unapologetically unchaste. {notes for my daughters : part I}

this piece of writing was originally written for performance. if you'd like me to read it to you, please enjoy that HERE.

Those shorts are not okay I whispered to her dad. Those shorts.

Mom, what are you talking about?

Never mind. I don’t even know. 

She went out trick or treating that night. With a sweatshirt tied around her waist. And then I had the nerve to ask her why she was wearing it that way.

The nerve I had.

That night I cried In the bathroom stuffed disgusting little chocolates in my mouth until my teeth hurt.

The booty shorts were not the reason. 


I just wanted to feel pleasure. Isn’t that our birth rite? To feel pleasure?

I wanted to feel everything catholic mothers tell us we are not allowed to feel. I just wanted this person, by this stranger. To be spread open and devoured. i wanted to feel something and i wanted it to feel fucking good. Is that so wrong? 

Shouldn’t that be ok? To trust this must? To want and to trust?

To dive waist deep into desire, to pull it all to the chest and swallow it whole inside your heart?  But then it became clear. What he wanted was to suffocate my desires with an elbow digging into my throat.  

I blamed it on the booty shorts I was wearing that night.


Listen, I ain’t sorry for how I feel now.

I am the catastrophe, i am what dives down and inside, and turns the rocks over in revelation. I make a point of walking down the road dripping my scents from the inside out.

Intoxicating myself as I write down the words. 

Opening my legs as I type. 

Brushing against people. Looking into eyes. Connection. 

The more I strip down. And let people see me. All of me.

The more my body heals.

I am finding that my body owes no apology. That my body is not sorry for what has been done to is. I am finding that my body is now open as fuck.  And I want to invite each on of you in.  Even for a glance. Or to linger for a while.


I am believing in something different, every day. 

I unpack the right and the wrong. i unpack a heavy load of shame. I unpack blame. I unpack my stories. And I do this by: spreading my legs wide and that path becomes my open road. 

I enter myself. 

I don’t care if you think it’s improper when I pull my shirt down really far because I love the feeling of my shoulder warmed by sun. 

I am learning to pull my entire pelvic floor up.  So far up it touches the roof of my mouth and I swallow it back down.

The more I reek of salty, sweaty freedom and walk around with tangles in my hair, and hold the DNA of someone else under my nails, the more I sway into the day, and steal honey straight from the jar, with my tongue- 

the more I can pass it on. I want to pass freedom on. 

the more I let go of apology-  because being who i am is not an invitation to take from me.

and giving birth to daughters just as they are, does not mean you can have them.

and we will be more and more unchaste and i will show my myself, beyond even my skin.

inside my skin. who i am. from inside out and outside in. this is freedom to me. this is what i want to pass on.

We show our skin because we understand something. We are skin. We are bones. We are blood. We are minuscule and enormous miracles forever and ever loaded into cells. We show our skin. Because we are desperately trying to live when so many of us are dying. Despite the abuse, despite the violence, despite the war waged on our wombs. the battlefield on every angle of our cunts. Despite the stories that have been branded in places inside our skin that we didn’t even know existed. Despite the trauma. Oh the fucking trauma. But still. 

We want to show our skin because 

someday our skin will slide off us.

it will compost into the earth. 

and we will all be dead.

Because sex and death go hand in hand you know.

I am trying, as hard as a woman can try because I am going to die someday, actually i am already dying, right now. We all are. We are all dying. 

I want to leave this world free and safe for a human to undress. For my daughters to enjoy the body they live in, the body that is theirs. I want them to be here for the reasons we are here, to experience the world through a body that is safe, free, unapologetic. 

I want them to feel the expression of stars between their legs. And feel the burn of fire inside their ribs. And feel the sea swooshing between their pelvic bone. 

And to give the first and last gift we have all have to give, before we all go. To live.

So I say to myself, daily. A prayer. 

A prayer of holy resistance, of sensual sanctuary, of mysterious humanity.

I say a prayer for pleasure deep, and wet and loud. I pray for the outright lightning strike of erotic trust for my daughters. I pray that we become temples, not something to enter, but something to be invited into. 

I pray for endless dark hotel rooms in the middle of the afternoon. i pray that we hear the howling of ecstasy from open windows instead of the shot guns from down the road. 

I pray for us all to get a chance to fuck beneath the stairwell at 2am. 

I pray that sex becomes our benevolent god, one we give to, and give to, 

and not one we steal from.

What else do I really have besides experiencing the pleasure of being human. The ache. The grief. The sorrow. the rolling hills of impulses.

What else do I have besides the hauntingly beautiful power of being a woman, who is alive,  who longs to finds the cracks and blow life into them, to fill them with gold, to find the cracks and finger them until they come and spray out the ocean.  

Because the cracks are sacraments in the text of this unchaste living.  they split inside your everything. They are a certain kind of bravery, the subversive and horrifying courage of what has been in uninvited and lives within you.

I am pressing new stories into my daughters. There will be snags and mistakes. Because this road, of an unchaste woman, is not easy. We come heavily weighed. We will be kicked out, removed, blocked, have to dodge the stories placed on us. We will be told to dress differently and act differently. We will be shunned from neighborhood coffee talks. And we will hide our real selves from our kid’s teachers. This is not easy, to be an unchaste mother. It is not easy. We have been forever told: 

cross you legs. sit like a lady. listen to your mother. fit in. be real good.

we have also been told: you are not safe. stay small. cover up. men are bad. they will hurt you. 

i want us to unpack and relearn this: it is our right, our rite, to enjoy the flesh. to teach our children to enjoy the flesh. desire. with consent. 

My daughter came out kicking. There wasn’t a cross that could touch her legs.  She came in with water. With smoke. With the original god, who could shed her skin, over and over again, who could rise up, and devour all the apples that she wanted. All the apples. And she came in taking many bites.

I am working on getting unstuck between fear and freedom. i am leaving a story that i was told. and entering an unknown place.

I show up. Unresponsive to what I am suppose to be. I will not wear unnecessary layers of clothes. I will not bite my tongue when it wants to shoot arrows. I will not hold my words when they want to explode like bombs, like dancing stars, against your sky. I will not sit down, and stop. I will not make you more comfortable and put on a bra. I will not stop smoking or cursing, and I will be the women who will reveal more and more of herself, no matter how dangerous you think she is. I will be too smart and too slutty. I will be too old and too young. I will be too masculine and too feminine. I will be undefinable quakes and radical acts of molten lava. I will not change into long pants. I will not let my daughter ever feel the need to cover up again.

Because being unchaste is saying, either way, anyway, this is not yours to have. This is mine. All mine. My offering to you. To me. To them.

{below are some graphics of words, from this piece, if you'd like to grab and save for inspiration or to share} xx

*I have exactly 10 spots available for one-on-one Liminality Sessions from the months of March + April. I would love to work with you, as you learn to undress, un-apologize, learn to die and birth a new you, a you that is more free to explore and question your life, and get clarity on all the gifts. Sign up here for 1 hour or 3 months.

*Speaking of body freedom, My friend dawn and I will be worshiping and workshopping on April 2nd- Voices of The Body is a day long space to move and write- being guided and held by myself and Dawn who is a gifted body worker/movement guide. This is in Portland, OR and it's going to be fantastic. Sliding scale {$75-$150}. Wheelchair accessible location. Sign up here!

*If you want some magic and you want to read my book "of blood and belonging" please consider taking part in Benedita, a reading + ritual + amulet special for you, on my ancestral land, with my ancestral ways. Click here to find this island magic.