These Hollow Bones
Just write something. Anything. Just write words, just write something. I’ve been stuck in a mire of feelings, emotional overwhelm, and work induced stress for the past few weeks. During an extraordinary trip to Cuba with a group of photographers, I contracted an intestinal infection. Charming, I know. It rendered me useless for about two and half weeks, depleting my body and hollowing out my spirit. That is the main experience I have been in recently, hollowed.
Perhaps it was the experience of Cuba, a beautiful landscape, a country populated by compassionate, kind, and resilient people, strangers who cared for the stranger in their midst without hesitation. A country of scarcity and lack of resources, of decaying buildings and inconsistent infrastructure, where people share their last piece of cake with you when you drop in unannounced, because you are in their home, and they are honored to host you. Cuba is at once a gracious and inhospitable place, a dichotomy of what once was and what might have been adjacent to a presence in the present moment that is at once proud, protective, and fiercely loving. I love the pride of the Cuban people I met, not a pride borne with arrogance or superiority, but a pride of Spirit, of Soul knowing that the values they live are the lifeblood of their families, their communities, and are where true freedom lies. No matter the edicts of the government, or the political climate, dignity and pride of place, of heritage, cannot be diminished. Five days into my trip, in rural Trinidad, Cuba, I became acutely ill. My Spanish is limited at best, though not for lack of trying, and in my usual way I tried to downplay both how sick I was and how concerned I was that I could not process any food. A recipe for fear and anxiety to be sure. And yet, the moment I let my companions, our drivers, our tour guides and our hosts know, I was held in such deep caring. I spent a day in the casa, with my host bringing up tea, calling to to me from halfway up the staircase so as to not startle me. On the very long journey back to Havana, I was traveling with our driver, and one of the photography guides. I felt weak, unsteady, and incredibly vulnerable. I was met with a display of Divine Masculinity - two very strong men, expressing care, concern, and a resoluteness that I would be accompanied and cared for on their watch. It was a healing my soul needed, an experience of grace that allowed me to be vulnerable, to know I did not have to go it alone, and to trust in the safety offered to me. It was a demonstration in the physical world of what I experience within myself - the battle between the mystical priestess and the sword wielding warrior, the dance of trust or lack thereof, that when one leads the other is secure in following. I have spent decades healing this division within myself. Being able to witness it manifest in physical world reality, in very trying circumstances, offered me a deep level of healing.
Trust in the masculine is a medicine the world needs right now. And the way to experience that is to cultivate men who are trustworthy with power, who honor their own strength by committing to compassion and tenderness. It is a trust that must be earned. The Divine Feminine is rising, and women are embodying their empowered selves. I hear messaging that we don’t need men, that it is time for women to “control” everything. I think this idea of “control” is absolute bullshit. Women are on the cusp of a huge mistake if they do exactly what the patriarchy has done before them. If we as women exclude men, marginalize them, and create a hierarchy in which anyone is less than, we will fail just as miserably as the privileged men who came before us. Women have an opportunity to co-create an ecosystem in which all are cherished, gifts and abilities are encouraged and valued, but not used as a means to one-up another. We don’t need to create “heroes” out of athletes, or give undue accolades to those who have celebrity. We need a world in which gifts are valued, not because of how much money they generate but because of the beauty and life they bring into the world. It is time to acknowledge the gifts of the craftsmen, the artist, the ones who work daily to bring joy and peace into the world. The beauty of simplicity, of pride in heritage while welcoming the stranger into our homes, the love of family without rampant tribalism. We need to stop othering, and the only way to do that is to acknowledge and celebrate the differences between us, and recognize that these are also the commonalities among us. To know each other as the grain of sand that creates a beautiful beach, the droplet of water that forms the power of the ocean, as each unique note that creates the cosmic symphony of which we are all a part. We must hollow ourselves of “self” in order to fully live our Self, energetic fragments of the Divine Source from which we all come, and to which we all return. My prayer is that the wind finds me, and plays a symphony though my hollow chambers, so that I may be fully a part of the wonder of All that Is. Blessed be.
