The Way of The Gentle Man

Slow, gentle steps.

The Gentle Man moves about his life softly. Quietly. In obscurity – taking slow, gentle steps.
He is not seen; he was not there.
He does not speak for silence holds all answers.

Only the fearful are loud. Only the self-loathing wish to be seen. Only the uncertain speak up.

He lounges through parks and befriends park benches and the plants that hug them. Bewildered by nature – his masterful teacher. From the tree he learns stillness. From the feline – presence. From the serpent he learns groundedness. From the ocean he learns movement.

The Gentle Man is not persuaded by worldly possessions. His head is not turned from the way. All is his within. And for he who has all within, all that is his without is inevitably already coming. Patience, then, is the trick.

First comes peace. Then comes clarity. Then comes strength.
From peace, clarity and strength comes of all the wealth you might ever have desired from the prison of weakness – and more.

For me, came my reflection in feminine – who brings with her the realisation of many years of investment in discipline and time. She is the great reflection of all I have become: my internal wealth shown back to me. The source of my gratitude. The spring of my passion. The well of my love for all.

The Gentle Man is eternally victorious, before he even begins. His path in life – assured. All he must do is walk. Discipline and integrity are the keys to the prison you shout your desires from within.
Now become silent. And walk.
You, too, will be free.

Charles-Wilkin12 — Artwork by Peter Martensen

Love, mirrored.

He who lives in knowledge – and who has forgone his ivory tower of belief, and gleaned from deliberate steps in philosophy that all he sees is a reflection of his internal world – knows his lover as his closet and dearest reflection. Through her, sees himself.

Never does he get caught pointing the finger, for that finger will be pointed straight back. Through correction of self he elevates his reflection, in love.

He is a reflective soul who knows, that his world is his creation. That ‘the world’ is an illusion. That the agitation he sees is his own, that the reaction he sees is his own, that the love he desires is his own: cultivated and then purified and reflected back to him by his woman.

His woman is beautiful. Because he loves himself.
His woman is powerful. Because he is unafraid of self-correction, and her.
His woman is loyal. Because he is honorable.

Anything the Gentle Man does not wish to see in his woman he must rid of in himself. This is life’s lesson to him in accountability. The Gentle Man is an example. He lives in a world, beyond time, perfecting his technique with repeated strokes in discipline. His craft is his love. His woman is a reflection of his love for his craft. She, too, loves her craft. And through and with each other they move slowly, in a spiral pattern, towards the perfection of their craft and the mastery of other through self.

He knows he. He knows all.
She knows she. She knows all.
Love, mirrored.

Eyes on beauty; Sweet, obliging death.

I breathe in darkness,
I breathe out light.
I step toward destruction,
bleed willingly,
and smile.
Great adversary,
come now toward me.
I have been waiting,
patiently to die.
To then be reborn,
as the vision in my eye.

The Gentle Man does not fear death, but knows it as a necessary, and beautiful, part of life. All of life is dying.
All but spirit, who resides in the bartizans of eternity, is a momentary flicker, destined to puff out and fade back to nothing.

The Gentle Man watches as the sun is born each day and then dies.
He watches again as the moon does the same of its monthly cycle – gently waxing and waning with his woman.
He watches once more as the apple falls from the tree, thuds at the earth below and slowly rots – encasing the seed, now sunk into the earth, with the nutrients necessary for new life.

With the sun, the moon, and the apple, the Gentle Man dies.

He knows no fear. For fear is a liar. Fear is a thief. Fear knows nothing.

And through each death, the Gentle Man experiences more and more of life.
Gracefully, and consciously he walks through each of his lives, this and the next.
Eyes on beauty.
Sweet, obliging death.

Le Gentilhomme

Do not mistake my gentleness for weakness.

The strong hand is a gentle one.

Your Tension is fearful.

Violence is fearful. Anger is fearful.

For the rowdy male is frightened. Internal eye on only his weakness. He knows he is weak. They know.

And so he attracts the weak, for the strong disregard him. His company, who he dominates to falsely validate himself, is his reflection.

He is a playground bully – stuck in the little boy.

The gentle man, by contrast, is silent.

Still.

Certain.

Weakness is an inability to do what must be done.

The blemished male has an eagerness to act violently in mad defence of a rotting kingdom of blame, shame and excuse.

The gentle man will be aggressive if the moment calls for it, but never violent, and always benevolent in his correction of the adversary. He, loves all.

Yet few are willing to look at themselves and make the necessary corrections before attempting to correct others.

The gentle man, by contrast, corrects self.

Perfects art.

Elevates others.

Through the necessary internal adjustments I embolden and enlighten my reflections and therefore myself.

I am the dark angel, emanating from the light.

Your death has come to save you.

As I gracefully walk, things gently weep and wilt around me,

reborn beautifully in my wake.

Untouched by chaos.

I am a beacon of peace.

The eye of the storm.

My woman is my art. I cut into her with the blade of my stillness, and then mend her up with the light of my love.

I, her great destruction. I, her loving healer. She, the bubbling, churning abyss of my passion.

We die. We are reborn. We integrate.

And as I foster the seed of her might, the tree of my power thickens and entrenches itself deeper into the earth, becoming increasingly unmovable,

and unfathomably solid.

I am fluid. I am strong. I am gentle.

Ex-lovers.

In days of old, through self-hate and confusion, I found women of beauty, made them mine, and conscripted them into hating me, too. I did not see that I hated myself so they came to me as a mirror, to show me what I lacked internally. What a beautiful service they provided to me, by pushing the knife deep to wake me up, and sending me in the right direction towards my ultimate healing.

Instead I called them ex-lovers and thought of them negatively – blaming them for my hatred of myself.

Now, as a man of power, my reflection in feminine is before me whispering that I rob her of the full force of my godly love until I can say I love all women, as she is all women – the goddess in full.

So I accept her correction and return these ex-lovers from the floor to the shelf where I will once again honour them as all women and thank them for the service they lovingly provided. All as beautiful as the next, they were the loving signs along the way saying “go this way, your woman awaits you.”

For this, I thank each of you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

I love all.

alex dram3.jpg — Photography by Alex Dram

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Correction.

No step is a misstep. All moves to perfection. There are no mistakes – until an action has been corrected and repeated.

Correction can come internally (ideally); externally, from life (in the instance of ignorance); or from another person (in the instance of belligerence). How long it takes for an action to be corrected is directly proportional to self-awareness and inversely proportional to the extent to which ego has its grip on you. A big ego is not a concern. An ego that is in control of you is. Have the big ego, this is a powerful thing. Have control of it. This is more powerful again.

Self correction is an aspect of knowing what must be done, and then doing what must be done. The knowing precedes the doing. And we can only claim to not have known so many times before we enter the realm of childishness. Make it your business to know. Make it your business to correct yourself. Do it before life corrects you and especially prior to being corrected by another.

If another is so gracious as to reveal to you a chink in your armor, thank them, do not apologize, correct yourself. There is nothing more to discuss.

For as long as you require repeated external correction, your progress will be limited in proportion to your effort in achieving your mastery. In other words, you will have diminished your unlimited potential.

Step instead into responsibility, diligence, grace.

Image from the music video for ‘Lonely’ by ‘The Peach Kings’

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Economy.

Speak less, think less, do less:

Silence is the great reservoir of all strength. Certainty is silent.

Simplicity is the highest sophistication. Remove all that is not necessary.

Stillness is the fountainhead of clarity. Become economical in speech, thought and action.

All that is then left behind is strength, beauty, and power.

Goddess pt. II

When, from the morass of obscurity, she makes herself known – and you will know: apple-plump with beauty, soft and radiant – greet her in masculine presence, invite her in and return to business.

If then she remains, when all is let go of, she is yours and you may take her. Take in first, her femininity, absorb it in the crucible of your presence, foster it in the crucible of your strength.

Do not be afraid to meet your end at her hand if she offers to you this most precious of gifts. Therein is a new beginning. Your meeting is a dance of energetic polarity and an alchemy of two lovers to the ultimate benefit of you both.

Love first yourself, then fill her with that love.

With loyalty in your heart, know fruitful abundance in the love of your woman. Nothing else will have your cauldron be so overflowing.

Return, at times, to solitude. Attending to the business that men must at times attend to. Let her always know you will be returning. Forever returning to the beginning with her. Knowing her anew each time. Seeing her afresh each day. See her with your eye and not your mind. For only the eye can understand the depth of the reservoir she drinks her power from. She is the goddess come to kill you.

Die gracefully.

Preparations (Ophelia).

You shuffle about your life, wistfully, absently filling once empty spaces with your vision – yet never deliberately, or with the toothpick of intent. As I do, you comment here and there to people who have no ears to receive you, realize the fruitlessness of this endeavor and return to silence. Subtlety with regards to the delivery of truth is not a fineness either of us can attest to.

From afar I can feel you, too… Going about your business as I go about mine, gloriously ignorant to the crossing of roads ahead. I know not what form you’ll take or what gifts you’ll bring, only that I am for you and that there is work to do in preparation.

A daughter. Ophelia. Bright. A spark. More powerful than is good for her in her formative years, although we will be well equipped to make the appropriate preparations for a child of such energy.

Yet upon close observation the future escapes through cracks between the fingers of the present, returning my attention to the hand I’m given. So I file these thoughts away to a cabinet at the back of my mind marked “return to” with my other uncashed cheques and await that prosperous seed to take fruit in your appearing before me complete with curls and chocolate-dark irises.

… I hope you drive fear into the hearts of men greater than I. I hope you come ready to humiliate me with your feminine glory. You will find me unafraid for under the bright light of philosophy I have corrected my fear.

Back to my silence. Back to watching it turn.

I surrender myself to timing.

Tall.

Winter mist on misty windows.
Trees poking out of the ground,
numerously surround us.
They stand tall,
like adults do.
Swaying too,
like emotions or the opinions of the men,
that plant and cut them.

Should I stand taller?
Deep in my roots,
solid in foundation,
yet pliable above ground?

In a silent field we sat.
Leaves singing our names,
and foliage crunching under us as we lay,
while we use each other as cushions.
This is ground, I think, we must tread carefully,
lest things end precariously.
Yet still you stare at me,
– you are not one for being careful.
And so I, too,
stare back at you,
– the warrior is never fearful.

I saw rock pools in your eyes,
in a wooden bathing house,
standing nude before you,
physically and otherwise.

I caught, too,
a failed disguise
for something rare these days.
Something real.
And I have known women in my life,
in more than a hundred ways,
but this is my favorite.
This.

What gifts,
have you come to bring to me, angel?
Just peels of laughter
and prettiness?
Or something you apportion less regularly?
Something special, just for me?
In exchange for something special,
just for you?

You have come to me to be at home.
This, I know.
Relax my love.
I will die,
willingly.
You have come to kill me,
finally.
So let us walk home together,
fearlessly,
and find the truth in each other,
beautifully.
For we will live forever.
Let’s walk this path together.
The God and Goddess await us.