Belly Rubbing Buddha


So, everyone is having babies and I’m still looking for The One. I am reading some Teal Scott to help me awaken the feminine within, all the while growling and humming. I meditate, imagining myself on top of a mountain and wondering why some guys won’t answer my texts.

Going through some baby blues at age 25 is perfectly understandable. I am taking care of things like learning skills, maturing, learning how to love. There is a dire primitive force at work, so much that I went and purchased a fertility soap a while back, which I still keep hidden in a drawer. Somehow I am scared I might get impregnated in my sleep by the Holy Spirit, and ideas like that gain momentum when I am watching a Jean-Luc Godard movie.  If I was looking for a sign, then there it is.

The time is ripe and/or will never really be. A lot of girls my age are putting off baby plans well in their lovely thirties, once they’ve eluded amassing the necessary economic confidence of a steady job and a cleared debt.

I, however, have been off the pill for a while now. That decision came along with my soaring disdain for Western medicine and the realization that sex is very sacred to me, so I have adopted a very self-loving, spiritual and chaste sexuality. I may have found a way to pin my social awkwardness on that choice, patriarchally speaking. I felt a lot of frustration against the traditional idea of partnership: the cataloguing of preferences and easy replacement of one another, especially when I caught myself objectifying the men I claimed to love. When I did end up falling in love, in the ideal land of no expectations, it ended up messy, unrequited and obsessive.

In my case, embodying the idea of the feminine had to do with somewhat distinguishing myself from my male counterparts. In conversations I had with some of them, their distinction between sex and love was physically significant, whereas in my romantic melodramatic perspective, I don’t consider them as two different subjects. I wish not to stereotype male and female, as we are all carrying a very dual gender within ourselves, but I find myself before a mystery I can easily compare to the spiritual enigma of faith, and that is where I discover the polarity at play.  I now feel a pressing need not to compete with the male energy, if only for the sake of creation. The idea is to perform a yin tai chi act on the matter. It is not about counteracting yang’s play, which tires faster and entices more of that opposing force (even so within ourselves!). Instead, yin ‘allows’ the energy and lets it subside, looking gracious and clever.

This newfound attitude towards the feminine springs every part of me into wanting to make a baby with the man I love, and go with it as a wonderful addition rather than as a load of responsibilities.  Whatever way we find to align ourselves with our inner femme, it is nice to take notice of the importance of woman and the unconditional love she harvests.

So here I am, looking at this curvaceous soap, vibing with the moon and all the new moms surrounding me, and I can’t help but notice how beautiful and powerful we women are, even if on a more subtle level, as male entity is traditionally transpiring a more ‘provider’ and material orientation, whereas motherhood comes full with strength and intuition. It is funny to witness men pace and wonder how to be useful, but then again, they are packed with light and cheerfulness.

On my part, the need to work from home and to raise my own kids is intensifying, with a tingling look out the window to see hubby chopping wood or scrambling to build our sustainable haven. I would be creating that dream with a man, but it would be nice to have him take care of the ‘big’ stuff and be a great cook, while I am busy giving excruciatingly amazing life.

Carolina Longo is a 25-years-old Montreal native.  She enjoys the works of André Breton, Jean Cocteau, William Blake, Max Ernst as well as Rumi and Binaural Beats on a rainy day. She crafts clothes and wings while listening to Terence McKenna and plays drums to release.

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