of it outside. Bliss.

Another instance: I bought a recorder a few weeks ago--I call it my "wood flute"--and love to go strolling, piping outside in the early evening. I love it that I can change the sound just by breathing a little differently, and I love the slight pressure of air under my tapping fingers. I can pour my soul into it, sad or sweet or mischief-making, and hear the difference in the air.

I love the taste and texture of lemon slices. I love to run my fingers over smooth wood, or the satin of a horse's nose. I love cloth--I have a passion for clean white linen and sunsoaked laundry on the line. Cooking is a great pleasure to me; gardening (you will hear much about gardening in the months ahead) is an even greater one. I lay still for three minutes this morning, in bed, just staring at a sunbeam on my windowsill and wondering about what light is. I touched it, and felt nothing. My fingers cast a shadow. I frowned. But then, after I was outside all that time this afternoon, my skin was warm and stayed warm for a long time. That makes me smile. I can cast a momentary shadow, but the mark of the sun remains on my skin for hours.

You may wonder why I use the word "sensuality," because we usually associate that word with a sexual connotation. I object strongly to this. A dictionary tells me that "sensual" simply means "of the senses." Why should I abandon it--along with other perfectly delightful words like "gay" and "queer," which had nothing originally to do with sex--to Frued? I will not do so. My mind loves the word, its gentle rises and falls, the drawn-out enjoyment of that "ua" sound; my mind touches the word, as my fingers would the surface of a finely-crafted mahogany table.

The word has a cousin which I also love, but not in the same way. I refer to "sensibility." Sensibility is a little sharper, wittier, both more aware and less delighted. Sensuality is primarily a word of enjoyment, to me. It is the word for what one experiences from the world around, not what one does towards that world.

Oh dear, I can't say what I mean at all. I can't let you see through my fingertips. I can't express, really, the intensity of my delight in touching things, smelling, hearing... really, there are no words.

But there are still sensual experiences. They tell me that God is, and that He loves me.

Da mihi, Domine, scire et intellegere et amare....