More; Untangling Desire & Craving
A lover recently asked me, as we were parting ways, “Are you a more kinda girl?”
“Oh yeah,” I responded, instinctually, because it fit. I generally have a hunger that runs deep, and large appetites for pleasurable things, or at least an overall sense that there is more to be had — more, deeper, fuller, richer, higher.
“I am too…. always leave wanting more.” And then a wink. It felt very matter of fact, and also playful, accepting and celebratory, and I liked that.
It’s come to mind several times since, as I’ve questioned my relationship to More. Of course, I don’t think I am special in all this. It’s natural to want — we all do — it’s what makes us human. And at the same time we are so deeply conditioned to always want More. It gets confusing sometimes, to know how to approach my More.
I believe in the pursuit of love and pleasure. This is our birthright. Desire is a profound and beautiful indicator of our humanity and of spirit. We are here to feel. We are spirit seeking form, form seeking spirit — piercing the separateness of our individual skins through union, and returning to our unique and diverse forms — not entirely dissimilar to how we alternate from wanting sweetness and then salt, followed by sweetness again.
I also know that intimately tied to my seemingly endless desire, is pain. My More is tinged with disappointment much of the time. I am trained to search externally, made to feel as if something is missing, like I am or do not have enough already. From here my search for More will never satisfy. Torn between a movement of self love that encourages my yes in a culture that neglects or demonizes my desires, and living in a consumer culture that consistently feeds me empty material things, whispering “go ahead, indulge, you’re worth it…” — my More is suspended in a mental tug of war.
My father always repeated the mantra “I want not what I have not.” There are worlds of pleasure quietly living inside the simple and mundane. Sometimes, less is more. My mother treats herself when she is feeling low — lush spa days, decadent desserts — an act of care to symbolize her worthiness to herself, laying claim to her pleasure through personal agency.
I am suspicious of my More.
I romanticize my More.
How do I make peace with my More? How do I discern when it is a grasping, fruitless More, or a wise and intuitive More? What amount of More is adequate, or healthy? More of what, exactly?
I want to follow my More back to myself. Want it to act as my compass. I want to release it. I want to scream it at the top of my lungs. I want it to wash over me. I want to share it; pant it in the night hotly, whisper it tenderly. I want to eat my More. I want it to melt me down. I want it to consume me whole. I want to live in the almost unbearably beautiful tension of wanting More, to build a temple there. Want my cry for More to be a prayer, an ode. Want to write, paint, dance, sing my More. I want to always want More and never need More, that is all, nothing more.
