~ Yana Barbarian
~ Yana Barbarian
“If you want to change the world love a man, really love him. Choose the one whose soul calls to yours clearly who sees you; who is brave enough to be afraid. Accept his hand and guide him gently to your heart’s blood where he can feel your warmth upon him and rest there. Burn his heavy load in your fires. Look into his eyes, look deep within and see what lies dormant or awake or shy or expectant there. Look into his eyes and see there his fathers and grandfathers and all the wars and madness their spirits fought in some distant land, some distant time. Look upon their pains and struggles and torments and guilt; without judgment. And let it all go. Feel into his ancestral burden and know that what he seeks is safe refuge in you. Let him melt in your steady gaze and know that you need not mirror that rage because you have a womb, a sweet, deep gateway to wash and renew old wounds.
If you want to change the world love a man, really love him. Sit before him, in the full majesty of your woman in the breath of your vulnerability, in the play of your child innocence in the depths of your death. Flowering invitation, softly yielding, allowing his power as a man to step forward towards you… and swim in the Earth’s womb, in silent knowing, together. And when he retreats… because he will… flees in fear to his cave… Gather your grandmothers around you… envelope in their wisdom, hear their gentle shushed whispers, calm your frightened girl’s heart urging you to be still… and wait patiently for his return. Sit and sing by his door, a song of remembrance, that he may be soothed, once more.
If you want to change the world, love a man, really love him. Do not coax out his little boy with guiles and wiles and seduction and trickery only to lure him to a web of destruction, to a place of chaos and hatred more terrible than any war fought by his brothers. This is not feminine, this is revenge. This is the poison of the twisted lines, of the abuse of the ages, the rape of our world… and this gives no power to woman it reduces her as she cuts off his balls. And it kills us all and whether his mother held him or could not show him the true mother now. Hold him and guide him in your grace and your depth, smoldering in the center of the Earth’s core. Do not punish him for his wounds that you think don’t meet your needs or criteria, cry for him sweet rivers, bleed it all back home.
If you want to change the world love a man, really love him.
Love him enough to be naked and free, love him enough to open your body and soul to the cycle of birth and of death and thank him for the opportunity as you dance together through the raging winds and silent woods. Be brave enough to be fragile and let him drink in the soft, heady petals of your being. Let him know he can hold you, stand up and protect you. Fall back into his arms and trust him to catch you even if you’ve been dropped a thousand times before. Teach him how to surrender by surrendering yourself and merge into the sweet nothing, of this world’s heart.
If you want to change the world, love a man, really love him. Encourage him, feed him, allow him, hear him, hold him, heal him. And you, in turn, will be nourished and supported and protected by strong arms and clear thoughts and focused arrows because he can, if you let him, be all that you dream.”
…from a random tumblr post
“”Vulnerability is a strength, not a weakness” and the like, is becoming a fairly popular catch phrase these days.
I wholeheartedly stand behind that statement and believe it to be entirely true.
However, it’s a whole lot easier said than done.
To actually exercise the depths of our vulnerability, especially with another person, not having any idea how it will be met or received by the other we’re choosing to share it with, truly feels like it requires super human emotional strength sometimes.
Because — living in a society where more often than not, we’re taught in one way or another that it’s safer to harden rather than soften ourselves.
Hardening, shutting down, and closing off becomes not only the norm, it becomes easier for our emotional bodies to do.
So, we hold grudges, stay angry, and resent, resent, resent.
While holding onto those feelings actually consumes more of our energy than choosing to soften into our vulnerability does, the fact that we’ve been so ingrained since childhood that vulnerability equates to a sense of weakness, closing down because more of the automatic response.
“Don’t let them see you’re hurt.”
Vulnerability involves softening into our authentic emotional state, and allowing ourselves to be witnessed there — whether it’s in honestly seeing ourselves in that place, or letting another person in enough to see us there.
Sometimes vulnerability is exposing anger we’ve been withholding but often, behind that anger even, is sadness, grief, or hurt that we’ve been afraid of expressing.
Allowing ourselves to express our sadness, grief, or hurt in the safety of our own space with ourselves or with someone else, never knowing how they might take it is inherently vulnerable.
The reality is that there is a deep seated risk within being vulnerable, especially with another, which is that it might be met with insensitivity, coldness or a closed heart rather than the love we’re seeking from them.
Recently, I was met with insensitivity, coldness, and a closed heart in the face of having shared deep vulnerable emotions and the reality of my feelings with someone.
All I received was a metaphorical closed door and frigid, resentful emotion.
Immediately, I regretted being vulnerable, I regretted opening my heart, and I regretting allowing myself to be seen so intimately by this person.
My ego felt intensely bruised
I felt less than.
A sense of being deeply unseen, unmet and hurt washed over me.
I thought of all the ways I could retaliate to try and feel like I had the upper hand again, to reclaim my power, and essentially to take back my vulnerability.
But then, I realized —
There was no need to try and reclaim my power from this person, just because they didn’t meet me with the reciprocation of vulnerability I was hoping for.
What I had just done, was exercise my power to it’s fullest.
If our vulnerability is indeed our strength, I had just claimed the greatest extend of my personal power — not power over, but simply power engaged — by dropping into my most vulnerable place and sharing that.
Maybe even more-so, because I wasn’t met with the same vulnerability in response and I survived.
While it hurts when we aren’t met with the response to our vulnerability that we might be hoping for, at the end of the day it doesn’t entirely matter how that person responds, receives or reacts to it because it doesn’t take any power away from our act of vulnerability.
Not only that, I think it strengthens us even more because we lick our wounds and have the opportunity to make the choice to keep softening into our vulnerability with ourselves and with others, knowing that we’ve been hurt in that place but we’re choosing to stay open and loving no matter what.
We should never allow one person’s insensitive reaction scare us entirely away from our ability to be vulnerable.
Maybe we give ourselves some time to heal from the wounding, but then we pick ourselves back up and head out into the world again, hearts forward.
Just because one person was unable to reciprocate our vulnerability says absolutely nothing about us.
It says everything about them.
So, I say — keep being vulnerable as hell.
It’s our strength and power, regardless of what others do in the face of it.” ~ Alexandra Schueler
The last thing I want is for you to think I am weak, because in our culture weakness is punished and belittled. But I am a woman, and we’ve been taught that femininity is weak, so if I want respect I am backed into this damned corner every time I see you. I can see from your words and your actions that you don’t really believe women are worthy of respect either. The problem is that I believed you were right.
If I believe I am weak there’s no telling what you’ll do to me, how you’ll underestimate me, how you’ll take advantage of me, how you’ll use your strength against me, how you’ll take from me. I’ve been living my life afraid of all this since I was a little girl, who watched her father rage and yell and belittle women. I thought the only way he…
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~ not some New [C]Age mumbo jumbo… This hits the nail on the head ~
An extract from Barry Long’s book MAKING LOVE ~ SEXUAL LOVE THE DIVINE WAY
“I teach man and woman how to be true to love and how to be honest in their relationships. I help them to discover a divine love beyond all sexual imagining. The key to the mystery of divine love is to see love as it is, and not as you think it or imagine it.
The cause of most of the unhappiness on earth is that man and woman have actually forgotten how to make physical love. This is the greatest tragedy of all time. The forgetfulness has been going on and slowly getting worse for so many thousands of years that it’s now a tragedy for the whole of mankind. There can be no mass solutions. The problem is too personal and too deep. Everybody has to do it for himself or herself, or it can’t be done.
Woman’s basic unhappiness, her perennial discontent, is because man can no longer reach her physically. Her emotional excess, depressions, tearful frustrations, even premenstrual tension and the conditions leading to hysterectomy and other uterine problems, are due to man’s sexual failure to gather or release in lovemaking her finest, fundamental, female energies. These extraordinarily beautiful divine energies are intense and exquisite and when left untapped in woman, as they are now, they degenerate into psychic or emotional disturbances, and eventually crystallise into physical abnormalities. The womb gives birth to all things.
Man’s basic unhappiness, his perennial restlessness, is because in forgetting how to make love he’s abandoned his original divine authority and lost sexual control of himself. His emotional or psychic degeneracy manifests as sex obsession. All men, without exception, are sex obsessed. This means compulsive sexual fantasising, chronic masturbation (even when living with a partner), sex repression leading to anger and violence, and the universal symptoms of chasing wealth and getting lost in work. Busyness and wealth-gathering compensate for being an inept lover and are cover-ups (in both sexes) for the inability or fear to love.
Because of his neglect of love, neglect of woman, man suffers from premature ejaculation, guilt, anxiety self-doubt, impotence, sexual atrophy masquerading as sexual disinterest, sexual abstinence due to repressed fear of failure, sexual bravado and lack of true wisdom – all of which he inflicts on woman, aggravating her basic discontent and his own restlessness.
No matter how much a woman loves her man and wants to give her love to him, she will not and cannot give up all her divine energies if he is not yet himself, fully integrated or aligned with love. As very few men are themselves, the gap of unhappiness between man and woman keeps on growing.
To be a fully integrated male, a man has to assimilate in his body the divine female energies that woman can only release to him through right physical lovemaking. But the man has to be man enough. He has to be able to love her enough; that is, love her selflessly during the actual act of lovemaking. He has to be able to absorb and express sufficient love in his body to reach the highest part of her, and love enough to extract the divine energies from her deepest centre. To be able to love in this way is the authority man has lost – his only true authority over woman.
This requires pure love. It does not depend on technique. A man may develop his sexual technique but he cannot use expertise to make divine love. Exciting sensations are gratifying and give him a form of authority, but they are not the love that woman craves. He may satisfy her, like a good meal. But soon she hungers again and eventually despises her appetite or herself, because she knows she is not being loved.
Man has failed to serve love and failed physically to serve woman, who is the personification of love. The penalty for man is woman’s tyrannous emotionality. Wherever he loves, or tries to love, she will one day shock him, stun him, devastate him by suddenly revealing herself as the fiendess, the living demon of emotion.
The fiendess shows herself when he is attached and can’t just walk away. A man who has not yet experienced the hatred of the fiendess has not yet experienced love. A woman who has not yet seen herself being the fiendess has not yet connected with her love.
To man, the fiendess of emotion in woman is hell on earth. This is the part of her he cannot handle or understand. The demon of his own failure to love comes to life to scorn, abuse and torment him. He is terrified of it. He bluffs and blusters his way through. But finally, as he grows old in the relationship and gives up for the sake of some peace, the fiendess will conquer him and force him to surrender the last vestige of his manliness and authority. Then they both grow old together, feeling safe, but half dead as they lean on each other in the awful world of compromise.
While the world continues as it is, the fiendess will not allow man to forget his failure to love woman rightly. Woman must be loved. The future of the human race depends on woman being loved because only when woman is truly loved can man be truly himself and regain his lost authority. Only then can peace return to earth. Yet woman as she is now cannot be loved for long (or for good) by man as he is now. Together they are trapped in a vicious cycle and if left to their own ideas of love, there is no way out for them.
Woman has learned to make love through man who does not know how to make love. Hence the dreadful mess that love is in. Since time began she has been manipulated and encouraged to feel that the finest expression of her love is to please man sexually. The truth is the other way around. The finest expression of love is to have man delight her sexually. This he can only do when he can forget his preoccupation with orgasm and be sufficiently selfless or present in love to collect and receive her divine energies. For him, these are the finest expression of her love.
By teaching her to please him and satisfy him down through the ages, man has taught woman to desire him, to project herself sexually, to make herself attractive to him. He addicted her to an emotional and physical craving for his sexual attention. And he did this by neglecting to love her.
Woman had no affirmation of love, her true nature, since there was no man to love her rightly. So she settled for sexual excitation, which man had persuaded her was love. Men addicted her to this by teaching her that there is no purpose to physical love outside of making babies or selfish pleasure.
Man in his selfishness taught woman to be selfish. He taught her to excite him physically whenever love was not present; to project herself sexually for their mutual entertainment through clothing, make-up, dance and posing. And he encouraged her to let him excite her (and himself) through digital stimulation of her clitoris to the point of orgasm, instead of loving the beauty of her whole body.
The loveless narcotic of sex numbed her and like all addictions, engendered fear – fear of losing him or his attention, and fear of other women in the form of jealousy and female competition. If she didn’t satisfy him another woman soon would. And with this went the intimidating thought sown in her by all her sexual partners: that if she didn’t comply she’d be left alone.
As a reaction to this male infamy woman discovered cunt power – the power to tease man and manipulate him without delivering the goods, or by denying the goods when he wanted them. But the spell of cunt power, being largely imaginary, soon wore off after she let him enter her body. He would soon tire of her and go off with another.
Woman’s subconscious dependence on the fluctuating sexual attention of men rules her choice of partner. She may go for either an exciting man whom she thinks she can control, or an agreeable and safe partner whom she can quietly bend to her wants. Both kinds of partnership usually end – either in disaster or boredom and indifference.
Male sexuality is put into woman in sexual intercourse and, because it is substantive, it stays on in her. Its effect is a periodic wispy shadow of depression that she can’t explain but accepts as normal. It clouds her perception, making her feel emotional and not herself. The same male sexuality is the active outgoing selfish drive which made the world a violent and loveless place. In woman, this destructive shadow of man subtly influences her choice of partner. So very seldom is he Mr Right.
The male shadow in her is doubt. And it is the shadow that chooses. While woman wants the right to choose she has to make a choice; and then she must live with the shadow, doubt, in the man and in herself.
Woman in her natural state is not dependent on man. She loves him. And in love there is no dependence, and no fear of losing. She is the passive, attracting principle. She is an irresistible living magnet. She draws to herself a right man to love her truly and divinely. There’s no choice in it.
For woman today to return to her natural golden state – of pure love – takes time. But having suffered enough from man’s sexuality, she gradually learns not to compromise when there is not enough love. Finally this brings her a man who can remove the shadow from his love.
A woman is only ever less than her true nature because of man’s lack of love. She went off into her dream of love to escape his sexuality. Her babies have long been a substitute for his love. Unlike man, a real woman can exist without sexual intercourse or masturbation. She waits for love, not sex. Woman only lusts for man when she identifies with the male sexuality he has induced in her. ‘Nymphomania’ is a male invention and fantasy projection, like sex-shops, pornography and prostitution, all kept going by male sexuality and lack of love in all concerned.
Woman has been utterly fooled by man, pathologically brainwashed. And as modern woman congratulates herself on her progress in breaking down male domination in the world, she fails to perceive that she is as firmly hooked as ever on his orgasmic sexuality and his clitoral substitute for love. Her protests are really about love, not equality; but that’s not heard in the strident male arena.
It is man’s world and he built it on the strength of sexual aggression. Male domination began in sex and in sex it continues unabated. Woman cannot alter this position by marching with banners or withdrawing from sex. She has tried all the means at her disposal down through the centuries; none has worked and none will. The solution is for her to be in command of love. That does not mean to be in command of the man. It means to know inside herself what is right and true and stick to that, even if it means the man leaves her. Woman is love. All she has to do is realise that, by giving up her self doubt and fear.”
I am aflame. No one set the fire. This is self-immolation.
I don’t think I knew what I was signing on for when this all started. But there’s no stopping the fires of transformation, once they’ve begun lapping at your skin. I climbed up here on this pyre. Said I wanted to be awake. Declared the intention to set free all the structures that tie me down. Hold me back. Stop me from becoming. I think I had very romantic notions of what that would look like. Imagined I could rise without the burning. Envisioned grace descending in a peaceful, quiet hush.
I forgot how this whole phoenix business works.
Now I am here. Screaming in the heat. Clawing at my own skin. Desperate to get out. You cannot un-know these kinds of things. There is no reverse apple. Once Truth-with-a-capital-T is tasted, it stains your lips, tongue, teeth for life. Still, I resist. Wriggle and strain against it. Refuse to surrender. Run from myself. Go numb. Howl in agony. Plead with God, with my spouse, with myself. Try to reason my way out of this. None of it does a damn bit of good.
No one tells you the truth about being a phoenix. How this kind of burning – the kind that strips you of everything you are so you can be made new – hurts like hell. You feel it. All. Every tiny, bright tendril consuming all you have ever been. Resistance is as useless to you as a pair of shoes you wore when you were six. Once ignited no amount of water will put out this cleansing. Anything short of complete surrender only prolongs the burn.
Inside the flames, I am learning the hard way how to let go. It is the most fucking painful thing. Goes against all my internal programming. Every line of code ever input into my system hinges on endurance, holding on, dissociating at times, but never letting go.
Sounds so simple.
Unclasp fingers from object. Drop it. Disentangle mind from obsessive worries. Free it. Easy to say, but execution is a bitch. So I suffer. Tell myself I am losing my mind. Going mad. Breaking myself. May never recover. Grapple with the impossibility of the situation. Make everything so much harder than it has to be…
I tell you, the greatest game of ‘come here, go away’ I’ve ever played is with my Self.
I long for the next iteration, and cannot seem to release the current one. Something inside screams, “I am not disposable!” I don’t know what to do with her. She is an ever tightening noose round my neck. I cannot breathe inside her framework for being. Know she must die off. Be freed so I can renew. Yet up to now, she formed a core piece of my identity. Together. In control. Strong, no matter what. Reliable. Competent beyond reason. Productive. Problem is, all those structures eventually become cages. Trap a person in ways so subtle, it’s hard to notice. I think that’s what drove me up here on top of this pyre. It got so bad, I started to notice.
Now I am attached to this aspect of my personality and I want it to be gone. That fact alone is crazy-making. So I lie here on the pyre playing tug-of-war with my consciousness.
If I could get my head in the game, this might go more quickly. But my mind doesn’t seem capable of getting it. Cannot connect the burning to the rising. No matter how hard I try to convince myself, the little lizard curled up at the base of my skull refuses to budge. Screams, “We are dying!” Sounds all the alarms. So my brain dumps cortisol and adrenaline into my system like candy flying out of a freshly busted piñata. Forcing my body to respond as if I am in grave danger.
Flight. Fight. Freeze. I grow weary of this infernal suffering. Know there has to be another way.
On an existential level, I know what I am doing. Understand the need for smouldering to ash. An essential piece of my operating system is being overwritten. I will not emerge the same. That was the intention. I have to trust that I meant it when I lit the first match. Stop second guessing myself. Start surrendering. Otherwise, I could get stuck here. Perpetually on fire. Never make it to the rising. I think it’s why some of us go slowly mad. There aren’t instructions on how to manage this process – it’s too personal. We’re all just winging it. And it’s so easy to get lost in the fear. To forget that things are not worse now, they’re just visible. Unveiled. Brought to the surface so they can be transformed.
Grace finally comes. Not in a peaceful, quiet hush. But in the arms of panic attacks and the inability to pretend to have it together for one more fucking second. Who knew grace would show up like that? It’s a wise move with someone like me. Overpower me to the point that I can no longer employ my enduring strategies. Until I must admit defeat. Recognise the futility of fighting. Let go of my end of the rope in this tug-of-war.
Lean into the flames. Pray. Sometimes change is just brutal.
I pass the last bits of time imagining what it will be like on the other side of the flames. How I will disintegrate into a pile of ash and dust until no remnant of selfhood remains. Break down all the cages. Free at last from the myriad ways I’ve bound myself up in this life. Certain, because I am human, I will create new ties. Fashion a whole different set of cages. I’d be kidding myself if I thought otherwise. But for now, it is enough to pray for the wisdom to spring the traps sooner next time. To not let it come to the fires and the burning again – at least not for some time.
When it is done and I am burned to the ground, there is peace. Inside that peace, deep down in the ashes new life stirs. What she becomes is not for me to know or project. Only to witness. An awe-struck observer watching how this magic of being human works.
How we can be reborn again and again in the same lifetime. How in spite of – or maybe even because of – the fear, the death throes, and the pain of it all, we rise. Indomitably. Eternally. We rise.
by Shannon Crossman // http://theurbanhowl.com/2016/11/21/burn-it-shannon-crossman/