Posts Tagged ‘published by’

“The Shibari Series”…..

November 15, 2014
"Sea Eagle", jane kohut-bartels, watercolor, 2001

“Sea Eagle”, jane kohut-bartels, watercolor, 2001

I’m taking a chance  in posting these pieces.  They will not be liked, understood or embraced by many readers.  But I think this is part of our creativity: daring to write or even develop some rather outrageous pieces that go against the grain of what we are known for as writers, as poets.

Breaking open myths and creating new ones…..

These segments of “The Shibari Series” speak to transformation, and a rather weird tale at that.  I started them in 2007, when I was sorely pressed with many issues and some dangerous influences. They are rather a personal story, and though they came to me in a rush, it took me years to understand their significance. Perhaps we have to grow into what springs out of our unconscious, even distasteful and confusing things, perhaps this is part of the path of creativity.  We have to take chances.

People can look up what Shibari is if they are interested.  However, in my research, and my study of Japanese culture, shibari means to ‘tie’ (as in packages) but it earlier meant a military procedure:  soldiers or police would carry a small length of jute, hemp rope, and depending upon the status of the criminal, would tie the hands as he was brought into police review.  If the ‘criminal’ had high status, he was loosely tied, or not tied at all.  If a common criminal, his hands were secured tightly.  Also, shibari was never seen as a sexual proponent until the beginning of the 20th century in Japan (though there is doubt about this) but in the West, shibari has been very much sexualized in the practice of bdsm.  My husband and I both studied shibari and did some practice, but it’s intense and it takes a lot of consideration. And ….a lot of work to do it safely and make beautiful designs with the body as a canvas and the rope as ‘paint’.  We decided it was better to write about it as fiction than to practice it.  In some cities of Japan, the police still carry a short length of jute, probably symbolic of former usage of shibari.

The series details the transformation of a woman to different species, her empowerment and finally back to human.

These tales are also about compassion and empathy…and the form is just a unusual vehicle to ‘tell the tale’.  Nothing to be afraid of, though many will reject these short pieces because of their own moral and religious beliefs.  I hope others will try to have an open mind.

The Japanese words used to describe the shibari practice can be looked up easily enough. Tengus are shapeshifters from Japanese mythology.

Lady Nyo


Japanese hemp coiled about the torso, creating diamonds where there was once only skin, looping back upon itself, over and over. Breasts now defined by a rope cut-out bra, while waist, love handles, now enclosed in more diamonds, thighs entwined. Added turns and thin jute split my cleft with a hard caress, the large knot on the bottom shifting upward. It would tease in mid air.

Dance comes from the earth, through the feet, up and out, giving shape to song. This time I would dance in flight, the pull of ropes challenging gravity, compounding my efforts.

Movements liquid and extreme startled me, the kikkou and hemp anchored me in space, my first taste of freedom in the ropes. Suddenly I felt the sting of a whip and I jerked out of time to the beat. I fell deeper into the dance, determined to continue. Again the whip’s sting and I faced a split reality: pain or pleasure. I went inward, deep into the music and rhythm, where movement was birthed and pain banished.

I flew, hollow bird bones filled with joy. Cradled within the ropes I spiraled up from heavy earth.


(Spider Web)

Restrained by the hemp to a beam above and to posts at my sides, I was secure in a blue rope karada. It bunched my skin where it bound, creating its own mountains and valleys, distorting my natural figure.

Pain was the door, the portal, the whip applied until I cried “Mercy!” I had slipped into an altered state, far from where pain ate at my flesh. Just back from subspace, I had dangled in the infinite where time stopped and a crude salvation was born.

Looking up at the ropes I was now in a spider web, frozen at all points, the fly caught, splayed in a hemp web 360.

I glanced behind me. The spider was a big one, gently stroking my welts, drinking a glass of water, or perhaps it was green goo. He smiled, now aware I was conscious and with a questioning expression, picked up the single tail and shook it at me.


I smiled slyly. Such gluttons we were, the spider and the fly.


Again, I am restrained on all sides, a fly trapped in the stickiness of a dismal fate. I can hear the spider behind me, warming up, flicking the whip, marking his targets on my body, my wings too shredded for further flight.

What am I searching for? I thought salvation, but there was little of that. Perhaps transcendence? At this point, I would settle for any transformation out of here.

The whip caught me by surprise. I jerked forward, lifted six inches in flight with a high scream, the sound pairing pain and confused need. Blackness poured in like oil and I went limp.

I awoke, the burn deep in my feathers. Looking to both sides, my eyes now two sharpened orbs with 6x vision. Hooked beak, my feet wicked talons. A furious shake and I was free of the web, free of the ropes. Extending strong wings, I flew to the top of the beam. With a loud hawk hunting call I surveyed the ground, hungry, need fulfilled – almost.

The spider saw me, only a moment of fear crossed its black eyes before bowing his head to fate.


I flew high but it was spring, and the weak thermals did not support my flight. I was hungry, without food, except for the spider. A freshly fledged hawk must learn how to fend for herself. Beginnings are dangerous.

Cupping my wings, I hovered over a stream, watching the ice break apart far below. Three days of freedom had left me weak, confused and with a troubling need. Breaking my bindings I was now lost, abandoned to nature, cold and alone.

“Hep-Hep-Hep”. I heard the ‘call-in’ of the falconer below me, as I floated over the landscape. Seeing the whirling lure with a rabbit head was too much. Starved, I spiraled downwards, landing with a thump.

“Good Girl” I heard as the man beckoned me to his glove covered with fresh meat. As I mantled over and stepped up, he slipped a jess upon my left leg, another with silver bells on the right.

“Good Girl” I heard again as he tied me tightly to a perch.

“Good Girl” as the hood slipped over my head.

At least no one whips a hawk. And there is always the sky.


For the next week I remained in the mews. During that time I was prodded, examined and weighed.  The Falconer was experienced and knew to avoid my feet when I was restrained.  I would slice him, even with bindings securing my wings and the hood blinding me.I was to eat only from his glove. He cooed, watching me as I greedily swallowed down the sparse meal, his dominance enforced.

When I was a woman I yearned for the ropes.  I wanted them tightly around my body, ‘tender is the bight’ so to speak, yet now I pecked, pulled at my leather restraints.  One day the Falconer found me hanging upsides down, like a bat, hooded and unhappy, but I gleefully bit him as he righted me on my perch.

Soon after, he put me to the glove and launched me into the air, I screaming in delight.

If I thought I had freedom I was fooled. The Falconer had tethered me with a long hemp rope. He jerked hard and I thumped back to earth.

“Good Girl” I heard through my outrage and humiliation.

“Good Girl” I heard as he pinned me to the ground.


I remained in the mews for my fall back to earth broke my wing. The cage was large, one I shared with a goshawk only allowed to a Master Falconer.

One day Master claimed me from my perch, set me on his glove and launched me. This time I had no tether and made my escape. Screaming into the wind, I climbed high until he and the hated glove were invisible. I flew with the currents, my eyes bright with freedom.

Suddenly, I was changing, feathers dropping from my breast and wings. I spiraled, awkward in my descent, landing by the same brook once choked with winter’s ice. Instead of talons I had a woman’s legs and slowly my feathers molted leaving me naked, shivering, my limbs white as the remaining snow peppering the early crocuses. My cry now a sob instead of a hawk’s high shriek.

Instinct made me start at the sound of the hunting call and there was the Falconer, a blanket in his hands. He threw both of us down and took his rights, my cooing not of doves. Later, collared in steel with long jesses I walked behind his horse.


The spring was gentle, tender rains like warm tears coursing down on sullen earth. I looked skyward and saw the palest of blue, everything fresh and transparent.   Sometimes, when I knew I was not watched, I spread my arms and called out to the wind. My voice was too thin, my bones too solid for flight, chained also with gravity.

One morning I brought meat to the goshawk in the mews. He sidled away refusing my meal. Admiring his powerful wings, thinking of the past, I called to him in chirps as I did when a hawk and he swiveled his head to me. Looking deep into his eye I could see my former freedoms as I passed over mountains and rivers, hunting and soaring, all given up for earthbound comfort.

Freedom and hunger traded for slavery and food.

I knew then what would happen. Captured, I had the power to free. Slipping on my Master’s glove, the goshawk stepped up and I worked the belled jesses from both legs.

A launch and he soared over me, screaming his delight. I raised my arms, my spirit in flight, my chains now looser for his freedom.


The Falconer, now my Master, was not a cruel man. I found this out when he realized his goshawk gone. He did not question me as I served him his dinner, nor did he ask anything of me when we slept that night.

Only at morning did I find him watching me with a quizzical look on his face.

“Do you understand the point of keeping a goshawk, girl?”

I shook my head. Rarely did I use my voice in answering him. I did not trust it after so many changes

“Well, let’s say that in freeing him, you have upset the balance of nature.”

I looked at him curiously. What balance of nature?

With a slight smile he asked: “What do you intend to cook for dinner tonight?”

Of course! The goshawk hunted and we ate what he killed.

“Know you goshawks are called ‘the pot bird’? And since he ate from the glove as you did he will probably starve. That is what I meant by upsetting the balance of nature, girl.”

I looked for the goshawk all day until my neck was stiff. My dreams that night were full of broken feathers.


(Introduction to the Tengu)

It was weeks of anxiously watching the skies for the goshawk before I gave up. I never saw him again. I learned to trap rabbits and put offal on the roof of the mews in case he flew over.

My Master sometimes watched me from the window, never saying a word about his goshawk. I now set the traps and killed the rabbits and in effect I was the goshawk.

Trapping rabbits is tricky, but soon the spring would bring fiddlehead ferns and tender green dandelions to vary our diet.

One day I passed the mews and there sat a huge bird. I quickly entered, my basket of offal in my arms. He turned his head towards me, and I screamed, the first real sound I made since my capture

It was a beautiful iridescent bird, having a man’s head with a long, red nose. He shook his feathers and crept towards the offal and wrinkled his nose.

“Girl, even a Tengu eats better fare. Get me some meat and sake.”

I backed out of the mews, and ran to the house. Transformations be damned, this was a strange one!


I ran into the house, panting with shock and exertion. A Tengu! Sitting in the mews.

No sake, just my Master’s single malt I dare not touch, but found sherry and some cold pieces of rabbit. I wondered if a Tengu, bird/man such as he was, would rather have raw fare. A bird of prey would disdain the cooked rabbit, but he did have a man’s face. The leftover rabbit would have to suffice.

My Master was gone, expected at dusk. I walked slowly back to the mews, hoping my mind was playing tricks. There he was, as big as, well, there was the Tengu scowling at my approach.

Human hands appeared from under his hummingbird colored feathers and he greedily grasped the sherry bottle and drank a long gulp.

“Not sake, girl, but good for a thirsty bird.”   He grinned and his nose got even redder.

“You are thinking, ‘why is he here now’? Ah girl, deep cosmic issues. You and me in the mix. One last chance for me to throw off some bad karma.”

He finished the sherry, belched and leered at me.

I heard my Master return on his horse.


I ran out of the mews with my offal basket over my arm. I must have looked funny to him because he kicked his horse to hurry to me. Looking down he peered into my eyes and an expression of concern crossed his face

“What is wrong, girl? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

My eyes wandered back to the mews and his followed mine. Dismounting, he let the horse wander into the barn and walked quickly into the mews. I followed him with quick steps.

He pulled on the falconer’s glove and approached the Tengu, now looking very much like a large, normal bird. He looked for bands, jesses and bells but found none of course.

“Strange, girl, he would find his way here. Well, perhaps he has promise of hunting if he is young enough to train. I don’t know though, he looks rather old to me.”

Telling me to draw water and feed him some raw meat, he headed to the house.

The Tengu watched my Master retreat with hawk eyes.

He had a nasty cackle. “Your Master has no idea how old. Feed me well girl, I’ve got magic to conjure. Scram!”


I came back with the Tengu’s dinner that I filched from my own. He wasn’t in a pleasant mood when I entered the mews, but certainly ate what I brought him with relish.

“Good”. He belched, wiped his mouth with the cloth that covered the basket of food.

Leering at me, he winked one eye.

“Sir,” I asked, “What am I to call you?” He had started to pick lice from his feathers, crush them and drop them on the ground.

“Sir will do nicely for now.”

“Where did you come from?”

“Ah, the eternal question! Well, I came from Mount Kurama, all Tengu do, but I prefer to haunt Toyko. Like to be a pigeon in a park and look up the skirts of the women there. Nothing more, just like to see muffs and thighs, favorite parts.”

I was a bit taken back. I read something of Tengu. “Don’t you hang with Buddhist priests?”

He barked a short laugh. “Picked on the wrong one. Powerful Yamabushi. Bad karma

now. That’s why I’m here. You need me.”

He wasn’t the pleasantest of Tengu, but he certainly was the first. Perhaps need went both ways.


The spring warmed up and Tengu and I took walks through the countryside. He adopted the guise of a large, golden eagle in case my Master saw us walking in the fields above the house.

The soft air nuzzled my arms and legs and the Tengu shook out his wings, opening and closing his large beak, drinking in the sweet air.

I told him of my past, the strange transformations from woman to bug to hawk and back to woman. His eyes got big with surprise.

“You have one fucked up karma, girl. And I thought mine was shitty.”

My Master had placed me in light chains, and I caught the Tengu contemplating them.

“Ah”, he said, reading my mind, “I’m wondering if they will interfere with your wings.” I was afraid to ask anything, but my heart started to race.

Later that morning, he twisted my chains into a tighter bondage. He now used my soft body for ikebana, fertile soil for him to place the stems of spring flowers and twigs in my hollows, fill my lap and hair with long grasses, giving new meaning to gardening and beauty and gentleness.

The End, so far…..

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copywrited, 2007-2014

The “Shibari Series” was previously published in “Seasoning of Lust”,, 2009

Summer of Extremes….

July 29, 2012

English roses that don’t stand at attention…backed by a grapevine


The heat of  summer has deadened any interest in going outside to look at what thrives.  Only the very early hours before 9am, and after 7, is it possible to leave the house. Windows don’t help in the viewing, as they can’t magnify the lady bugs, the Japanese beetles eating the new English roses, nor give more than a ‘iffy’ appraisal of mulch and water.

I still go out in the heat of the day, much like the crazy dogs and Englishmen we know….and inspect where the rats  from the fields behind  have eaten my Brandywine tomatoes.  They were asleep for the first month, then they woke up to the splendors of my Brandywines.  Big chunks were taken out of these tomatoes and left to rot on the vines.  My dogs seem to have a truce with them.  Since they rather stay in the cool tiled laundry room, it is doubtful they even know of the invasion.

There is little weeding I can do right now, as my left arm is in a cast, but when I am healed, there will be a mess of weeds to pull and carry to the hens.  Actually, if I could trust my 7 hens to weed the garden for me, without eating the good stuff…..I would shoo them in.  But I notice they also go for the beautiful Batchlor Buttons and the parsley planted around the new rose garden.  I read somewhere this spring that parsley and roses are good companion plantings…so I raked in a couple of packets of different parsley.  They all came up.  They are replacing the weeds and tall grasses with something that probably will stand ias a weed itself in a few months. Parsley is good, but right now, parsley stands neck and neck with the new roses. 

These new roses are from the David Austen species.  They are delicate roses for the first year or so, but then they come into their own.  They need to be staked. This will allow the blooms to be seen, as they are prolific bloomers, but the stems are weak, needing  support of canes. The best rose bush I have ever had, and now 15 years at least in the growing, is the beautiful “Heritage”.  It’s a David Austen rose, and a constant bloomer.  Fragrant, pale pink blossoms, many on a stem, standing 6 feet high, a marvelous and round bush.  Hardly any thorns to speak of.

This is the summer of extremes, it seems.  Horrendous heat, killing heat, and then monsoon- like rains and flooding.  Trees everywhere are feeling the results of years of drought and then the floods.  Then weeks of no rain, and the grass shrinks before your eyes, turns pale and disappears. There is fall, when much of the disregard and dismiss of summer’s chores can be repaired, but the damage is done.  What we suffer in our homes and property is nothing when you consider the plight of the farmer.

I’ve posted some of these tanka and haiku before. Some of them come from my first book, “A Seasoning of Lust”, published by The heat of summer has dulled my brain, so I have little creativity right now. 

We mourn the weather of Summer, but this is a ripening season, where the bounty of the earth shows itself  with glee.  We just have to get through the heat of Hell.  I’m holding out for fall, with crisp, ripe apples.

Lady Nyo

Soft rains caress earth

A hand slides up a soft thigh.

Cherry blossoms bloom.

Sultry air disturbs

The sleep of husband and wife.

They pant without lust.

So lonely am I

My soul like a floating weed

Severed at the roots

Drifting upon cold waters

No pillow for further dreams.


The truth of longing

Has nothing of nice logic.

A matter of hearts

So uneven, exciting!

But most painful, nonetheless.


The moon floats on wisps

Of clouds extending outward

Tendrils of white fire

Blanketing the universe

Gauzy ghosts of nothingness.


When nature is known

Reason for awe can be found

In familiar sights.

Intimacy at the core—

Astounding revelation!


Human frailties

wounds that bleed such heated blood

leave a dry vessel.

Without the moisture of love

the clay reverts to the ground.


Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2012

“July Moon”….from “White Cranes of Heaven”

July 16, 2012





A pale moon rises,

Unheralded, surprising us

With its presence so early at dusk.


The summer heat makes it waver

Like a ghost under water.

The cicadas hold their breath-

Their leg-fiddles muted,

And the earth turns quiet

If only for a moment.


Brushing the lush green tree tops

It floats upward into a still-lavender sky,

Gaining presence, strength, gleam

As it balances in the darkening light,

A well-trod path– fascinating eternity.


A world-weary face appears

And casts a bemused gaze downward

Before sailing through the night

Into the harbor of Dawn.


Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2010, 2012


Autumn Tanka and a Poem, posted for d’

August 30, 2011

"North Carolina Stream", watercolor, janekohut-bartels, 2008

A long, hot summer is coming to a close.  Some tanka and a poem might cool us off,  and send our thoughts towards  Autumn.

Lady Nyo



When Autumn enters

Inexplicable sadness.

Season fades to death.

Hunter’s moon sits in Heaven–

Garden spiders finish, die.


Autumn wind startles–

Lowered to an ominous

Key—Ah! Mournful sounds!

The fat mountain deer listen-

Add their bellowing sorrow.


Out with the gold fish,

The bullfrogs croak their sorrow.

Summer is passing

Autumn brings sharp, brittle winds

But Winter is the cruelest.

The Moon Casts….

Autumn night winds

Hiss over the land

Round corners

And pulse under eaves.

Clashing windchimes add sharp discord

As bare branches answer with a grating groan.

Above all,

The moon casts a feeble light

Too thin to fatten the road. 

(this poem from “White Cranes of Heaven”, published by, 2011)

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2011

‘The Night Of The Stain’, for d’

August 23, 2011


Heian era Woman with Tengu

In ancient Japan, (this poem deplicts the situation of a court woman, obviously cast off, in 12th century Heian Japan) and even in modern Japan, the giving of a dildo was a not uncommon gift, between lovers, husbands and wives and even girlfriends.  The Japanese, modest, demure people, have a different attitude towards sex than Westerners.  There are many museums all over Japan dedicated to sexual themes, gigantic phalluses, sex toys, etc.  Many of them are staffed by little old ladies. 

The beautiful woodblock prints of shunga (erotic  ‘how-to’ and with ridiculously proportioned masculine genitalia) were collected, bound and given to newly married couples.  A very early form of porn from Japan, but usually exquisitely made.

The Japanese might be a modest people, but they are no prudes.

Ancient, and indeed much modern poetry in Japan does not have punctuation. I have been playing with this lately, and paring down the words in my poems, trying for the least amount to still carry the poem.

Lady Nyo

The Night Of The Stain

Izumi hid in the willow greenery

Living strands cascading to the ground

Hair of blackbird gloss

Also trailing in the grass

Black and green tangled

In the layers of her hems.

Her maid searched

Full of duty to her mistress.

These peaceful moments now rare.

“My Lady! I found the most beautiful

Robe in the bottom of a chest.

It will be perfect for your wedding.”

Yes, her wedding.

(Better she become a nun)

Izumi parted the willow,

Looked without interest.

Her maid holding

A pale jade silk kimono

Embossed tarnished silver embroidery,

Seed pearls gleaming from

 Gossamer folds.

Izumi’s breath caught in her throat.

Hands trembling

She opened the kimono.

There it was, faded with time-

A blood stain.

He was dead now, her greatest love.

Closing her eyes

She remembered his face,

His hair, black as a raven,

His sandalwood perfume, still faintly trapped

In the jade bo silk.

Through tears leaking

From shadowed lids,

She remembered that night-

His gift of an ebony dildo.

She remembered the night of that stain,

When locked in his powerful arms

She screamed out—

Scattering the servants listening outside the shoji.

She had bled from

The strength of their passion.

Now she was to marry an old man,

Arranged through court.

Scandal and poverty, Ah!

The two banes of life.

She would need the dildo.

She would marry in the stained kimono.

It wouldn’t matter anymore.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2011

from “A Seasoning of Lust“, 2009,

Empowerment, Trance Dance and the “Belly” in Belly Dance.

April 7, 2011

something was making me laugh....

I came across this older blog entry last night and upon reading it, I realized there were some good things in this entry that bore saying again, but with an update for Spring, 2011.

Lady Nyo

Empowerment and Transformation?

This has been a part of an ongoing discussion I have had with other belly dancers and with women outside this particular dance form.

One woman replied to an blog posting recently:

I think of my own practice, and I know that dancing transforms my thinking, my moods and in some very fundamental way, grounds me. It also transforms me, my body over a period of time, but my head. too. I think my head even more fundamentally.

this is the heart of it for you. You are lucky you can feel this way about something.

Sometimes I have led myself astray. I have tested the waters of different things, disciplines I was not prepared for. I should have stayed on the porch. There are different ways to sum up these experiences.

It is always good to take stock of where you are and where you are going.

When in “trouble” sometimes it’s best to fall back on the very things you love best.

Those things have been writing, painting and belly dance. Gardening has potential, but I let the sun and rain do the major work. I just add compost.

Sometimes I am primarily one thing, and then….I am the other. The trick is not to discard one for the other, because all are now integrated into me. I pull from these things for life and creativity. This, I believe, is the usual path for creative women. Sometimes it’s a problem of the Quaker saying: “Hiding your Light under a bushel.” We are embarrassed with our hard earned riches. We shouldn’t be.

I posed some questions to friends who have taken up this “dance of life” , also called belly dance.

What are our aims in coming to this particular dance?

I know I have struggled with many issues over the past 7 years; it varies for every woman, but there are some commonalities. Is it ego identity as to who and what we are? Is it to ‘heal’ deep wounds brought about by a lifetime of abuse/ self-abuse? Do we just see it as a ‘creative’ outlet? (It probably is all the above.)

Is it from a place of self-loathing? Do we feel non-sensual or lacking in beauty? Do we give so much to others that we have nothing, or little for ourselves? Have we become disembodied where we live in our heads and our bodies are just….there? (This can be a problem for writers…we can develop lard asses and dull complexions from sitting so long and writing.)

We bring EVERYTHING into the dance. We work those issues out within the movement.

We can work these things out piece by piece by being ‘present and mindful’ in the movement. And the movement will transform us, slowly at first, and then, one day, we look back and we shake our heads in wonder. How much we’ve grown, how far we have traveled.

On second thought, this issue of Hyperarousal Trance (Dance) isn’t ‘being present and mindful’ in the movement. It’s quite the opposite. It’s exactly what it is named: trance….in this case through dance. But 4 or 5 years ago, I discovered it in belly dance, and a few of those older dancers out there understand what I am talking about. I got the best reinforcement and explanations from some very handsome Flamenco male musicians one night: they deeply understood what the zar trance dance was, and were glad to talk about it. It made me investigate this phenomenon for two years and out of this research came “The Zar Tales”, published in 2010. )

And this issue of self-loathing? Over and over I hear from women who ‘hate their bellies’. I can totally relate! I went through a long stretch of hating my belly, too. Then I suddenly made ‘peace’ with it. I will never be flat bellied again, but then .…

Belly dance isn’t ‘long hair’ dance, or ‘arm dance’ or ‘hidden feet’ dance….it’s BELLY dance…and for a reason.

The belly is the seat of our femininity. It’s not the hidden vagina, it’s the outward expression of our bellies, as they grow with children, shrink back with stretch marks, and we seem to define ‘it’ and ourselves by trying to make it disappear. We hold our stomachs in tightly until we can’t move….

….or breathe!

Well, along comes Tribal Fusion and here is presented the BELLY in all it’s glory! Those stomach movements that Rachel Brice, Zoe Jakes, all of them, are very liberating…Snakes in the belly, indeed!

(Undulations that express the very essence of our femininity, our being women. As generators and cradles of life.)

I attended a master class in Montreal a few years ago and I was glad to see that the teacher, Audra Simmons from Toronto, had a belly on her. She has 4 children and this is the natural way of things. Our bodies expand and contract with life.

We are not flat assed/bellied/titted men…We are full blown women with dangerous curves and belly dance gives us a dangerous attitude, too.

Given enough time, it’s called Empowerment. A realization of our Femininity, a fulfillment of our innate Sexuality.

And we should have fun dancing….it’s not all sweat, sore muscles (but it is in the beginning…) and serious attitude.

This is a very funny video….I screamed with laughter, because that is good for life. We should have more laughter.

More later….

Lady Nyo …who has moved beyond the name….”Teela”.

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