"Vacation and Life"

As I was sitting by the pool, relaxing in the 85 degree warmth of a vacation in Montego Bay, for some reason I was swept up into to contemplating the brevity of life. The Bible tells us that “at BEST “ (my emphasis), "each of us is just a breath” (Psalm 39.5). It says later on (as if to provide some sort of merciful extension to life) that “our life is like the morning fog—it’s here a little while, then” BAM! “it’s gone” (James 4.14). I’d take the “morning fog” situation over just “a breath” but the reality is the same: Life moves mighty doggone fast. I wrestled with this idea of life and time and brevity a little here and there throughout vacation. And as the final day of our mid-winter respite approached, I began to see that vacation, quite clearly, is a lot like life.



One "day one" we arrived into a brand new world: resort life Jamaica! YaY! After trading the amniotic fluid of winter clothing for bathing suits and tank tops, we set out like newborns to discover our new world. Our sensitive bodies were caressed lovingly by the heat of a sun we hadn’t enjoyed fully in months. Our young eyes strained to drink in fresh sights with the same purposefulness that we would later consume food and alcohol. Our fertile minds, stimulated with wonder and fueled by hope, sought to learn our new home with the same gluttonous intensity with which we would later engage in soul quenching sex. On “day one”, we were newborns.



But time flies - and flies fast. Our bright-eyed bushy-tailed curiosity waned with the passage of time and experience. We learned the best buffets at lunch and the finest dishes at the specialty restaurants. We learned what hour the gym opened and where all the washrooms were. We were able to impart knowledge to the new “newborns” (of whom we were envious) by pointing them to ATMs inside and shopping malls outside. We were able to bid fitting farewells to the “aged” (in spite of their jealousy) whose “demise”, if not exaggerated, was greatly lamented. We had “grown up” just “thatfast”. We were “adults” now. Our innocence, if not our exuberance, “vanished like vapor”. Vacation, quite clearly, is a lot like life.



Near the end of vacation we mellowed. And that, quite clearly, is a lot like life. We’d done all that we could but not everything that we desired to. We rode horses. We shopped. We ate. We drank. We looked for real estate. We participated in the kooky poolside entertainment games. And we daringly made love on the balcony beneath a black cushion pierced with a thousand white-headed pins and sliced with a sliver of moon.



On the last day, I just wanted to sit. Time flies fast. Sit and rest – and ponder the monumental moments (two of which will I share in successive posts). And that, quite clearly, is a lot like life. We settled on a spot by the pool – close to the bar. We were the “aged” and jealous ones now: Jealous of the newborn couple walking by, as I watched him give her a gentle spank on the bottom with his flip-flop. Jealous of the lady with the scarlet “sit spot”, deemed, by us, to be much too dark for sunburn. We couldn’t help but wonder if these were the signs of spankos in our midst.

SugarAnne stood. As she walked toward the pool she reached back subconsciously to give the right side of her bottom a scrunchy-faced soothing caress. I figured that THAT must be the universal sign of the spanko. Ah! We had indeed lived a full life.

Vacation was just “a breath”. And yes, we fought the idea of going home. But we also looked forward to it too. Because we knew that our new life awaited us when we fly home.
 
And that, quite frankly, is a lot like life.

"These Hands"

We're on the way to Jamaica. Leaving for the airport in a couple of hours. This is our first vacation since we started "this thing we do". I was gonna take this paddle: the "weapon of ass destruction". It is my most used implement. But I became a bit anxious about the loud thwacking sounds it makes. And the loud shrieking sounds SHE makes when it strikes pay dirt. So I decided against it. Then the thought that it might perceived as a "sex toy" at customs was also introduced and that sealed the deal. No implements on this trip - except for "these hands".

Yep, "these hands", just like Barney Fife's, "are registered deadly weapons". I just might reach into your chest and snatch your heart out so fast you'll see the last beat before your lifeless body falls prostrate to the floor.

Watch out Jamaica, I'm packing "these hands" in case I'm forced to defend the honor of my SugarAnne.

"These hands" here are my lifting hands to be used to hold SugarAnne high. A loving look in the gym, a lustful glance at the pool, a showing her off on the ballroom dance floor, a pet on her arm here and there. And a pat on her bottom too.  A thousand people will wonder, "He acts like there's no one else here when he's with her. "These hands" will be used quite a bit.
 
 

These hands" are my praying hands. As always, I'm also packing these for the trip. These are my thanking hands.

Thanking God for the phoenix bird resurrection effect that "this thing we do" has had on our relationship over the past few months.  They are asking hands too. I'll be asking that it would continue and that we would continue to grow.

"With these hands I can offer so much,

With these hands, I can create,

And with these hands, I can offer my love,

I can do beautiful things with these hands!" 

I will hold her heart in "these hands".
She's "in good hands" with "these hands".

No implements on this trip. Just "these hands". So I guess I will also have to spank that ass - with just "these hands". The shrieking? I'll just playfully hold her head in the pillow with "these hands" to muffle the sound.

"These hands".

"Up Under Me"

"Why are you always running 'up under' me?" From the time I was just a toddling sprout to the time I entered high school I was intimately familiar with that phrase. I was the youngest, and by default the weakest, of a home bounding and bustling with all boys. And because of that, and perhaps some mischievous antagonism perpetrated upon the older guys, I was more inclined than they to take refuge at the hip of momma. Momma would reach out with her loving arm, wrap it around my shoulder, pull me in close and in a voice ‘as sweet as the punch’ she’d say, “Why are you always ‘up under’ me?” Ah sweet security!

“Up under” is where I gained the protective custody of the loving arms of momma. It didn’t matter to momma if she had emotional burdens to carry or financial rocks weighing her down. She was a willful participant. Besides, all that stuff was all a part of being momma. And it didn’t matter to me that those loving arms were the arms that whooped my ass on occasion. Because after a time of withdrawal, it wasn’t long before momma found me right back “up under” her seeking refuge, finding security and gaining protective custody. “Up under” momma was where I was most assured of love.


In a wild, weird, origami-like twisting of the universe, time inverted my childhood and I was blessed with as many daughters as momma had sons. And for each, in their own season (seasons now long past), I was able to provide refuge and security – and protective custody after mischief – “up under” me. I knew what they were looking for “up under” me. I, having "worn their shoes", knew just how to provide it. And they knew where they could find it. And to them, it didn’t matter if these loving arms were the arms that brought the rod of correction on occasion. Because after a time of withdrawal, it wasn’t long before I found them back “up under” me seeking love – and all that love requires of me. In those moments I learned all that momma was and all that momma felt. I learned that this was a good place to be.


Over the past week I’ve been reminded of the “up under” phenomenon. There has been a spanking or two (or three or four) in the past week. A quite severe one for giving in to the “butt demon” (yep, she smoked!); a birthday spanking that brought enough whacks for nearly five decades of living; and a maintenance spanking. After, some withdrawal then – “up under”. But most notable and evidentiary of the “up under” phenomenon are the isolated “’mask of false bravado’ 'flash flamings'” I like to administered on the spot, out of the blue and just for fun. The only infraction being absolutely nothing – but love of course. I’ve noticed that these leave SugarAnne swooning like a little schoolgirl and running “up under” me for soul quenching stretches of time. 

It used to be that SugarAnne would withdraw when she felt stressed, or troubled, or crappy for some such reason (“can you say PMS? I knew you could"). But I am finding her more and more “up under” me for refuge, security, protective custody and love; love that reassures during difficult moments. And most importantly, I find that I am swept up in the desire to provide just what she needs. In our B.S. (before spanking) days this wasn't always the case. But now, I reach out with my loving arm, wrap it around her shoulder, pull her in close to me. With a voice ‘as sweet as the punch’ I say, “Why are you always running ‘up under’ me?” Ah sweet security! Go figure.

"No Fear of Falling"

I still find it remarkable that I trust my wife. It’s not her or anything she did – it was me. My ability to trust was once shattered by infidelity in a previous relationship. You can imagine how crushed, how broken hearted, how angry I was when my previous girlfriend told me she had sold herself to her previous boyfriends for fifty dollars a pop!  I vowed that I would never let that happen again; vowed that in the future, I would be careful and watchful. I never wanted to know pain like that again. Unfortunately, I carried this "watching" attitude into my early relationship with SugarAnne. Every time she turned around I was giving her the, "Who, What, Where, When and Why?" interrogation.

"Who were you with?" "What were you doing?" "When did you leave there?" "Where did you go then?" "Why didn't you call me?!"

This just frightened the dickens out of the poor girl because her previous boyfriend had been jealous, insecure, possessive and controlling. It turned out that she was as afraid of control as I was of being hurt. Talk about diametrically opposed needs! That's when I realized that I had to stop trying to impose my will on our relationship in this way. I realized that in order to get the love I sought (that we sought) I had to open myself up to the possibility of being hurt. Not easy. But necessary.
Three things helped me accomplish this. The first was communication. We began to talk about our experiences in relationships. We talked about our likes and dislikes; about who we were and what our desires were. We began to talk about our ideas and what the future might look like. Through communication respect, the second thing, developed.  I began to appreciate her, admire her, adore her and in many respects be in awe of her. I came to value her thoughts, her ideas and her opinions. As time passed and our experiences unfolded, our relationship grew. All the while trust, the third thing, developed. I began to trust that I could count on her in times of need; that I could count on her to protect my heart; and ultimately, that I could trust the promise that she made to me at the altar nearly 10 years ago: the promise that she will always be there.

Communication, Respect and Trust: when these three are braided together in relationship, like three legs of a stool they rise and connect to a platform of love. A platform on which we both can lean or sit or stand without fear of falling. But take one away? The whole thing will come crumbling down. We have come close to that over the years. Trust has never been broken but we have, in the past, spent more than a season or two limping upon a peg substituting itself for communication. And a lack of communication, as you might imagine, is trained to eat respect until it pukes up your relationship into the pile of statistics in George Gallup's garage. But, I truly believe, those challenges in their previous form, are behind us now.

We continue to lean on this stool because we're confident that it's strong enough to hold us up. We sit on this stool because we have faith that we can rest easy in its strength (although it may be uncomfortable for SugarAnne to sit from time to time).  And we stand on this stool like two overjoyed 16 year-olds swept up in a victory celebration because - it is the platform of our love. 

On this stool we have no fear of falling.