Once upon a time, while on a lonely wilderness hike, a sojourner came upon a band of merry souls (or dwarfs, or whatever fanciful person-like creature comes to mind and suits the story). They were a joyful and proud lot and danced around a sacred fire. They heartily welcomed the stranger in to listen to their tales of the eternal fire, stoked long ago by their very hands. It burned with warmth and fury. The fire kept them, sustained them and guided them with its light. This fire was indeed warm and seemed friendly, so long the sojourner stayed listening to their tales of the fire. The embers waxed and waned red, gold and sometimes even a glorious blue while they shared their stories of the bygone days of the fire. Then there was a stirring, a waking, and everyone knew it was time again to stoke the fire, to keep it burning. While the sojourner was permitted to watch the gathering, the preparation, the cutting of branches and falling of trees, they were not permitted to actually stoke the fire. It was a sacred right and no matter how merry the gathering, and inviting the stories, the lore and legend wouldn’t permit a stranger’s participation.

The stoking began! Wood and wonder crashed into the red-hot fire ring from all permitted hands, from all sides, with whoops and hollers of utter satisfaction! The flames rose high into the night, fiery flakes fell around the stranger, and the people, or creatures, or whatever they were danced and swayed in the ecstasy of the stoking. It was grand and glorious monstrosity of heat and sacredness, and the interloper wanted so badly to be one of them, but was at least grateful for the warmth and the invitation to sit in and watch the magnificent procession. The men roared, the women cheered, and somewhere deep, down in the depths of the dirt, a delicious drumming of delight rumbled underfoot blending into the melee, as if even the earth itself approved of their fire and festival.

Then one of the revelers came to the weary sojourner with all kindness and sincerity in an attempt to somehow include the stranger into the stoking. The warmth and smoke of the fire enveloped the reveler and the stranger, mesmerized by the sights, sounds and smells agreed, quickly, without a moment’s hesitation, to participate. The stranger could not by rite stoke the fire, but they all insisted wholeheartedly that there was space for the stranger to participate in the celebration. If the stranger loved the band enough and chose to remain in the group there was a simple, albeit painful role that the stranger could join in. All the sojourner had to do, to stay with the merry men (or women or dwarfs, or whatever fanciful person-like creature comes to mind and suits the story) was insert a hand into the fire for a brief moment, long enough to let the flames lick at bare flesh and season the smoke with the flavor of the pain. The pain, the stranger was told, would only last a moment, and certainly there were others who participated in order to belong. Many souls willingly inserted their hands into the fire and their scents melded and mingled with the burning wood.

The stranger wondered how the others endured the burns, and asked if the fire hurt them as badly. They all carefully, thoughtfully, one might even say lovingly inspected the sojourner’s wounds. They compared it to other revelers, consulted with each other and concluded that the injury was minimal. The sojourner loved them for their care and concern and trusted their assessment. The pain afforded the stranger admission into the group, and the group was so, so good and welcoming and fun that the draw to be with them far outweighed the pain. The stranger stayed, the blisters did eventually scab over, the scars were reminders, as much as anything else, of the great stoking and eternal flames. The healing was slow but came in time so the stranger stayed with them, around the fire, watching and waiting for the next stoking.

As time drew near for another stoking, and always and ever with this band there would be a stoking, for the fire could never die, the sojourner knew this time what to do to participate. The stranger loved the band of revelers very much and enjoyed their company so much more than lonely wilderness travels and so foolishly hoped that maybe this time it wouldn’t hurt so bad. Maybe the scars from before had somehow strengthened or shielded the skin. Maybe the revelers had another way for sensitive souls to participate, or a magical elixir that could keep the burns from blistering, maybe the burning didn’t have to be so bad. The gathering began, the stoking was near and the stranger’s anxiety rose; but the wilderness was cold so flesh was again plunged into the fire as the men roared and women cheered and the earth resounded in triumph.

The blisters this time festered and infection set in deep. Not everyone had this trouble with the fire, and the stranger’s sensitivity perplexed everyone. Some arms passed through like a hand over a candle flame without so much as even singe mark of black, they were perfectly content to play their part in the procession. Others licked their wounds but recovered quickly, or at least seemed to. Not so much for the strange sojourner, the pain was devastating and was causing quite an uproar within the once merry band. The revelry, comradery and company couldn’t quite sooth the stranger’ pain and dimmed the glory of the stoking. The healing scars that time didn’t remind anyone of a glorious tradition nor help to honor those who kept the flame alive with the stoking, they only reminded everyone of the awkward, awful pain of the stranger. The stranger, aware of the bands efforts at inclusion, looked long at the scars and pondered the fire, the wilderness, the sacred ritual and all those sorts of philosophical musings that occur in the midst of pain and confusion.

They stoked again, the sojourner burned again but that time with pain fresh and furious, the sojourner retreated knowing the new festering blisters, over too many scars were the last that could be endured. The pain was too great but the stranger has come to truly love the group, and yet couldn’t continue to burn. So the stranger sat at the edge of the camp, on the precipice of a decision, exposed and vulnerable and utterly alone, knowing without a doubt that something must change.

And that is the story of the stoking and the stranger.

What can I say? I'm a curious person... How could I not be intrigued and want to know more when I found out that Wenatchee has a burlesque troupe?! I didn't go looking for risque, sexy, dancing ladies with a healthy sense of humor, no, I posted a question on Facebook. One of the people who responded gave accolades to a popular porn site. Since I am no fan of the industry, I gave him a piece of my mind. Then another person spoke up in defense of the site. This time, though I was still not at all a proponent of pornography, the way I answered was different. Skylar Hansford framed her response respectfully, from an informed and intelligent platform. She was worthy of debate. She had experience in the sex industry and I knew she would provide fabulous insight for my current non-fiction project, Sex and Jesus. Instead of starting a fight or arguing I asked if we could meet and talk. And did we ever talk! I wish there had been more hours and more time to hear her story let alone the history of the Radar Dames, Wenatchee’s own burlesque troupe.

She was instantly intriguing to me, this young woman with bright vibrant eyes and hair divided right down the middle in two starkly contrasting colors. She carried herself with an air of confidence. She was proud of her femininity and sexuality and I respected her for it, not in spite of it, and yet, not solely because of it. Skylar Hansford embraces sexual expression as part of her whole self, and I will tell you this ladies and gentlemen, it is sexy!!!

I would consider myself a modest person by choice but, if I'm truly honest, also because of fear. I want my husband to think I’m sexy, and to get turned on at the sight of me. I want him to desire me and be the person who enjoys my body most but that doesn’t mean I want to deny my sexuality the rest of the time. I am a sexual being, not to mention the fact that I’ve spent the last several years living a fit life. I want to be appreciated for being feminine, fit and sensual as much as for being compassionate and skilled at writing. But, I don’t want to be violated because someone else thinks I’m sexy or was “asking for it.” I've been in situations wearing risque clothing where I was mistreated. When you’re a woman and you “know” you’re wearing one of “those” outfits and something bad happens, even if no one says it out loud; the question is… Was it something that I wore? I told myself, and society told me that I gave the guy the wrong impression because I was dressed inappropriately. I should have expected it to happen. And, so, since then, again both by choice and because of fear I’ve chosen to dress toward the modest side of life.

There is one more fear that ought not go unmentioned. I spoke about my fear of man, now I need to speak of the fear of woman. We feminines are interesting beings. I think we all want to feel pretty, dare I say attractive, but if we see a woman who has crossed the line from attractive to risque… many of us judge. She’s one of “those” women or is trying to get “that” kind of attention. I will say this is largely situational and cultural but it’s definitely a thing. I will contend that it is a thing because we are sexual beings and it pricks at that part of our humanity that’s been conditioned to be repressed; and those women who dare to express or expose themselves challenge our own sexual perceptions. As much as I do not want to be in an unsafe situation with a man because of my attire; I also do not want to lose respect in the eyes of my female peers because because of it.

So I am modest, by choice and by fear.

But I digress, I was at a table listening to a beautiful young woman speak. She was proud of herself, proud of her body, and proud of the fact that she is able to express her sexuality. Despite the fact that she will wear pasties in public, Skylar demands that she should be respected no matter what she wears. No matter what?! She was sure of it and I was the one challenged to re-frame my thinking. Was it really OK to embrace my sexuality that boldly? Could I acknowledge it as part of who I was and expect, or demand, no repercussions from men or women for how I dressed? Can that actually be a thing? What would the world be like if it was? Obviously there’s a time and a place for the more sultry expressions of sexuality and this is where the conversation turned to burlesque.

Skylar, a former exotic dancer, former dominatrix, woman with a sexual assault story of her own that helped form her opinion about sexual expression, heard about the Radar Station. She accepted a bold invitation to stand semi-exposed for an event at the funky, modern museum of controversial art and pop-culture. The new mother was still breastfeeding and says she was not necessarily an image of super sexuality, but feminine reality. Flesh, skin, breasts and beauty. She embraced the philosophy of the founder of the Radar Station, Ron Evans, and in partnership with him started to dream about a burlesque performance. What would it look like? How would the event turn out? They asked the questions and Skylar took the leap, became Moxie Rose, and the Radar Dames were born.

Originally a troupe of four women who, like Skylar, each have their own stage names: Moxie Rose, TNT, Kitty Katastrophe and Gypsy Moon were the first of what is now a troupe of ten performers. Burlesque, from the Italian word mockery, was originally meant to be a performance that parodies some of societies more serious situations in an often comedic and provocative way. The image that comes to my mind is of a bold, fishnet clad, jovial woman, strutting and teasing a rowdy crowd as she executes her performance. Though thick with feminine strength and mystique Skylar clarifies that the burlesque art form embraces all genders, ages and body-types. It is about feeling confident and proud in your skin and making a statement while embracing sexuality not repressing it.

Her goal now is to bring burlesque to the men and women of Wenatchee. To introduce and invite onlookers, and others who are interested, to participate in a class that will run six to eight weeks and end in a performance in front of family and friends… maybe more. The question is whether Wenatchee is ready for burlesque. Skylar made a request on Facebook for people to attend an “Intro to Burlesque” video session in preparation for the newly envisioned classes. I said “Yes!” as did a number of my bold and brave lady friends. We showed up at the Radar Station, listened to Skylar share the history and intention of burlesque and strutted our stuff, flung feather boas, swished and shimmied in removable skirts. And we laughed!

We were silly and carefree, like girls playing dress up, only we weren’t girls, we were women. We dressed up to flirt and seduce and laugh at ourselves and with each other. It felt amazing to be in a safe place, to dress (or undress) on purpose to be sexy. I was not judged by my lady friends, we were sultry and sexy and risque together! We got tips from Skylar and the other burlesque performers on how to move more provocatively; deliberately tempting, teasing and seducing an imaginary audience with our motions. It was liberating to move my body in time with music in alluring and explicit ways. I am a sexual being and the freedom to express it safely was empowering.

Of course all our parts stayed covered and our novice techniques left much room for improvement but I think we all walked away from the lesson standing a little taller and feeling sexier. It was more the idea of actually doing it that was exciting than the execution. Could I really perform like this in front of others, for fun and for freedom? How much skin would I show? How damaged would my reputation be in certain circles? These thoughts swirl around in my mind like the skirt did around my waist. I think I’d quite like to make up a light-hearted, sexually expressive burlesque performance of my own. I’ve imagined what my stage name might be. But... do I dare?! Definitely for my own (and my husband’s) sensual pleasure I would learn more about this art form. Maybe, just maybe, in a private setting, amongst my other brave friends who understand the intrigue I could dare to bare some skin I normally keep under clothing. I wonder and imagine and I eagerly await more information on when and what the structure of the Radar Dames burlesque classes will be and maybe, just maybe, this modest writer-lady will sign-up!

My first drink was either a fuzzy navel or Black Velvet and Coke. Say what you will about the Canadian whiskey, it did the trick and got me wasted. I was barely a teen. I graduated on to harder things that occupied most of my time and attention for the rest of my teen years… Then I met Jesus. Say what you will about the Middle Eastern Savior, He did the trick, got me saved and washed me clean!

My life was new, I was born again, and I really took that to heart! I embraced being clean, and church and the word of God and life without drugs. I didn’t drink for about a year after that divine deliverance from drugs, but then added alcohol back. There was no out-of-control binge; like all of the little foxes in life, it crept in a little at a time. Mike’s hard lemonades with family barbecues. Raspberry Smirnoff Ice while camping in the summer. When it was cold I loved hot cocoa and peppermint schnapps. And I lived there for years. I don’t think it was an issue. I could ask my kids, but I’d be scared of their answer and I could ask my ex, but he wouldn’t answer anyway.

Then wine. It tasted disgusting, but it was a whole lot cheaper and “healthier” than those sugar laden Smirnoff’s so… I embraced the bottle, for my heart’s sake when I started to focus on my health and fitness in 2008 after my grandpa died. Concerned, because of my addictive nature and past I did fervent research (all online of course) to find out what was an ‘acceptable’ amount to drink and for years made sure I didn’t exceed the acceptable limit… most of the time. But somewhere along the way the rules disappeared. It was a bottle every two nights and then she who budgeted and shopped fastidiously would magically need something at the store every other day and a full bottle of Merlot would fall into the basket too.

I can’t remember when, in the course of life, I had the talk with my ex, but I do distinctly remember where. We were walking west toward the street in front of an elementary school near our house and I told him I was concerned I may be drinking too much alcohol. I cannot remember anything more about the walk or the conversation. I remember when we moved from Snohomish County to wine country how surprised I was that so much of the culture here includes a drink with everything… well maybe not all Bible studies, but some of them for sure. I loosened up, maybe I was just being too hard on myself.

Then I got stupid drunk the spring break of 2012. My adopted daughter, Matea, was lost to me and my best dog ever was dead and I was fiery mad at God. I got drunk and I ran a six mile training run, mostly in the dark and somehow ended up swinging on an outdoor swing made by strong hands I don’t know anymore. He came to me, in his silent way, and tried to offer comfort. I sent him away with horrible, hurtful words, I did but didn’t mean. He left and I stumbled my way to my dog’s grave in the back yard and cried, and screamed to God, while Jeremy Riddle’s “Sweetly Broken” flooded into my ears on repeat.

I wanted my daughter back! God knew it and I knew God knew it but up to that point, I plead to God with tempered restraint. Not that night, HOW DARE YOU TAKE HER!!! WHY DID YOU EVEN BRING HER TO ME IF SHE WAS GOING TO LEAVE?! WHAT KIND OF A GOD ARE YOU? CRUEL, THAT’S WHAT YOU ARE! HAVEN’T I SERVED YOU? HAVEN’T I HONORED YOU? GIVE HER BACK!!! Then I threw up, stumbled into the house, puked some more and woke up to a hangover and humiliation that I behaved so in appropriately. I do not know if I apologized to my family, I should have. But less than two months later, that girl, that daughter lost to me, wanted to come home. It was a pivotal point in my relationship with God. Sometimes you gotta get down and dirty. And God’s the God of all Creation, He can handle it.

After that, after she was back, and I was a JAG teacher trying to be a good example to impressionable high-risk students, I analyzed my drinking and confessed to them and to my family that I thought maybe I drank too much. One of the girls in the class was inspired and quit drinking. She would mark her sober days on our white-board, and I didn’t quit drinking.

Then he left… was drinking a part of the silent reasons he left? I’ll never know. Closure would be nice, but then again, would it be? Nah, I’ll leave that stone unturned, and besides, The Leaving turned out pretty good for me anyway and I’ll leave the rest of the confession for another time...