File under: If only you thought this post was about you—because it is.
I have so many sad stories of the most “conscious” men out there sucking big harry balls at consent, respect and reverence.
I’m not bitter, I’m heartbroken.
I’m also afraid to speak into it. Afraid to speak into the subtle ways I’ve been seduced instead of paid, dominated and directed instead of listened to and respected, lied to, stolen from, tokenized and disregarded.
Because no one wants to bite the hand that feeds it.
Because maybe I could be like him—wealthy and white and winning.
Because maybe the carrot comes true one day, and the patriarchy just might infantilize me in a good way—sending me to yoga and massages and manicures and meditation retreats.
Except the white man’s hand hasn’t fed me in a long, long time.
I’ve been out in the garden with the goddesses, as Ani says… with the plants that nourish and heal.
There, under the sun, together, singing, we till the soil, we lay the rows, we put the seeds under our tongues so when they bloom, their nourishment comes into our wombs and feeds us like magic… just like the old wise women whispered they would one day.
Together, us and the earth.
Together, us and the sun.
Together, us and the water and the rain and the salt and the sweat and the tears and the hands and the holding.
The grieving of the losing things we can never ever get back.
Together, us and the weeds and the hope out of necessity that we might grow something all brand new.
Women helping women heal from so much theft, so much sorrow.
And so when the men ask me (only because I insisted that someone ought to ask the women) “What can we do?” I’m too tired to even look up.
You can pay me first, I think.
Pay me for these words.
Pay me to take me from my women and show you our scars, the ventricles of our hearts torn away at and tethered.
Pay me for this wreckage tour.
Pay me so I can build homes for these women who’ve broken from everything stable but abusive, solid but cowardly, structured but jail-like, so they could re-build something more like the Mother, more like the Garden, more like Eve.
But I’ve made that request before. That request to be paid for mending your mistakes… or healing your hurt… or being treated like my sacred potent work is work.
I know what it’s like to be ignored.
So instead, I ignore your request.
And I think maybe this is the best thing I can do.
You… you can find me in the garden.
Bring your shovel.
Bring your humble hands.
Bring a plan to say less and follow more.
Press share for all the “conscious men” in your life who care about safety, consent, reconciliation and love. And all the women for whom it’s long overdue.