Understanding Sacred Sexuality through Storytelling, Ritual, and Rope

Dream Weaver
3 days ago
4 min read

Woman in white dress floats in blue water, arms outstretched, wrapped in dark pink ropes. Serene expression, peaceful contrast between dark water and light fabric. — Image captured by Idiosyncratic Art

My stepmom signed me up for a writing workshop, hosted by one of my favorite writers and Curandera, and fellow San Antonion that calls the East Coast home Robyn Moreno. Her style of writing reflects the grounded spirituality I've searched for my whole life. Rooted in ancestral practices, including storytelling. We do two writing exercises in each workshop and I'm always pleasantly surprised at the myriad of directions these prompts take me in. One of the prompts invited me to recall my experience with sacred sexuality and rope as ritual. I've been asked many times what these things are, to teach others how I practice, and to give them concrete guidance on how to bring it into their own lives. Despite my love of words, I've struggled to communicate what sacred sexuality means to me because it's so visceral and embodied. I revisited the piece I started in the workshop after another participant shared that my style of writing inspired her own piece. I can't find the words yet to teach others how to bring this practice into their erotic and spiritual words, but through this prompt I am learning to tell the story of my own experience.

This blog is a draft of what I wrote in the workshop. The full piece will be available later this year on my Substack, Words of Whimsy & Wonder.

Sacred Surrender: An Offering to La Muerte

I inhale the rose incense as I kneel facing the altar. La Muerte stands at the center, surrounded by candles, rose petals, chocolate, and cash. I light my joint and lift it to my lips, inhaling the fragrant smoke. The familiar buzz tingles from my head to my toes and I settle into myself. It’s safe to be here. La Muerte is protecting you. I slowly release my breath and open my eyes.

I drag the rose-colored rope lightly across my skin, feeling the rough texture along my thighs, stomach, breasts. I inhale the scent, lightly stretching and moving my body. Feeling the energy shift and opening myself to receive. I find the ends, slowly sliding the rope through my hands as I trace my way to the center. I wrap the rope firmly around my chest, positioning it just above my breasts. I inhale deeply, feeling the tension of the rope as my lungs expand. I pause, holding my breath for a moment. Feeling my mind still with my body. I exhale and tug the rope tighter, securing a knot in the center, and wrap the loose ends around my lower chest. I repeat the movement several times; expand, pause, release until I come to the end. I secure the harness in place and lower my forehead to the foot of the altar in prayer. Offering my body as a vessel to La Muerte.

I feel the air grow thick with power, chest and breath softening into it. I reach for a second hank of rope and secure my ankles in a double column tie and return to a prayer position facing the altar. I wrap the rope firmly around both legs, securing the kneel. I watch the incense smoke curling high into the air. Reading the way the plumes move through the space. Weaving in and out of each other until they dissipate, indistinguishable from the air in the room. I gently arch and curl my back, feeling the harness rhythmically constrict and loosen with each movement. I deepen my breathing, my lungs fighting against the restraint, reminding me to drop my breathe even lower. I trace the rope with each breath. Feeling the way it curls around my calves and thighs. The knots pressing tightly into my skin. The warm burn against my skin whenever I move. A sturdy weaving holding the fractured parts of myself together. Let me be a vessel for stories untold. A witness to the lives in the shadows.

I reach for two wine red roses, gently tracing the stem and thorns. I weave one on the left side of my harness, inhaling sharply as the thorns scrape at my skin, a light trail of blood leading the roses’ descent. I repeat the weaving on my right side, closing my eyes this time. Trusting my fingers to be nimble as they work. Breathing deep and steady, anticipating the thorn’s sting, and exhaling slowly as the rose fought its way through the unseen barriers. When the second rose is settled in place, I uncoil a third hank, this one a deep fuschia with gold ends. I knot the rope at the center of the harness, and with each end, tie the rose stem to the harness. Weaving knots and florrettes down the stem...