Did mother’s raise women for Warrior Spirit? and what of their sons? Or is the question..Do warriors raise themselves? Did father’s humiliate the confidence out of them? What of their circumstances? Does he realize himself independent of these? Is it deepening her understanding? of her true essence? Of their wounds and their purpose.

And what of me? What I am to do with all this fire? Is there a masculine with the strength to kindle it and softness to cherish it?

Can my warrior be feed by the masculine flavour with the same willingness my feminine is in support of Him? Does he understand the place I’ll land is both firm and ever-expanding? Where I can feel into myself and through his world. Into my humanness and divinity.

If he can’t, I find the inevitable threat of my glow, swords, tongue and sweat. The focus shifts to control, on containment and winning of whit. My wisdom is lost on him and me, dispersed in the chaos of life. Lost to everything declared he already knows and lost to what we both have yet to understand. I want to recognize his every invitation and answer with sincerity.

I want to recognize his every invitation and answer with sincerity.

To my horror, flux is invisible to him. He prefers I were a stone carved by his vision. I keep blazing about, hoping a flicker will grab his attention to what lives.

Speech becomes littered with demands, choices disguised as ultimatums. Shame and guilt the new display, a relentless administering of false power.

Does he see a woman in her struggle of humanness and divinity as a threat? And young girls as pleasure?

Here, I feel stuck towing a line I did not draw. I can’t seem to access my heart, my love of play, of him or self. Paralyzed, I perceive the choice as either /or. I unleash the very thing he condemns me for, or I submit myself and plea. In my protective fight, I lose.

In my protective fight I lose.

I lose connection to his heart, the possible dissolving of my ego. In my minimizing, I lose myself, we stomp the passion.

Sex is now dead.