Denial

The men and I sit around and enter the circle by a mere ninety seconds of words. Welcome in we are called - and in our midst is denial. Showing itself firstly by overt naming: deniers, liers, all. And then more subtly, as I take permission from the stark standing of it to go into my own shadowland - deny that I face imminent financial peril.

Ah, but it is all up to Venus - master of passions and the one who manifests wealth. David Whyte says that to be disappointed properly is an emancipation to a real life - one where we see things more as they are and not as we would project there.

I am not being contrary. It is just this:

I too am a lier and a denier. I too have these places I’ve hid all my life - ways of getting by that help me avoid what is real. Do you know what I mean? You do. You have them too. Ways of turning away from the inevitable because it is touched by your wound.

So what now?

We shine our dim lights about each other and ask for fire that purifies the drossy gold. Yet, one militant religion cannot clean us to be Christ-like - the snow has the patent on purity and whiteness.

We men can only keep showing up to the site of our wound and tend - Wounded healer like - Kairon centaur like - that place that is meant for our looking. As we tell the truth quietly to ourselves first, if we are ever to make a word of it out there to others.