my inner masculine

Anjolie has a post well worth reading…it’s about dancing and the dance…where we feel comfortable leading and being led.  In it she says,

…….I love a man that I can push into – not push around – but who still allows me room to be, me.

As I am maturing into womanhood and becoming more balanced and centered within myself I am less and less bothered in a “lost” way when my man isn’t able to be that for me…and I think this is important.  I need to be able to stand in my own inner-masculine……

Oh dear, this really has me thinking about how grounded I am in my inner masculine and how out of touch I am with my inner feminine.    How comfortable I am in it all.  Ability and a desire to “do”, or “be” more of the “masculine” than the “feminine” when it comes to living life.

And I’m not sure really what this all means except that I am infinitely more comfortable picking up the screwdriver and changing the towel rack to a shelf if need be or patching the hole in the wall and not waiting for someone to do it for me.  Digging the garden where I physically can, not waiting for a man because of some mistaken notion  I shouldn’t have to get my hands dirty.   I am more comfortable sitting around the table with a beer or cuppa joe learning about electricity, transistors, resistors, capacitors, engine compression, bore and stroke, or aerodynamics than spending time in the bathroom negotiating in the world of mascara and blush and lipstick.  Or heels and long flowing dresses.  I get wet hearing the compressor come on in the garage and driving a solid, well built car with plenty of power…..*giggles*

It’s funny, I love to cook and bake.  To quilt/sew.  And yes, to “decorate”.   I can, if need be, clean up….heels and stockings and a garter belt.  A short skirt with a slit up one side and no panties.   Oh la la…. *smile*

My inner masculine is strong and confident.  Willing and able. Bright and shinning. Up front and center. Ready….

But for the life of me…..I can’t seem to put it down.  My inner masculine.  I am more often hard, than soft.  Cutting.  Sharp.  Bold.  Bawdy.  Brazen.  Curious.  Put the tools in my hand and teach me.   My default.

But all these things….the things that we associate with the feminine….at least on an outward plane….dresses, heels, makeup, shopping, decorating, cooking, sewing….are not the measure of the feminine. Not really, even if we make that association.

Where is the goddess in me?  The soft and the feminine?  Is it that she’s had no opportunity to show herself?  No match?  No surrender to the masculine of another?

How do I let her through?  Where does she hide?  What does she hide from?

I am interested in your thoughts about this……

She didn’t come with an instruction booklet

Yanno princess, you sure are beautiful.

She meant to tell him how it warms her to see him take time to let his Daughter know just how special she is, not just to him, but to everyone around her.  Deserving of love and adoration.  Beautiful and unique.  Intelligent to do whatever she dreams.  Just for being, her.  Just for being his Daughter who will grow to adulthood and conduct her life as a Woman.

She doesn’t have an instruction booklet, he’s writing it for her.

She meant to tell him how glad she is to see a Man, act like a Man to his Daughter.

She couldn’t.

At the same time she hears tenderness and love in his voice and sees unfaltering adoration in his eyes; She just can’t remember hearing those words from her father. It niggles at her and widens a small hole.

Oh sure, she has fond memories of him teaching her how:  to use a slide rule, to make solar prints of leaves, to work the camera, to develop film, to view a solar eclipse without burning her eyes, to bait a hook and fish, to tie knots in the rope, to make a fire, to pitch a tent.

You know, “how to” stuff.  Stuff that comes with an instruction booklet.

She doesn’t remember words of adoration for the Daughter who would grow to adulthood and conduct her life as a Woman.

No words of worth for the Daughter by the Father.

No words about the beauty of the Daughter by the Father.

No instruction booklet.

She never heard those words of wisdom about Men, by a Man.

No instruction booklet.

She still digs into the recesses of her mind.

She has for years.

She just can’t remember…

She doesn’t know how to patch the w(hole).

She doesn’t have that particular instruction booklet.

Comment Moderation

I’ve taken my e-mail off the sidebar and added a page where you can contact me privately should you wish to/need to.

However, in order to keep private information private…e-mail addys and such….I also have to turn on the comment moderation instead of allowing anyone access after the first approved comment.

If anyone knows how to keep full moderation on some pages but not on the post page..please let me know…I simply cannot find the answer to this at all.

So in the interest of being lazy….total comment moderation stays, for now….

I know y’all understand.

Reiteration

I guess I have to do this again…only this time it’s not nosy, snooping girlfriends  and ex-girlfriends, it’s family.

Yep this is a public blog.  But you have to search, and search pretty dammed hard with the right combination to pull this one out of your ass.  I can barely find myself here, and I know where to search.  For Fucks Sake.  And anyone wonders why I have a tendency to fucking disappear?

Read at your own risk. I will not be forced to make this blog private because of you. I am not going to create another in an attempt to keep you out of a very private space of my life.  Just think, had I wanted you here I would have invited you here.

I don’t want to hear about what you read here and do not allude to reading here unless you are willing to take the asschewing you deserve for being a snoop and being told to leave.  Either way,  it’s like opening someones publically sent, private mail even when it’s stuffed back in an open envelope and left on the table. Snooping is snooping. And it’s wrong. Begone…

sick as a dog

since midafternoon….ummm…Saturday.  Went to bed Saturday evening and slept all but an hour of the past 36 hours or so…honestly I don’t remember.  We had a Sunday?  Say it ain’t so. Missed it completely.

Strep Throat is a bummer.  Haven’t been this sick since I had chicken pox about 15 years ago.

Thank god for antibiotics…which I almost never take, but started yesterday am.

So…I can move about some this morning without freezing and crying in pain…oh my aching joints and head.   It feels like I won’t be needing to peel off yet another soaking wet set of clothes from the fever….I hope.

Staying hydrated is the hardest part….