Honoring the Spirit of Men
21 Wednesday Sep 2011
My Prose on Men
I am not a painter. I am poetic, but if I could draw or paint I would create a new niche.
I would paint men with their chiseled faces, shadows, their silence and instruments of peace.
I would place wings on their backs and liberate them from the weight they carry on bare shoulders – freckled shoulders kissed in afternoon sun.
I would surround them in hues of blue and green where the ambiguous meet.
The color of blueberries, faded blue-jeans and the in-between shades of parchment and fall days.
Not violet – but indigo washed in twilight.
Not red or pink – but orange and brown covered in the wash of a sunset.
When I am weak I want to be carried by a man. I want to be strong armed into my grace and creativity by the largeness of vulnerability known only by a man.
Because I love how they think and don’t judge, how they are strong, but buckle at the sight of beauty.
How they are motivated by the good of the group.
Art is too much about the beauty of women, so I proclaim a new space. I long to paint my admittance of being weakened by the sight of men.
If women are curves ~
Then men are lines and logic and a force that does not insist, but perpetuates growth and outward beauty.
I would liberate them from any blame they have carried and paint them into rounded corners of never saying I’m sorry.
For the burden of blame does not come naturally to them, they would much rather carry on and do the work that needs to be done.
Men persist and move through the brambles, muck and turmoil and lovingly carry the world on their backs.
Yes, we are different, but in the dark of night we share dreams. In sheets of moonlight we cover each other, we fill in where the other is weak. Men put forth where we take in – and we meet.
This would be my niche ~ because I find the greatest joy and ability of being she in the loving of he.
But alas, I am not a painter. I am merely a writer stricken by words shackled to an arrow.
The age and wisdom of the universe lies in the heart of a man and the dawning and birth of ideas lies in a woman. And let this serve as my word to liberate all men so that I may persist.
If grace is my word then I set you free. I give you a fruitful space to rest and I honor the completion found in we.
No woman can understand the true joy of being adored until she has felt the glory of liberating a man.
And somewhere in the middle, between a curve and a shadow – we meet
~ I lay down my pen.
Nicole Rushin © September / 2011
and resist the urge to over-explain…