I took a plunge—one of those rare dives below the surface of daily life—and came up with something delicate, yet profound. I glimpsed what I can only describe as a fine film: a subtle, almost imperceptible layer of love, of quiet abundance, of gentle, unyielding power that permeates the world. This presence holds deep symbolic significance for the masculine, yet it also unsettles, because the architecture of the masculine—its logic and rules—are not built to truly comprehend the feminine.
The masculine is forever armed with tools for conquest, for possession, for taking things apart and rendering them into their most useful, manageable components. But in a feminine world, these tools become irrelevant—almost absurd. The very impulse to use, to conquer, to claim as one’s own simply doesn’t apply. And yet, time and again, the feminine is tapped for its gifts, only to be followed by a triumphant “I did that!”, the victory of masculine achievement, rarely pausing to honor the very source that made the triumph possible.
It’s as if someone stumbles across a tree in an ancient forest, carves their name into its trunk, and then collects a prize for innovation. Or like love, transformed into a contract; nature, captured and bottled, celebrated as a feat of masculine ingenuity: “Look! We did it. We’ve contained it.” What is most rewarded is not the cultivation of the feminine, but its capture—even though the masculine is entirely capable of both. Why tend to the garden if, in the end, you cannot lay claim to its fruit?
What’s forgotten is this: the spark never belonged to us in the first place. The feminine is an open secret—an endless wellspring, free to all. This is the perennial test. No sentry stands guard. Its power does not require defense; it is infinite, returning each time with the same indomitable vitality, seeking only the most fertile ground to root itself and blossom once more.
Every encounter with this force is a lesson—a dialogue, even—between the one who would touch and the energy itself. Will this one be a good steward? Depending on how we meet it, the feminine is either cherished and cultivated, or it is cut down and repurposed for some other end. We are, all too often, a society of flower-cutters, and far too rarely, flower-planters.
The essence of the feminine is so delicate that, most days, it is barely audible beneath the relentless roar of masculine ambition. Life force itself is the feminine; if that is true, then everything we do, alone or together, is either creating more of that force or spending what remains. The moment that balance shifts is almost impossible to hear—so subtle it’s often missed entirely.
The masculine rewards handsomely in its own coin: bright accolades, fame, sparkling recognition, the promise of belonging—though always conditional, always with the emphasis on possession. “Mine. When do I get mine?” But if we were truly attuned, we would need far less of the genuine article than we seek in all our substitutes. Even sex, stripped of real connection, is just another transaction: women selling it for pennies on the dollar, men forgetting they ever possessed it at all.
Missteps with the feminine don’t make us bad, but if we were brave enough to feel them fully, we’d return each time with greater sensitivity, greater wisdom. The feminine demonstrates her power not by retaliating, but by showing us the simple impact—cause and effect, presence and consequence. Her presence and her presents are inseparable; she gives and withholds by the same gesture. Want more? Learn her language. Try to impose your own terms, and she slips away.
Everything can be felt from both sides. Once you can truly feel, you want only for it to feel right.
The feminine is this crystal—pure, faceted, luminous—and somehow I’ve been handed the privilege of holding it up to the light, letting others see the colors refract and scatter. But my hands are greasy with the residue of everyday life; I find myself beside it, awkward, wiping my fingers on my clothes, each time discovering I’ve left another smudge. And then I remember: some people never even glimpse the crystal at all.
From 2014
