The Sperm Cleanse

On Monday, my uterus or ovaries or some part of my reproductive system near my vagina was about to produce a new follicle.  Loads of creativity was about to erupt into my existence.  You can tell that this happened from the prolific, eloquent and delightful posts that have erupted onto my blog.  My last post was two weeks ago. The yogis say that men should save their seeds and avoid ejaculating regularly so that their bodies are not depleted from the arduous task of making new sperm.  My teacher Darby's son Shankara used to go on and on about this in teacher training.  There were only three men in our class and Shankara blamed this on the fact that all the other dudes were busy jerking off, blowing their loads.  After their strenuous masturbation sessions, they'd have no choice but to pass out on the couch in a half-assed attempt to regenerate their sperm.  The yogis say that instead of ejaculating out their dicks, men should apply various techniques such as squeezing their anuses and or moula bandhas.  Then the sperms will stay within them and the life force usually released in ejaculation can be redirected to heal organs or travel up the spine or something else that is similarly interesting.  Fluid Free Ejaculation.  I'm just wondering if perhaps the process of making new sperm could be healthy and therapeutic and inspirational.  Just as in exercise you break down muscles so that you can build newer, stronger and more, limber ones, it might be good to expel old stagnant sperm and then come up with something better.

Pattabhi Jois, Johanne Darby and Shankara Darby, inside his mother the day before he was born.



Today, Shankara likes to save his seed. And we know that he came from a good seed.

If a sperm is ever going to enter my uterus, I want it to be brand new and excited to be alive.  All this is very scientific. Probably sperms die anyways and the balls or whatever organ is involved makes new ones.  But is this as useful as a Sperm Cleanse?

In her awesome Ted Talk, "Loving Your Lady Parts as a Path to Success," Alisa Vitti talks about  the different phases of your menstrual cycle and how you can adjust and maximize your life according to the flow.  I wonder if there is a similar option for men.The vegan life coach used to say that he had to cum two times a day.  Less than that, I can't remember what happened.  More than that he felt drained and drowsy.  Just before we stopped dating he was figuring out the dry ejaculation thing.  He was very proud of himself.  Moula bandha and whatnot up his spine, and he felt SO GOOD.

At the time, most of the orgasms of my life were internalized and/or non-existent.  The vegan life coach never inspired either kinds of orgasm.  Not even that time I got drunk on the Easter weekend and went to his house and got more wine.  I lay face down blindfolded on his bed, and I felt something cold and plastic enter inside of me.  Whatever it was made a faint flute sound.  The tune was unrecognizable.  Then I recognized what the object inside of me was.  A recorder.  I wondered if the recorder had been inside anyone else.  In any case, it didn't do it for me.

Recorder teachers have terrible karma in this life time.  For their next life time, I imagine that things will be better.

Boy plays blue recorder

That was the End.  Approximately.

When I was a little girl, I played the recorder, and also the trombone.  I practiced very diligently.

This post was supposed to be about sperm, but the vagina got the last word.  The vagina, and then the recorders.

Happy Father's Day.

This Day has lots to do with Sperm, if you really think about it, or even if you think about it even just a little bit.

Sperms, Barbecues, and Mowing the Lawn.

The End, Precisely

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, self-help book by Erica J. Schmidt

Menstrual Blood, Peanut Butter
The Benefits of an Ashtanga Yoga Practice, Part Two
The Benefits of a Vegan Life Coach

 

I Do Not Want Jesus's Love Today

This morning found me void of my usual defences.  My wonderful coastal boyfriend had taken our big black dog to the vet.  I hadn’t done my usual two hours of Ashtanga yoga, since I am shedding the internal lining of my uterus and I don’t want to subject myself to a nose bleed by inverting my pelvis.  And finally, I had spent more than five strenuous moments sifting through my sparse closet in attempts to determine which hand-me-down outfit was more likely to get me hired.  When the doorbell rang, I had decided on a mini-skirt, but had not yet gotten around to putting on underwear.  Thus, I arrived at the door with no big black dog, no yoga, no internal lining of my uterus, and no underwear.  I was ill-equipped. 

The visitors were two balding middle-aged men wearing ill-fitting casual dress-pants, button-up shirts, and light fall jackets.  It’s almost certain that there was underwear beneath their unflattering pants. The heavyset man in the front looked like the younger of the two.   The hair around his bald spot was just starting to go grey and his face was full and jolly.  The man in the back was paler, and thinner and more stooped over.

“Good morning,” said the man closest to the door. 

“Good morning,” I replied.  They must be looking for Rob, I thought.  He is important in these parts, whereas pretty much nobody around here knows about me.  Then again, they might be starting a new business.  Do they need business partners?  I have nothing to invest, but I do own one short skirt.  I could go door-to-door.

“We’re just walking around, visiting.  Talking to folks,” explained the older man in the back.   

“Oh, I see,” I said.  Then the two men pulled out their books.  Leather bibles that zipped and unzipped to reveal slick, flimsy pages with columns of writing.  “Oh, I see,” I said again.  Our exchange was not going to be lucrative. 

“We know people are very busy these days,” said the younger man in front.  Too busy for Jesus.  The man in the back stepped closer.

“I’m not busy,” I said flatly.  “I don’t work.” 

Both men flipped to the book of Revelation.  The younger man continued his spiel:  “Do you know the Bible at all?” he asked.

“I’ve read the Bible,” I answered.

These men didn’t know, but in the past I have made exceedingly thorough attempts to become a Christian.  At sixteen, I used to go on long bike rides, sacrificing a healthy body weight just to find Jesus.  At nineteen, I was baptized in the United Church.  I began a major in New Testament Studies.  Then I quit school and moved to a Catholic community for people with intellectual disabilities, in the hopes that Jesus would reveal himself as I cleaned toilets and changed diapers.  While I was living in the community, I attended Catholic mass twice a week for two years.  All this time I kept listening for “Jesus whispers,” the soft voice inside my heart, proclaiming “Erica, you are my beloved daughter.  With you, I am well pleased."  Inside my heart, there has never been any sound but the slow, steady swishing of blood.  It turns out that Jesus isn’t that pleased with me.  It turns out that Jesus loves me much less than he loves everyone else.  Jesus should have whispered this fact to the men at my doorstep.  They are wasting their time.  Today is a very bad day for a Revelation. 

“So you know about the apocalypse then?” asked the white-haired men at the back.

Swish, swish, went the blood inside my heart.  Drip, drip, went the blood from my uterine wall into the menstrual cup between my legs.  A cool breeze flew up my skirt.  I knew all about the apocalypse. I could not wait for the apocalypse.  I began to cry. 

“I don’t want to hear this right now,” I said.  And just like that, I became one of those repugnant human beings who close the door on the Jesus people. 

The End.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go by Erica J. Schmidt

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