June 22, 2012

I’m Not Sacred, I’m Not Divine, I’m Not Apologizing. ~ Dawn Cartwright.

Photo: Michael Julian Berz

What’s with all the divine feminine and sacred masculine calling out and apologizing recently?

It all started with, A Call to the Sacred Masculine: Ten Daring Invitations from the Divine Feminine. You know, I’ve never had much luck with telling men how to be men. I discovered, after years of experience and lots of mistakes, the way to bring out the best in a man is to love him. Just the way he is.

Several men jumped on the bandwagon. Some got angry, The Last Thing I Need is Another Set of Rule on How to Be a Man. Or offered, A Call to the Divine Feminine: Ten Bold Invitations from the Sacred Masculine. And, while I appreciate the fact that men may have something to say to me about how to be a woman, seems something gets lost in translation when blanket statements are made.

Then there’s this divine feminine, sacred masculine thing and all the apologizing, Dear Divine Feminine: I’m Sorry. Where I come from, an apology is tantamount to an insult. If something you’ve said or done doesn’t sit well with you, you make it right—without attracting attention to yourself in the process.

All of this feels a lot like arranging deck chairs on the Titanic. A useless diversion from the grim reality of our fate and the catastrophe already set in motion.

Photo: Michael Julian Berz

From what I understood, these conversations were started in hopes that we would rise in love, gain a greater understanding of one another, repair the damage caused by ancient longings unmet. Yet, while we recognize staying aboard the sinking ship of enmeshment and expectation is hopeless, seems it’s the only thing we know. And, for now, all the dares, invitations and apologies meant for I don’t know who, give us the grim illusion we are actually working things out.

Our only hope, as I see it, is to leap into the icy waters of the unknown. Release our grip on what has never worked before, strip ourselves bare, untangle ourselves from blame and bitterness, dive deep—inside—until we touch the indivisible. Until we touch the place where right and wrong do not exist and being a god or a goddess isn’t dependant on what we say or do. A place where terms like divine and sacred are no longer necessary—they are, in fact, intensely redundant—and we all sigh a great sigh of relief, now that measuring up is no longer the issue. We find we’re all human. We’re one and together, just like we always wanted to be, safe and warm.

No beggars. No saints.

You know, all this controversy struck a chord in me, really got me angry, even furious, and now I know why. For years I spent my time trying to coerce men into being women—barraging them with expectations meant to obliterate their masculinity because their love forced me to feel too much. Now, years later, tired of all my ploys to clip his balls, I feel how it feels to be loved by him.

And face the stark empty space of autonomy and empowerment that true love reveals.


Photos courtesy of Michael Julian Berz Photography. “Every shoot is a transformational and healing process. Regardless of the subject my work is a reflection of the ability to perceive presence in simultaneity with each other.” MJB


~Editor: Lori Lothian

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