I don’t. In various contexts, the word “sacred” denotes separation between that which is worthy of exaltation and attention, and that which is not. “Sacred” is a form of terminology that derives its meaning from duality; there is no sacred without also the profane. And if we are going to place OM coherently within some kind of historical context of the range of connotations and applications of that term “sacred”, surely OM falls out on the “profane” side. So OM is not a sacred practice, but a profane one.
Alan Watts has this to say about duality – “So in Zen, a duality between a higher self and a lower self is not made. Because if you believe in the higher self, this is a simple trick of the lower self… If you think you have a lower self, or an ego to get rid of, then you fight against it, nothing strengthens the delusion that it exists more than that. So this tremendous schizophrenia in humans beings, of thinking that they are rider and horse, soul in command of body, or will in command of passions – wrestling with them; all that kind of split thinking simply aggravates the problem, and we get more and more split.”
Typically when I have heard the term “sacred” applied to orgasm, there is some kind of hidden neurosis underlying that application – it may be construed as an act of embrace, but it is also an act of schism, of pushing away that which does not meet the criteria. Rejection of the profane, that which is perceived as beneath us.
“Sacredness” is a concept that is very easily hijacked by the prejudiced mind as a way to denounce the feminine. People get killed behind this notion. OM is about the feminine. Even popular notions of divine feminine, which may or may not meet the criteria of “sacredness”, can become coopted with extreme ease into rejection of other forms of feminine. What about the non-divine feminine? I smell a rat; feminine itself needs no additional moniker. It is simply the feminine. The “divine” piece is a cloak which actually bears the mark of the turned-off masculine, once again claiming false authority to deem the feminine worthy or unworthy.
This is a post by Valerie Spinner to the now-defunct OM Hub:
Always, that first touch on my pussy. Always that charge that awakens me, gets my immediate and full attention. I love that sensation, icy hot zing on my clit, that travels through my entire pussy up, my spine to the back of my bottom front teeth, inside my right ear and through my legs, out of the tips of my toes.
This time, too. These next strokes are not quite on the spot. I go with it to see if I can transmit the request to move higher, higher, higher still, and to the right, just a hair. It’s transmitting although, slowly, and not fully. Breath, feel, notice. What does my desire want?
Ouch. Shards. Breath into it. Release. The shards subside. Still not the spot.
What does my desire want? A hair diagonally up and to the right. The request is barely audible to me as it comes out of my mouth. Adjustment is made.
Noticing, noticing, something is off. Another request. Another adjustment. Something is off. What is this? What does my desire want?
I’m noticing a numbness. The spot is buried under the numbness, the numbness that is encompassing, oval, wider, longer, deeper.
Breath into it. Feel, notice the point of contact. So distant. Like a spongy cushion blocking or muffling. Like insulation that cut through wiring.
What does my desire want?
Should I say something or just breath and notice?
“My pussy feels numb. It’s just numb.”
He breathes, and I feel an energetic pause, while his brain computes: numbness, what course of action to do? ah yes.
Ever so slowly he lightens the pressure from the tip of his stroking finger. The stroke becomes stillness.
Ever so slowly, so lightly, such a delicate stroke. The stillness is replaced.
What does my desire want?
This stroke draws me out. I feel this opening, melting, budding, blooming. Slowly. Craving, desire is building, building, building as I unfold.
This loving present stroker keeps on stroking. I’m going up. No. I’m expanding spherically in slow motion, a star exploding. There is also a ball of energy between us on my right side, it fills the space between the left side of his chest, arm pit. It is white, light blue, light purple, white, a hint of whitish gold.
I keep opening and unfolding. My voice deepens as involuntary sounds emanate from somewhere deep inside. This place is dark, so very dark. It is a mouth that opens wider and wider, it yawns awake. It grumbles as it senses the light shining on it.
It roars. It is hungry. So very very hungry.
What do you want desire?
Wave after wave of a thick, heated, molten pure electrical power spreads through this vessel. Gasping.
What do you want desire?
What is happening? Just feel. (shallow breathing)
The waves keep on while deeper and deeper I go. Desire takes me deeper. and deeper still. There is growling and roaring from the deepest places as the waves continue.
What do you want desire?
I AM SO HUNGRY!! FEED ME!!
My stroker, bless him, adorn him with flowers and love.
He knows how to ground me. It took many months to learn as I fly too close to the sun. But, I’ve never been here before. This is not near the sun. This is the opposite direction. Gravity is losing its grip. The grounding strokes do NOTHING.
I am expanding more, up to the heavens, towards the outer reaches of the universe and deep into my soul. I cannot stop. I am entering ancientness itself. I find it difficult to breathe as she gulps.
There is nothing my stroker can do. Desire is clear. She wants to be fed. She will be fed. She expands, ever more. Breathing, deeply yet quickly. How?
My stroker must further adjust the grounding strokes to help bring me back for I am gone and nothing else is working. I am grateful for his skill, his finesse, his vulnerability. His willingness to be present with me in this unfathomable moment, and bring me back.
Bring me back… I don’t want to leave this place. We just met. I am frightened by her. I am in awe of her. I want to feed her. I want her to lead me, to take me, to open me further. There is desperation to not leave her behind. She is still so very hungry.
Grounding pressure. Liquid starts to build in my eyes.
I whisper, “more up pressure”.
I get what I ask for.
It brings me back some. In this moment, there is nothing that will make me fully let go of her.
Yet, my body, regretfully releases, not fully, but enough to let go of the bear hug grip that we’d had on each other.
Don’t leave me I feel her say.
I promise to feed her. I promise to not leave her.
Can I keep that promise?
Stroker, towel stroke, towel placement. I need a squeeze. He knows and acts.
I am still not back. I need to be back. This life calls.
Please, I need a smack on my pussy. Done. I am smiling. I have tears in my eyes.
Still not really back. One more. done.
WTF? What just happened? Where is this? WTF? I am so hungry. I am so hungry. I have no other words in this moment.
My stroker says, its ok to cry if you need to cry.
Shuddering. I am so hungry. My desire is infinite. I cannot ever be satiated. At least that’s what I think in this moment.
Where did I go? The beginning of the infinite depths of my being. The beginning of the other side, through the depths. How is this possible? Breathe, feel.
Tears and snot are streaming.
I am told there is more. I cannot fathom that, and yet I know it is true. I went to an inner chamber or just opened the gate to my personal heaven. Maybe both. But I have not gone to the inner chamber of this chamber or all the other inner chambers, nor have I seen all of this heaven.
For now, right now, this very instant, I am taking in the view with every sense with every breath, that is, when I remind myself to breath through the awe. My desire wants to be fed with attention, to be fed with pleasure, to be seen, felt, tasted, heard, lit up. My desire is ancient. She is an ancient Priestess.