Meeting My Inner Masculine

When I feel inside of myself for the masculine part of my essence—unobscured by pain, conditioning, or need—I meet a plain, humble man of few words, with a depth of presence I have long ached for.

He meets me in each moment with fresh eyes—without holding a hidden, artificial concept of perfection that he constantly compares me to. There is no preconceived expectation of what or who I will be at any given time, so that I am free to breathe deeply into the possibility of my own infinite nature.

Perhaps, in the morning, I am a princess—by late afternoon, a dragon. And when the last particles of light disappear beyond the edges of the Earth, I am the void itself—unreachable, unknowable.

Like the phases of the moon, my shifting nature is not a pain or disturbance for him, but a source of both inspiration and rapture. My existence orients him to the core of his being, where a door to the eternal wellspring of creation resides. And through this closeness to his divinity—his own etheric womb—he is moved to birth art, poetry, music—effortless, like breathing.

In our own sacred world, I am his muse, and he is mine—our dance is multi-dimensional.

He is present enough to experience me in fullness. Quiet enough to hear the frequency of God pulsing through me—and slow enough to taste it.

He is rebellious enough to allow these subtle sensations to penetrate him in a world that rushes him to imaginary finish lines and futures he would forfeit his whole life to attain.

He is wise enough to know that life is bursting out of milliseconds and wild enough to hunt for the smallest of moments—to capture stillness itself and tame it—because it is this precise emptiness that fulfills him.

This becomes our special, unique form of intimacy—glances filled with wordless emanations of innocent love, which dissolve millennia-old veils of pretense and hideous, carefully concealed forms of dominion. Small gestures and exchanges between us carry this refined awareness: a tender note, a plucked wildflower, a helping hand, a caress.

I will know when I meet him by his specific energy signature—and by the fact that he is late to dinner and says very little. I won’t learn about his opinions and judgments of the world. Instead, I will hear of the lone, mythic story he is weaving through infinity. I will come to know the ways in which he has been broken, and I will be invited to tour the museum of his many scars.

Never keeping one another prisoner within our fantasies or delusions, we are the guardians of each other’s freedom. Never unconsciously extracting from one another—already self-fulfilled—we are the stewards of each other’s solitude and the wardens of each other’s peace.

We are the reflections of each other’s depths, fanning the flames of longing for ever-deeper inner excavation. Longing to be hollowed by life, that we may be filled with God—relishing the gift of witnessing this sacred forging in another.

The first time I caught a glimpse of him was the day I finally exhausted myself to death by imagining he wasn’t real—that I would be forever a servant to the masculine I was taught to accept: Fast, loud, and rough. Impatient. Forceful. Blind to the boon of life and full of contrived axioms—a victim of his own intellect.

I found a folder of my old writing, from my teenage and college years. Within the sentences I wove nearly a decade ago emerged a version of my inner masculine so innocent and pure, I remembered.

The men I meet reflect the quality of the relationship between my own inner archetypes, which has admittedly been a mess. For most of my life, it has translated to a series of excruciatingly disappointing experiences.

I am excited to go on dates with my inner masculine—to heal my relationship with my innermost beloved. This morning we sipped a warm chai drink in a glass teacup and stayed in bed for far too long, feeling the texture of my favorite blanket and basking in the warmth of the sun streaming through the windows of my loft.

He didn’t make small talk or try to debate something intellectual with me out of boredom. Nor did he suggest I get up and be more productive. Instead, we just existed together, sharing a quiet, beautiful moment. I could get used to this.

Perhaps, by spending time with him in this way, he will eventually take on a form that I can see and hear and touch.

Or, perhaps I will be a cat lady with a vivid imagination forever—only God knows!