The Heart of a Man
The heart of a man is not callused and cold,
but a sweet warm fire to come home to.
The armor he wears is inherited;
Body after body,
generations of war
flung into the throws of bombs and bullets,
forcing him to protect
the very nature of innocence.
Just as slavery still rings in the cellular memory
of the oppressed,
layers of protection hold the hearts and emotions
of men captive behind veils
echoing necessity.
Those who chose to enter war
so moved by the love
for their families, for their country
then laden with the arduous task of containment.
Knowing death would befall them
should they find compassion
for the other side.
Should they let themselves be consumed by grief
for brothers fallen.
Moved by love,
yet unable to express.
Moved by love,
with threat of death for showing any signs of it.
Moved by love,
yet trained to attend to the call of the outside world.
This is the way the male body has been bred.
The inherited Template of Manhood.
A thundering storm of compassion,
rippling love across his chest,
so overcome by care he is willing to sacrifice
this precious life for the life of another,
contained and chained behind a maze of plated steel.
The heart of a man is not callused and cold,
but akin to the most tender new bud blossoming in moist soil,
grown in a snow globe,
craving the touch of fresh air,
to be blown by the breeze
and rained upon by sacred falls.
Wanting so desperately to be seen.
To know and be known.
To shed, feel, release, rewild.
To share softness, innocence, and tender play.
So often I see women speaking to the armor of man,
throwing emotional weight around as if they’re impenetrable,
just because they can be.
Assuming that they don’t care,
because they don’t know how to say it.
But this is not the truth at the core of man,
and adding weight to their plate,
just because they don’t cry
only creates distance and discord.
I always feel tempted to say that men’s hearts,
once accessed are even more tender than women’s.
And I have heard it said in some spaces
that it’s a man’s job to protect a woman’s yoni,
and a woman’s job to protect a man’s heart.
As soft and sweet is the yin-yoni portal on a woman,
So too is the suppleness of a man’s heart.
When he’s distant.
When he’s cold.
When he’s sharing something vulnerable,
honor that it’s difficult.
Honor the courage that it takes.
Honor that it may even take him time to uncover
What it is he’s actually feeling…
Trust in his love,
trust that he IS love,
remove pressure,
and give the masculine space to discover his truth.
Hold the heart of a man
as if it is the most delicate fresh flower.
Honor the heart of a man as a
sacred gift from the heavens
that you have the honor of stewarding
in this moment,
on this day,
or walking beside him as his beloved,
for this is the truth of it.
The heart of one man is the heart of all men.
Speak to this place in him,
Through all the layers.
Knowing what you know,
Look at him with tender eyes,
And watch the armor melt away.
To the Men:
It is safe now to lay down your armor,
and reveal the tenderness of your sacred heart.
We are willing to meet you here,
and yet it is not our job to show you how to feel,
and express yourself.
Please take the time to discover yourself.
To commune deeply with nature,
emotion and innocence.
Please know that we are ready,
for the Kings to rise.
And we will do our part to forgive,
soften our swords,
and navigate our own emotions
with self-responsibility.
It is safe now.
Come home.
