Walking the Talk

For those readers who have never studied with me, please be aware that this is a description of an internal process of spiritual self-analysis, based on the understanding that we call situations and people to ourselves in order to better understand what is otherwise suppressed and somatized. If you want to more fully understand this process, you can check out the e-book, “Through Duality to Oneness: Healing the Wounds of Gender”  – or come see me!

The true identity of the person who had my husky killed the day before I came home is neither the wounded child nor the spiteful sadist who have shared just about equal airtime in my head this past week.

The sadist has made several memorable appearances over the years, so as the facts came, drop by poisonous drop – an IV of arsenic – motivations of jealousy, spite and arrogance seemed the only logical conclusion.

I’ve had to coax the hurting child out of hiding, with only my faith in his existence as justification for the effort. Like a quantum physicist who has the mathematics to show that a phenomenon exists but can’t see the damn thing, I unpacked dusty boxes of memories looking for crumbs of proof. A suddenly-childlike tone of voice, stories with big chunks left out, hints from relatives….

My mind kept wanting to believe in the sadist – turning back to him and leafing through myriad twisted possibilities of intention. I waded into oceans of pain, battered by each new wave of realization and its potential interpretations. Surely this was not all mine?
“Women will always be abandoned and betrayed” Damn.

Once I saw the belief that was anchored in my bones, I recognised my part in this drama.
And he had confirmed to himself what he had learned as well, that he will never be Enough – will always be a disappointment. I’d found the hurting child.
It was easier now for me to see the woundedness in both of us that had called this situation into being.

How many generations of gendered humans have had these beliefs engraved in our bodies, hovering in the marrow of our bones – the unconscious foundation and justification for every hiccough in every relationship we’ve ever had?

Our bodies are like any other war zone on the body of Mother Earth, land-mined , waiting to blow the limbs off any tender step toward Love, Harmony, Peace, and all those other words we use to mean Oneness.
There is so much socio-cultural validation, floating juuuuust under varying thicknesses of political correctness, for the belief that men are angry, selfish, emotionally illiterate, irresponsible fuck-ups, and that women have to simply deal with it. It seeps into almost every conversation among women, but, like racism, it’s not acceptable in polite company.

I’m told that Councils of Grandmothers are being set up once again in northern Canadian communities to determine and manage their leadership. More and more women are winning positions of power in governing bodies around the planet.

But I’ve experienced the desire for power of women who’ve been subjugated all their lives – the 180 degree flip from Victim to Dominator that is oh-so-tempting when we’ve bought the idea that having Power Over someone/something/anything is the only way of accruing personal value.

A magazine editor (I’m imagining a 30-something hipster) recently implied that she certainly didn’t come from a cultural context that idolized the masculine.
Indeed.
We may have learned that individual men suck. But give Us the (masculine-defined) Power Over Everything that They’ve had all along, and we’ll fix the world, right?

I’m afraid not, Ladies.
The only true power any of us,  of whatever gender, possesses is to be in alignment with our Essence, our true identity, which is Love/Oneness/Compassion.

It seems to me it’s time to resist the whole concept of wresting power from anyone so we can wield it ourselves. In the Circle, all contribute the best of themselves, because that is what is seen and honoured.
We probably also need to work our darnedest to stay out of the trap of judging men to hell, and the half-sinking, half-smug “I knew it” feeling when, the way we see it, they’re messing up big time.

I’m working on it…
Blessed Be…

 

 

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