Uradiance

  Men who believe women. Men who care for women in pain. Men who praise women when their bodies grow old. Men who listen to women even when they repeat themselves. Men who hear women even when they do not speak. Men who grasp the whole radiance of a woman's body, not just the part, who hug with their own radiance,  Rahman i'Raheem.  Men who father daughters and sons. Men who father mothers. Men who linger by forest ponds and gaze into green stillness, speaking to the great mother. Men who travel deep into the wilderness not to hunt or kill, not to climb the highest peak, but to Be there. Men who know valleys, observing the etiquette of mist, the customs of cedar and willow. Men who understand that the fire in their belly is the Goddess.

There is a hug so ancient and round, so empty and deep it has no name, a hug that absolved the moon and stars before creation, a hug that encircled you before you were conceived, when the whisper of your soul had not been spoken. A hug that clasped your form when mountains were inside wind and wind was the sap in a pine, and the blues of the sky had not gleamed from your pupils, and the sun had not yet burst its golden seed in your heart. Why have you forgotten to hug yourself this way? Why do you shrink from the honey that was already poured before your cells were shaped to contain it? Don't you know that you cannot embrace another until you hug each centreless electron of your own flesh? Sink into the sweet dark well of your body, the abyss of never having needed to be forgiven. You think this is foolish? It's what angels fell here to feel. Run into the garden this very moment, whatever the weather may be. Immerse in the sting of wet grass. Spread your arms and hug the horizo...