Contentment

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  The street was lazy and relaxed like a young girl’s rose-colored vision of dawn. We had long given up going to the synagogue on Saturdays and visited our suppliers instead, but Saturday was still a holy day. We felt pure and clean and had the assurance of the well-dressed who enjoy leisure. Besides, we usually met the faithful on their way back from Temple, walking daintily in the soft sunshine, holding with the tips of their fingers their book and the little bag that contained their taleth. Fat and happy, their faces quite unresponsive, they went along unhurriedly, as sure of the absolute harmony of the universe as they were of finding their home full of flowers perfuming the air, with a white cloth on the heavily laden table. Toward eleven o’clock there would appear, at the end of our walk and impressing my gaze with their great pomp, the huge stores of Bodineau. They dominated this whole part of town, both by their location and their proportions and by their wealth of window space and nickel fixtures. One reached the main entrance up a flight of rather high steps on either side of which a large showcase, each as big as our room, triumphantly reflected the sunlight on the town. The showcase on the right was the home of a fabulous beast that shared the enchantment of Sabbath: a whole horse, all harnessed with brand-new leather that was studded with gold, its eyes blazing, its reddish and white-haired chest borne proudly aloft. I admired it each time for a long while, though without coming too close to it and always clutching my father’s hand. Later, I was surprised to learn that there are people who dislike the odor of tanner’s bark; for me, it remains one of my basic experiences of smell. Beneath our big family bed we always had a store of skins of all kinds, and during the long summer siestas I often slept in our shop on improvised beds of leather that imposed their character on my dreams. I can reconstruct the whole world and find my way about it like a fox, guiding myself by the warm and masculine scent of the leathers from France, by the tart, heavy and greasy odor of white skins, the stink of stables that clings to fresh skins as they rot, the almond bitterness of blackened calfskins.

• From White Oleander (1999)

  But here she was, up at eight, dressed, her little backpack on her back. “Where are you going?” She brushed her sandy hair. “Are you kidding? I’m not going to spend my day listening to Reverend Creephead talk about the Blood of the Lamb.” She put her brush down and rushed out of the room. “Sayonara.” I heard the screen door slam. I took the hint from Carolee and pretended I was sick. Starr looked at me hard, and said, “Next week, missy.” She wore a short white skirt and a peach blouse and four-inch spike heels. I could smell a big waft of Obsession. “No excuses.” It was only when I heard Starr’s Torino heave itself onto the road that I dared dress and come out, make myself some breakfast. It was nice being alone, the boys hiding somewhere down in the wash, the distant whine of dirt bikes. I was just eating when Starr’s hippie boyfriend came out of the bedroom, barefoot in jeans, pulled a T-shirt over his head. His chest was lean and hairy, sandy threaded with gray, his shaggy hair out of its usual ponytail. He staggered down the hall. I could hear the sound of his piss, the water coming on. Splashing, flushing. He came into the main room and found a cigarette in a pack on the table, lit it. The hand that held the cigarette was missing one finger and the fingertip of the next. He smiled when he saw me looking at it. “You ever see a carpenter get a table in a restaurant? Table for three, please.” He held up his damaged hand. At least he wasn’t sensitive about it. I kind of liked him, though it embarrassed me that he was the one causing the “Christ almighties” through the wall. He was a plain man, lean-faced, sad-eyed, long graying hair. We were supposed to call him Uncle Ray. He opened the refrigerator, pulled out a beer. Shhhhht, it sighed when he popped the top. “You’re missing the Jesus show.” He didn’t drink his beer so much as pour it down his throat. “So are you,” I said. “I’d rather be shot,” he said. “Here’s my theory. If there’s a God, he’s so fucked up he doesn’t deserve to be prayed to.” He belched loudly and smiled. I’d never thought much about God. We had the Twilight of the Gods, we had the world tree. We had Olympus and its scandals, Ariadne and Bacchus, the rape of Danaë. I knew about Shiva and Parvati and Kali, and Pele the volcano goddess, but my mother had banned the least mention of Christ. She wouldn’t even come to the Christmas pageant at school. She made me beg a ride off some other kid. The nearest I’d come to feeling anything like God was the plain blue cloudless sky and a certain silence, but how do you pray to that?

• From White Oleander (1999)

  I walked toward the light, past businesses and little houses advertising child care, two-story fourplexes with wooden stairs and banana trees and corn growing in the yard, the Dolly Madison bakery. An electronics shop. A movie prop outlet, Cadillac Jack’s, a Conestoga wagon in its fenced lot. Salazar Mazda repair shop on the corner, where Fletcher Drive crossed the river. From the bridge, the view opened to the river, warmed in the last light like a gift, streaming between bruised gray clouds. The river ran under the road, heading for Long Beach. I rested my arms on the damp concrete railing and looked north toward the hills and the park. The water flowed through its big concrete embankments, the bottom covered with decades of silt and boulders and trees. It was returning to its wild state despite the massive sloped shore, a secret river. A tall white bird fished among the rocks, standing on one leg like in a Japanese woodcut. Fifty views of the L.A. River. A horn honked and a man shouted “Give me a piece of that” out of a car window. But it didn’t matter, nobody could stop on the bridge anyway. I wondered if Claire was here, if she could see me. I wished she could see this crane, the river bottom. It was beautiful and I didn’t deserve it, but I couldn’t help lifting my face to the last golden light. THE NEXT DAY Rena woke us before dawn. I was dreaming I was drowning, a shipwreck in the North Atlantic, it was just as well to wake up. The room was still dark, and freezing cold. “Workers of the world, arise,” Rena said, banishing our dreams with the smoke of her black cigarette. “You got nothing to lose but Visa Card, Happy Meal, Kotex with Wings.” She turned on the light. Yvonne groaned in the other bed, picked up a shoe and threw it half heartedly at Rena. “Fuckin’ Thursday.” We dressed with our backs to each other. Yvonne’s heavy breasts and lush thighs were startling in their beauty. I saw Matisse in her lines, I saw Renoir. She was only my age, but by comparison I had the body of a child. “Gonna report that puta to the INS. Kick her ass back to Russia.” She pawed through the piles of clothes, pulled out a turtleneck, sniffed it, threw it back. I stumbled down the hall to wash my face, brush my teeth. When I came out, she was already in the kitchen, pouring coffee into a battered Thermos, stuffing handfuls of saltines in a bag. In the cold darkness, clouds of white vapor escaped from the tailpipe of the Ford panel van, ghostly in its whitewash, which didn’t entirely conceal the gray bondo underneath. In the big captain’s chair, Rena Grushenka smoked a black Sobranie with a gold tip and sipped coffee from a Winchell’s slotted cup. Rolling Stones played on the tape deck.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  One evening, as it was getting dark, Kalla and I were busy, without being unduly hurried, putting the four chairs with which we had been playing at trains back where they belonged. We were tired of traveling around the world, with my sister as the only tourist while I alone drove the engine. Besides, the tiled floor of the yard was cold and our legs were frozen. So we then played at being bakers: we were kneading our painless legs, laughing at their being so strangely numb and threatening to put them in the oven to bake. My mother came out of the dark room and, as the light outside still allowed her to see a bit, set about checking the wick of her lamp. The twilight comes late in our country, but night then falls suddenly, and Mother, as always, was in a hurry. Two discreet knocks were heard, barely touching the wood of the street door. So as to avoid giving me any excuse to go out, I was forbidden ever to open the door. Kalla was more obedient than I and was therefore allowed to open it, which humiliated me, but gave her no particular pleasure. Her large dark eyes and her shoulders apologized to me as she went to open the door. It was Fraji, the son of Choulam: puny, with his scared, wide-open eyes like those of a bat, his sickly hair that grew in greasy tufts on a scalp like a barren moor. “Is your mother at home,” he asked Kalla. Dancing shadows suddenly appeared on the walls that seemed to stare as Fraji’s dark double arose at his feet, crawled from the ground up to the door, and then spread huge across the ceiling. My mother was on her way, holding the lamp at arm’s length before her. She saw the visitor: “Oh, yes, I know what you want. Wait a moment.”

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  Memory tends perhaps to exaggerate the length of this happy period when I was an innocent in a world that I still believed to be innocent. I belonged to my family and to our alley, I lived according to the laws of this world and joyfully accepted its sanctions. Once, because I had cursed the Name of God, I was severely whipped with a belt on the soles of my feet. For three days I was unable to walk, but I felt that my punishment was just and had even saved me from worse when I learned about the danger I had faced: in Hell, I would have had my eyelids torn off and would have been forced to stare without blinking at the midday sun. The mere thought of this otherworldly punishment made me imagine the sufferings so vividly that tears came to my eyes to protect them from so much light. But my easy happiness could not last very long, this life ruled by respect that was also confidence and by fears of punishments that were felt to be just. Very soon, some serious hints began to upset the established order, in spite of the uninterrupted presence of my parents and of the community. I was not born in the ghetto. Our alley was at the frontier of the Jewish quarter of Tunis, but this was enough to satisfy my father’s pride. In the cool twilight of summer days the heat often drove us out of our rooms, and we made ourselves comfortable in chairs leaned against the wall and cushioned with pillows. The men wore their long white underpants, the women their housecoats of printed cotton, and the blind alley took on the air of a common living-room. My father was a better talker than Barouch, so that everybody listened to him. He liked to contrast the dreamy silence of our alley, cool from having recently been watered, with the offensive stink of the ghetto alleys. He would describe the foul fluids of the gutters as they filled the air with the fetid stink of the butcher-shops, the greasy and sickly odor of dishwater from the houses, and the acrid vapors of chlorinated water from the laundries. He spoke of the mountains of garbage where the sunlight hatched swarms of green and black flies, and of the roaches that emerged from them, so well fed that they could scarcely crawl along on their thin legs. In a tone of condescension he deplored the common lavatory that several families must share. We might well have but one room, but we were only two families to share our kitchen and our toilet. Besides, we had the privilege of running water and were not obliged to fetch it, at the risk of freezing our fingers till they were blue, from the fountain in the street.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  We lived at the bottom of the Impasse Tarfoune, in a little room where I was born one year after my sister Kalla. With the Barouch family we shared the ground floor of a shapeless old building, a sort of two-room apartment. The kitchen, half of it roofed over and the rest an open courtyard, was a long vertical passage toward the light. But before reaching this square of pure blue sky, it received, from a multitude of windows, all the smoke, the smells, and the gossip of our neighbors. At night, each locked himself up in his room; but in the morning, life was always communal, running along the tunnel of a kitchen, mingling the waters from the kitchen sinks, the smells of coffee, and the voices still muffled with sleep. We took turns with the Barouch family to go into the kitchen to the only washbasin with its single faucet. We came there fully dressed so as not to catch cold while crossing the little yard, and we had to be content with spreading a lather of soap over our faces as far as our ears while taking care not to wet the collars of our shirts. But it was forbidden for us, whether for reasons of self-esteem, hygiene, or religious belief, to sit down to a meal without first washing our faces. In our alley, the goatherd would announce his impatience with long blows on his horn. My mother would remove the two iron bars that protected our front door against thieves and pogroms. I never dared follow her as she pushed through the compact herd of goats that stared at her without blinking their insolent and surprised eyes. The Maltese goatherd wore a thick red flannel sash around his loins, and he would squat down against the wall, on his patched boots. He would take the brown earthenware pot and grab a goat at random to draw from her the sudden spurts of foaming milk. Angry infants, always numerous in our part of town, cried sourly. The street, seeming to awaken with regret, grumbled from all its open windows, shaking itself free from the sluggishness of a light mist that slowly settled on the damp paving stones. The sun was still benevolent. My mother came back through the herd, pushing aside with her hand the goats that were too obstinate to move and holding her pot of milk safe above any unforeseen or capricious movements of the animals. We then breakfasted in our room that was still full of the odors of sleep, seated at our round table that was our sole heritage from my grandfather, between the walls washed with blue lime and the bed still warm beneath a mound of red and green blankets.

• From White Oleander (1999)

  He said the reason we studied history was to find out why things were the way they were, how we got here. He said you could do anything you wanted to people who didn’t know their history. That was the way a totalitarian system worked. Who was I, really? I was the sole occupant of my mother’s totalitarian state, my own personal history rewritten to fit the story she was telling that day. There were so many missing pieces. I was starting to find some of them, working my way upriver, collecting a secret cache of broken memories in a shoebox. There was a swan in it, a white wooden swan with long black nares, like the swan on Claire’s frosted shower doors. I sat on the swan and made tinkle for Annie. There were white tile squares on the floor, that I played making shapes out of as I sat there, flowers and houses. They were perfect six-sided hexagonals and they all fit together. Also a yellow kitchen linoleum with a paint-spatter design, red and black, and laundry baskets. That laundry feeling, the smell of dryer. Yellow sunlight through a roll-down blind. My finger through the round pull. But who was Annie? A friend? A babysitter? And why had she potty-trained me instead of my mother? I wanted to know what was behind the swan and the yellow linoleum. There were other children there, I remembered that, watching them going to school. And a box full of crayons. Did we live with her, or had she left me there? And Klaus, the silhouette that was my father. We are larger than biography. Where did that leave me? I wanted to know how they met, fell in love, why they split up. Their time together was a battleground full of white stones, grass grown over the trenches, a war I lost everything in and had no way to know what happened. I wanted to know about our traveling years, why we could never go home. I lay back on the sloped embankment and looked up. It was the best place to look at the sky. The concrete banks blocked out its fuzzy flat edges, where you saw the smog and the haze, and you just got the good part, the center, a perfect bowl of infinite blue. I let myself fall upward into that ultramarine. Not a pale, arctic morning like my mother’s eyes, this blue was tender, warm, merciful, without white, pure chroma, a Raphael sky. When you didn’t see the horizon, you could almost believe it was a bowl. The roundness of it hypnotized me. I heard someone’s steps coming toward me. It was Yvonne. Her heavy tread, long hair like a sheet of water. I lay back down. She sat next to me. “Lie down, look at this great sky.” She lay down next to me, her hands folded across her stomach the way she did when she was pregnant, though the baby was gone.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  I answer that, After death men’s souls cannot find rest save by the merit of faith, because “he that cometh to God must believe” (Heb. 11:6). Now the first example of faith was given to men in the person of Abraham, who was the first to sever himself from the body of unbelievers, and to receive a special sign of faith: for which reason “the place of rest given to men after death is called Abraham’s bosom,” as Augustine declares (Gen. ad lit. xii). But the souls of the saints have not at all times had the same rest after death; because, since Christ’s coming they have had complete rest through enjoying the vision of God, whereas before Christ’s coming they had rest through being exempt from punishment, but their desire was not set at rest by their attaining their end. Consequently the state of the saints before Christ’s coming may be considered both as regards the rest it afforded, and thus it is called Abraham’s bosom, and as regards its lack of rest, and thus it is called the limbo of hell. Accordingly, before Christ’s coming the limbo of hell and Abraham’s bosom were one place accidentally and not essentially: and consequently, nothing prevents Abraham’s bosom from being after Christ’s coming, and from being altogether distinct from limbo, since things that are one accidentally may be parted from one another. Reply to Objection 1: The state of the holy Fathers as regards what was good in it was called Abraham’s bosom, but as regards its deficiencies it was called hell. Accordingly, neither is Abraham’s bosom taken in an unfavorable sense nor hell in a favorable sense, although in a way they are one. Reply to Objection 2: The place of rest of the holy Fathers was called Abraham’s bosom before as well as after Christ’s coming, but in different ways. For since before Christ’s coming the saints’ rest had a lack of rest attached to it, it was called both hell and Abraham’s bosom, wherefore God was not seen there. But since after the coming of Christ the saints’ rest is complete through their seeing God, this rest is called Abraham’s bosom, but not hell by any means. It is to this bosom of Abraham that the Church prays for the faithful to be brought. Hence the Reply to the Third Objection is evident: and the same meaning applies to a gloss on Lk. 16:22, “It came to pass that the beggar died,” etc., which says: “Abraham’s bosom is the rest of the blessed poor, whose is the kingdom of heaven.”

• From Laid and Confused: Why We Tolerate Bad Sex and How to Stop (2023)

  Our next exercise was the raisin game. I didn’t have raisins. “Oranges are okay,” she said. “Or even dark chocolate.” I rummaged around my kitchen, laptop in one hand and opening drawers with the other, feeling around all manner of trash in hopes of catching something edible. “Would a loose Peep work?” A loose Peep would not be ideal, she said, but it could work. I rummaged around my kitchen some more and found a slowly rotting apple that still had an edible side. I cut off a slice and returned to the couch. First, she had me hold it in my hand and say everything I noticed. The slice felt light. It felt smooth. After a minute, she had me touch it; I noticed the softness of the flesh and firm silkiness of the skin. I rubbed my fingers up and down it, alternating the pressure, and then pressed it in between my fingers; the sensation was pleasing. It felt like I was playing on the outskirts of pleasure, somehow, as I molested this apple slice on a video call. It felt good. The exercise continued with a sight portion (one minute), a smell portion (one minute), and then the most challenging portion: taste, which required I put the slice in my mouth without chewing or swallowing. I agreed and popped it in, but inadvertently began sinking my teeth into the juicy flesh. “Sorry,” I said. She forgave me, but I was still tasked with describing the taste. The crunch was louder in my ear, almost like a sound effect. My mouth moistened around the multiplying pieces of flesh as the somewhat grassy, tart, and sweet flecks of juice spread across my tongue. Clearly, all of this was meant to happen on my vulva, if I simply tuned in. My senses were so heightened I’d be very lucky if it did. When you experience trauma, you often lose the ability of interoception, that capacity to feel things in the body. Shutting down is the body’s misguided but well-intentioned effort to protect itself in the face of trauma, and the reflex remains long after the threat is gone.8 At worst, sex can be triggering for people who’ve undergone trauma, sexual or otherwise. In better-case scenarios, sex can feel like nothing. Trauma isn’t the only force that takes us out of our bodies. Through early development onward, society instructs us that sexual pleasure is dirty and that our bodies are humiliating. Joseph Kramer, a former Jesuit priest-in-training credited with developing sexological bodywork, opened a school in 1984—the Body Electric School in Oakland—to train others in healing erotic massages and helping patients master embodiment. He believes our society is facing a “plague of disembodiment” that has robbed us of our ability to feel.9

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  My father was in no hurry to finish dressing and took unusual pains, letting a few drops of eau de Cologne fall on his shining hair. I always demanded the same ritual for myself, but immediately protested when the alcohol made my eyes and my scalp smart. But it was already too late: “Let it be and don’t be silly, it’s good for the skin.” Mother would hasten to dress me and always ask my father: “Will you be taking your son along?” My father would ask me: “Do you want to come along?” as if it were possible for me to refuse the greatest joy of the whole week. Then we would wait for the faithful Joseph. Ten years earlier my father’s only workman had renounced his Italian origin and had changed his name from Giuseppe to Joseph so as to become part of our family. My father trusted him fully in the shop and chose him also as his companion for all holiday pleasures. When, one day, Joseph talked of getting married, my father opposed this project so violently that we were all astonished. Obscurely, my father sensed that Joseph would then belong to his wife and become Giuseppe again; his opposition was so successful that Joseph remained an old bachelor. So he still turned up every Saturday, looking ungainly and odd in his best suit — the “Sunday best” of the careful poor — pants and a jacket of fawn-colored cloth and a white artificial silk scarf that bore the marks of having been pressed with too hot an iron. Our housewives, in North Africa, seem to press clothes badly: they are either in a hurry or try to do the job too well, laboring at the iron as if to give what they are pressing a sheen of newness that it has long since lost, as if care could somehow compensate for wear and tear. Whenever Joseph happened to turn up late, my father would be upset, but Joseph allowed him to grumble without answering back, staring at his shoes that were always of a light spring or fall model and well aware of the fact that he was at fault. We had to go to Bodineau’s store to choose some leather and to Sarfati’s to renew our stock of whip-thongs. Joseph never objected that my father’s store did not belong to him or that Saturday was a holiday and he was free to spend his time as best suited him. Like my father, he was part and parcel of the store, and it was the store that kept us all alive.

• From In an Unspoken Voice (2010)

  A first step in this ongoing process is refusing to be seduced into (the content of) our negative thoughts or swept away by the potent or galvanized drive of an emotion, and instead returning to the underlying physical sensations. At first this can seem unsettling, even frightening. This is mostly because it is unfamiliar—we have become accustomed to the (secondary) habitual emotions of distress and to our (negative) repetitive thoughts. We have also become used to searching for the source of our discomfort outside of ourselves. We simply are unfamiliar with experiencing something as it is, without the encumbrance of analysis and judgment. As the sensation-thought-emotion complex is uncoupled, experiencing moves forward toward subtler, freer contours of feeling. Eugene Gendlin, the originator of the term felt sense,154 conveys this with simplicity when he says, “Nothing that feels bad is ever the last step.” This experiential process involves the capacity to hold the emotion in abeyance, without allowing it to execute in its habitual way. This holding back is not an act of suppression but is rather one of forming a bigger container, a larger experiential vessel, to hold and differentiate the sensations and feelings. “Going into” the emotional expression is frequently a way of trying to “release” the tension we are feeling, while avoiding deeper feelings. It is akin to a whistling teakettle letting off steam but really making no lasting change in its capacity to hold charge (as steam). If, on the other hand, one imagines a strong rubber balloon or bladder being filled with steam, you would see the size of the bladder expanding to contain this increasing “charge.” With containment, emotion shifts into a different sensation-based “contour” with softer feelings that morph into deepening, sensate awareness of “OK-ness.” This is the essence of emotional self-regulation, self-acceptance, goodness and change.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  On the contrary, The Apostle says (Rom. 7:12): “Wherefore the law indeed is holy, and the commandment holy, and just, and good.” I answer that, Without any doubt, the Old Law was good. For just as a doctrine is shown to be good by the fact that it accords with right reason, so is a law proved to be good if it accords with reason. Now the Old Law was in accordance with reason. Because it repressed concupiscence which is in conflict with reason, as evidenced by the commandment, “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods” (Ex. 20:17). Moreover the same law forbade all kinds of sin; and these too are contrary to reason. Consequently it is evident that it was a good law. The Apostle argues in the same way (Rom. 7): “I am delighted,” says he (verse 22), “with the law of God, according to the inward man”: and again (verse 16): “I consent to the law, that is good.” But it must be noted that the good has various degrees, as Dionysius states (Div. Nom. iv): for there is a perfect good, and an imperfect good. In things ordained to an end, there is perfect goodness when a thing is such that it is sufficient in itself to conduce to the end: while there is imperfect goodness when a thing is of some assistance in attaining the end, but is not sufficient for the realization thereof. Thus a medicine is perfectly good, if it gives health to a man; but it is imperfect, if it helps to cure him, without being able to bring him back to health. Again it must be observed that the end of human law is different from the end of Divine law. For the end of human law is the temporal tranquillity of the state, which end law effects by directing external actions, as regards those evils which might disturb the peaceful condition of the state. On the other hand, the end of the Divine law is to bring man to that end which is everlasting happiness; which end is hindered by any sin, not only of external, but also of internal action. Consequently that which suffices for the perfection of human law, viz. the prohibition and punishment of sin, does not suffice for the perfection of the Divine law: but it is requisite that it should make man altogether fit to partake of everlasting happiness. Now this cannot be done save by the grace of the Holy Ghost, whereby “charity” which fulfilleth the law . . .” is spread abroad in our hearts” (Rom. 5:5): since “the grace of God is life everlasting” (Rom. 6:23). But the Old Law could not confer this grace, for this was reserved to Christ; because, as it is written (Jn. 1:17), the law was given “by Moses, grace and truth came by Jesus Christ.” Consequently the Old Law was good indeed, but imperfect, according to Heb. 7:19: “The law brought nothing to perfection.”

• From Laid and Confused: Why We Tolerate Bad Sex and How to Stop (2023)

  We don’t ordinarily think of pleasure as a practice, but it is, and one with neurological implications: the more we strengthen our pleasure pathways, the easier it becomes for us to access them. (Neuroplasticity, or the brain’s ability to rewire itself, goes both ways; it not only wires our body’s response to trauma, but can also tweak neural networks to promote well-being, as it does with regular meditation.)4 “Mindful masturbation” is a trend that’s gaining steam as an antidote to the masturbation anxiety that plagues so many of us. If some tiny part of you still believes masturbation is embarrassing, or if it’s something you never felt comfortable enough to do, how can you fully relax into pleasure? If you struggle to experience pleasure alone, when the stakes are low, you’re likely struggling to feel pleasure with partners, when you might become preoccupied with performing or looking hot. The idea behind masturbating mindfully is to access the enormous range of pleasurable sensations our bodies are designed to feel, beyond just orgasm. Sex therapist Pamela Joy encourages clients to explore their relationships with masturbation—often to troubleshoot issues with partnered sex, but more importantly to increase awareness of one’s own experience of pleasure. Joy, who says she acts as a “shame detector” during sessions, tells her patients to stay curious about any shame that comes up during masturbation. After chatting with Joy, I tried mindful masturbation for myself, paying closer attention to my environment: the feeling of my unwashed bedsheets, the quality of the air, the sound of my white noise machine (blasting “summer night”), the smell of lavender oil rubbed on my wrists. I had set my room up like a spa, to the best of my abilities, lighting my favorite candles and cleaning away as much garbage as I could.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  There can be no question about it, I had really taken myself in hand, achieved financial independence and managed to study a subject that I had picked out for myself. In the high school where I had to live, everything was old and familiar to me. I was entitled to a room that I had to share with a colleague, and to the same food as the pupils who boarded there. Everyone complained of this diet that was heavy and monotonous. Though I never dared say it, I was delighted with the sheer size of our portions. All these dried vegetables and spaghetti and potatoes were very much like the food I was used to at home. But here, every meal included meat without fail, so that this particular monotony of our diet was a blessing to me. Whenever the students grumbled and my colleagues wisecracked about our food, I once more measured the distance that still separated me from them; what they despised gave me pleasure. My new bed also gave me as much joy as our diet, and I slept at home only when it was unavoidable, and chiefly because of the bedbugs. On the rare occasions when I did use my divan-bed, the starved bugs ravenously attacked me. I would wake up, after the first heavy sleep, with my neck itching like mad and my hands covered with heavy red swellings. No matter how heavy my eyes, I could not fall asleep again. My shoulders, armpits, ankles, and hands itched unbearably and I scratched myself desperately and had to bathe the irritated skin with vinegar. My battle against these dreadful insects would continue all night, while the room reeked with their sickly odor. Often a single massacre was not enough, and I would be attacked again and again. Sometimes, in the dark, I thought I could feel their horrible little legs crawling over my body. At once I would turn on the light and suddenly throw off the blankets and strip myself naked, only to find it had been a false alarm. But I would go ahead and make a new inspection of all my bedding and my clothing. In the middle of the night, with silence all around me and the electric light making my tired eyes smart, I worked furiously and methodically in an attempt to exterminate my enemy. At long last, I had to give it up and decided to spend all my nights in the high school dormitory, even when I had a twenty-four hour pass. My colleagues were surprised at this, for in their eyes a night away from the dormitory was a great relief.

• From The Day the Revolution Began (2016)

  The book of Acts, in particular, shows the church facing danger at every turn. I once saw a commentary on the book of Acts that was entitled “The Church Marches In.” That is a risky way of looking at it, implying an easily won military invasion. The church’s mission was from the start neither easy nor military. Nor was it an “invasion,” for that matter. The whole point was that the creator of the world was reclaiming his rightful possession from usurping powers. Acts is a book of cheerful (and sometimes not so cheerful) muddle and puzzle, as Jesus’s first followers blunder around trying to find out what they are supposed to be doing, nudged this way and pushed that way by the Spirit, facing sharp disagreement and potential division inside the movement and even sharper hostility from outside. Acts has plenty of martyrs, riots, and frustrating failures. The powers are fighting back. And yet Acts ends with Paul in Rome, under Caesar’s nose, announcing God as King and Jesus as Lord. Paul’s own interpretation of this strange phenomenon is worth quoting in full, because it opens up the point that must be made at the center of any account of Christian mission: the victory of the cross will be implemented through the means of the cross . One of the dangers of saying too easily that “the Messiah died for our sins” is to imagine that thereafter there would be no more dying to do, no more suffering to undergo. The same problem comes when we too eagerly celebrate the one-off victory as though there would be no more follow-up victories to be won. The opposite is the case, as Jesus himself had always warned. The victory was indeed won, the revolution was indeed launched, through the suffering of Jesus; it is now implemented, put into effective operation, by the suffering of his people. This is why Paul could write: We recommend ourselves as God’s servants: with much patience, with suffering, difficulties, hardships, beatings, imprisonments, riots, hard work, sleepless nights, going without food, with purity, knowledge, great-heartedness, kindness, the holy spirit, genuine love, by speaking the truth, by God’s power, with weapons for God’s faithful work in left and right hand alike, through glory and shame, through slander and praise; as deceivers, and yet true; as unknown, yet very well known; as dying, and look—we are alive; as punished, yet not killed; as sad, yet always celebrating; as poor, yet bringing riches to many; as having nothing, yet possessing everything. (2 Cor. 6:4–10) It was hard for Paul’s audience to understand this. They lived, as we do, in a competitive society where everyone was eager to look good, to be successful, to impress the neighbors. The beaten, bedraggled figure of Paul was hardly that of a leader one might to be proud of.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Reply to Objection 3: To neglect human affairs when necessity forbids is wicked; otherwise it is virtuous. Hence Cicero says a little earlier: “Perhaps one should make allowances for those who by reason of their exceptional talents have devoted themselves to learning; as also to those who have retired from public life on account of failing health, or for some other yet weightier motive; when such men yielded to others the power and renown of authority.” This agrees with what Augustine says (De Civ. Dei xix, 19): “The love of truth demands a hallowed leisure; charity necessitates good works. If no one lays this burden on us we may devote ourselves to the study and contemplation of truth; but if the burden is laid on us it is to be taken up under the pressure of charity.” Reply to Objection 4: Legal justice alone regards the common weal directly: but by commanding the other virtues it draws them all into the service of the common weal, as the Philosopher declares (Ethic. v, 1). For we must take note that it concerns the human virtues, as we understand them here, to do well not only towards the community, but also towards the parts of the community, viz. towards the household, or even towards one individual. OF THE THEOLOGICAL VIRTUES (FOUR ARTICLES)We must now consider the Theological Virtues: under which head there are four points of inquiry: (1) Whether there are any theological virtues? (2) Whether the theological virtues are distinct from the intellectual and moral virtues? (3) How many, and which are they? (4) Of their order. Whether there are any theological virtues?Objection 1: It would seem that there are not any theological virtues. For according to Phys. vii, text. 17, “virtue is the disposition of a perfect thing to that which is best: and by perfect, I mean that which is disposed according to nature.” But that which is Divine is above man’s nature. Therefore the theological virtues are not virtues of a man. Objection 2: Further, theological virtues are quasi-Divine virtues. But the Divine virtues are exemplars, as stated above ([1573]Q[61], A[5]), which are not in us but in God. Therefore the theological virtues are not virtues of man. Objection 3: Further, the theological virtues are so called because they direct us to God, Who is the first beginning and last end of all things. But by the very nature of his reason and will, man is directed to his first beginning and last end. Therefore there is no need for any habits of theological virtue, to direct the reason and will to God.

• From Laid and Confused: Why We Tolerate Bad Sex and How to Stop (2023)

  Fast-forward several hundred years to present day—past Renaissance chastity belts, past witch trials, past Victorian hysteria wards, past the sexual revolution, past the Britney-Madonna-Xtina kiss at the 2003 VMAs. As outlined in chapter 2, the continued supremacy of purity culture and its fixation on extramarital abstinence colors the conversations we have about abstinence today. Many people have internalized the idea that abstaining from sex is morally good, or conversely, that it is problematic due to its religious associations. In case it hasn’t already become painfully clear, like can’t-take-your-eyes-off-the-car-crash clear, I’m not too concerned with morality, in this book or elsewhere. For this reason alone, or perhaps in conjunction with my mental illnesses, I never internalized shame or guilt about casual sex, despite all the social messaging. And yet, standing proudly in my sexual promiscuity, amid a society determined to punish me for it, I missed out on so many of the benefits of not having sex, the first one being: the freedom that comes from not having sex that wastes your fucking time. Because to stop having bad sex, or to strive for less of it, you must first understand what role sex plays in your life. This detective work becomes easier when you have some distance from sex, as counterintuitive as that may seem. Consider making a “Why Do I Have Sex?” pie chart. You may notice many of the things you crave from sex are not sex-specific, and can be found in other places that are less likely to waste your time and deplete your energy. [image file=image_rsrc1XZ.jpg] While it’s futile to try to eliminate all “unnecessary” sex from your life (what is necessary sex, even, besides sex offered by Pedro Pascal), the benefits of intentional dry spells, extended periods of solitude, and solo masturbation are numerous, and more and more young people are embracing conscious bouts of abstinence to reset and recenter, finding that it offers emotional and physical clarity. Periods of sexual inactivity offer an ideal backdrop to develop a mindfulness practice—perhaps the most crucial solo activity, with benefits that spill over into both your sex life and your ability to understand it. Mindfulness means a lot of things to a lot of people, but in short, it’s the ability to perceive the present moment without judgment—just awareness. “To assess the source of your sexual frustration, dissatisfaction, or distress, it’s helpful to observe that distress neutrally, without judgment, worry, or upset. Which is a learnable skill,” Emily Nagoski advises in her very excellent manual, The Come As You Are Workbook. “The most effective way to learn it is through the practice of mindfulness.”

• From This Boy's Life: A Memoir (1989)

  I met Mr. Howard at Ivar’s Acres of Clams down on the wharf. His wife was with him, a tall fine-boned woman with black hair just beginning to gray—a few strands that made the rest of her hair seem even blacker. She had deep-set, watchful dark eyes. Even when she smiled I felt her taking my measure, felt the force of her curiosity. It wasn’t an arrogant curiosity: she wanted to know who I was. To be looked at that way is unsettling when you feel in danger of being seen through and exposed. I kept my eyes on Mr. Howard, who, under the pretext of warning me about the pitfalls of life at Hill, was happily reminiscing about his own years there—the friends he’d had and the stunts they’d pulled, like flooding the dormitory floor with water, opening the windows so it would freeze, then playing hockey through the rooms. I could see that he considered some of his memories too hot to handle. He would smile at them, then shake his head and pass on to something else. His speech turned peppery. A silly grin stole over his face. He seemed to get younger and younger, as if talking about being a boy had changed him into one. Mrs. Howard relaxed her scrutiny. When I got lost in the menu she helped me decide what to order. We talked about Julius Caesar, which I was reading in English, and she mentioned that she did fund-raising for the Seattle Repertory Theater. She was a damned fine actress in her own right, Mr. Howard said. She made a face. “Well, it’s true,” he said. I could see that he admired her and expected me to admire her too. There was an air of partnership about them that I felt warmed by. We were sitting in a corner table overlooking the water. Gulls strutted on the railing outside, shaking their feathers and turning their heads at us. The air was rich with the smell of chowder. Sunlight gleamed on the silver, lit up the ice cubes in our glasses, made the tablecloth bright as a snowfield. I was lazily content, like the Old Pioneer whose verses covered our placemats: No longer a slave of Ambition

• From Laid and Confused: Why We Tolerate Bad Sex and How to Stop (2023)

  “Mindfulness-based interventions,” like regular meditation and mindfulness courses, have been shown to benefit people who are suffering from relationship issues, sexual pain, and the lasting impact of sexual trauma.2 Meditation centers around the country offer group classes for practicing mindfulness, through deep breathing, meditation, and mindful movement. In women, specifically, group mindfulness therapy can boost sexual satisfaction while reducing orgasmic difficulties and depressive symptoms.3 (People suffering from erectile dysfunction also benefit from group mindfulness treatment.)4 You don’t have to abstain from sex to practice mindfulness, but solitude enhances this practice. Being alone opens us up for self-discovery and peace in a way that relationships with others cannot. (Again, please disregard this if you are Pedro Pascal; I think we are compatible and just want a chance.) Mindfulness practices hinge on one’s relationship with oneself, though the benefits of those practices ultimately enrich our relationship with others, too. If you’re having problems in bed, you need to start outside of the sexual context, says sex and relationship coach Pamela Joy. This starts with just you and your body. Before even touching the topic of partnered sex or even masturbation, Joy encourages clients to practice being mindful of their sensory experiences, and asking questions like: “How do I relate to my body? What possibilities do I allow for? It’s about raising awareness around sensory aspects of what it’s like to be in a human body.” Tasting, touching, smelling, listening, seeing. While on the phone, she tells me that she’s gazing out her bedroom window, noticing the ivy covering the tree, watching the breeze move through branches. She tells me she feels the softness of the velvet blanket beneath her. “I’m hoping clients notice what it is like when they focus on the awareness of the senses,” she said. “Are you sad? Are you happy? Are you excited? Are you angry? What does it do to your body? Does it make you more relaxed? Does it shift something for you?” She explores her clients’ relationships with the sensory world long before they start talking about sex. This is solitary work. Char Adams, the culture writer and friend of mine who has spent a lifetime unlearning purity culture, committed to this process in a powerful way. She stopped having sex entirely for four years of her twenties, realizing that the sex she was having was unsatisfying and demoralizing. Opting out of sex for an extended stretch can offer a powerful reset, crystallizing perspective that helps you honor your sexual desires, which are too often obscured by other people’s desires.

• From Laid and Confused: Why We Tolerate Bad Sex and How to Stop (2023)

  I found the list-making oddly comforting, if at times unsettling. (Yes, things can be both: for example, six Pop-Tarts for dinner.) As is true of most journaling, expelling the contents of your brain onto a page facilitates a healthy release. You can assess words on a page far easier than thoughts in a skull, and the process becomes less agonizing, too—in the same way to-do lists are less overwhelming when they’re written down, rather than floating untethered in your consciousness. There was no plan to be made of my sex list—more of a to-did list than a to-do list—but it triggered feelings of compassion I can’t always access in my dealings with free-floating memories. Past Maria didn’t have anything better to do at 11:05 P.M. on a Tuesday night than sleep with “chode private equity.” I will hold her in the light. One thirty-year-old cis straight woman told me she’d been celibate for three of the past four years. (She lost her “second virginity,” as she and her friends called it, this year.) After a painful breakup, she slipped into an unintentional abstinence—she lacked the confidence to put herself out there and pursue anything romantic. But after the first year, she found that she “didn’t miss partnered sex much,” she told me. “I was living for slow-burning flirtations with people who lived in other cities, or with people with whom I had hot and cold flirtations … I did find my ‘dry spell’ was turning into something more intentional, comfortable, and safe—especially since I was continuing to have satisfying sex on my own.” When she finally did decide to sleep with someone, the experience was satisfying and fun. “I am someone who would rather just not have sex with other people unless I’m really into them, because I feel comfortable and satisfied just having sex with myself for long periods of time,” she told me. “Hell, I made it those three years, what’s another few months when there’s no one satisfying in the picture?”