The Dance of Our Times 3: The Wild & Passionate Garden of Community (by Elisabeth & Joseph)

Brothers, Sisters – we love to share our own particular blend of kick-ass community: community based on recognition of the different gifts men and women bring, and of the dangers in under-recognising these gifts, and on the magic of eternity that arises spontaneously when we do.

Love is an easy word. But if you´re not in your power, and I am not in mine, then it cannot arise between us. So love is not lovey-dovey. Love must be preceded by power. What is power? Power comes through vulnerability, through repeated and consistent vulnerability. Through the willingness to be naked, to risk all, to stand and be blown away by the winds of life and death, we enter humility, and equality, and simplicity – and love.

When Woman confesses her internalised sense of inferiority before Man, and her wounded sense of superiority, her bitterness and brokenness, her immature rage, and her mature rage, and when Man confesses his conditioned sense of superiority in relation to Woman, and his guilty sense of inferiority, his inherited abuser, and his shame, and both know that they are none of this, that these are the clothes that have been passed down to us, but that we are not our clothes – then, and only then, can we meet in undomesticated, authentic love.

We cannot deny the clothes we wear. We do not walk naked. We carry our conditionings, and we blame each other, and we act them out. To deny, or transcend, leaves our couples and communities in a state of brittle, superficial intimacy. Real love requires real guts. And the world is crying out for real community based on real love. This is where personal development and social change merge and hit the road running – together.

Nature is wild. The night sky is wild. We are wild. We belong to it all. We have been sold a shabby conditioning – mental and emotional clothing that suffocates us, and distorts our true Male and Female beauty. Let us meet in the power of our vulnerability, and know the magic of meeting in the naked wildness we truly are

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The Dance of Our Times 2: The Crucifixion of Man (by Joseph)

This is the age of the Crucifixion of Man. Not for Al Kaida Man, not for Jesus-is-the-only-way Man, not for diehard Macho Man, but for the most emotionally sophisticated, mature, open-minded and expressive among us. For us, the modern age presents an excruciatingly personal, apocalyptic choice. The destiny of our souls, and perhaps therefore of the human race, hangs upon this choice. The choice is this: whether, as men, to die, not knowing how, or even whether, we will be reborn – or not.

Die to what? To our lies, to lying to ourselves… Yes, we have a disconnected sexuality. And yes that means a tendency to objectify. And yes objectification is not only abusive of other, but the quintessential seed of all (ALL) our humanitarian and ecological suffering. This truth is carved into the Male Cross. We have inherited a distorted conditioning, it is in us, it is under our skins, it has crawled into our brains. Yes we indulge it and perpetuate it, but we are not to blame for carrying the disease. It is a conditioning inflicted upon us, that the best of us resist mightily, but that we nevertheless inflict upon others, most specifically, upon woman.

To die to our pretences of wholeness, to give up our spiritual posing, to admit that not only has our eroticism been stolen from us, but that vulnerability has been prohibited to us, that the beauty of our male strength has been contaminated by power-over propaganda, and that our expansive spirituality has been stunted by religion and cynicism – these are the truths that we need to let crucify us.

But so much death – even if we long for it – is impossible without community, without tender and unflinching holding, the most profound trust, hard-won self-worth, deep brotherhood, great faith in woman, skill, understanding, the courage to face death before one´s time – and patience, and poetry, and dance, and song!

Together with my wife, Elisabeth, this has been my offering: to share the path of my own (ongoing) crucifixion, and to co-create community in which, as men, we can support the women in their healing, dance together, and be gradually reborn in our power and purpose, in our genuine, exposed vulnerability, in our authentic, passionate eroticism, and in our pathless surrender.

Mark Josephs-Serra.

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The Dance of Our Times 1: The Soil of Woman (by Elisabeth)

These exhilarating times we live in are bringing us closer to all of our yearnings for love and freedom, and it is now that we can begin to open and love the doors that have kept us prisoners and grief-stricken and apparently distant from the connection we long for. I, Elisabeth, have been “up the mountains”, and tried to find my freedom by inadvertently turning my back on all that makes me the woman I am today – a woman who loves her bond with the body of the earth, with my soft fleshy body, with the beating heart of my womb – the womb that guides me as I walk through the web of life, listening, feeling, and uncovering the ancient memory of my soul.

I have cried many tears and I have laughed with deep tenderness at the conditioning that intoxicates and distracts my direct experience of the wild tender fierce beauty I am. Since those days “up the mountain” I have entered a profound enquiry and taken many sisters along the path of their own self-discovery of the gift they carry as women, and how to bring it through in this world where this gift is barely surfacing, yet heralding the beginning of a new dance with ourselves and one another. I call this dance The Dance of our Times, the dance of the masculine and the feminine in their authentic expression, the dance that leads us to experience the alchemical creative force of life.

My passion is to re-member all of the faces of woman´s knowing, latent in her cyclicity, in the seasonal and monthly journeys that enable her to step more lovingly, rootedly and confidently into the unknown – following her dreaming and surrendered to her moon-nature. As woman returns to this innate timeless wisdom, becoming intimate with her archetypal/elemental nature (fire/warrior, earth/mother, water/lover, air/shamana), she can transmit the re-connection with the web where all transformation occurs, in all of her relationships.

As woman learns to choose, again and again, to sit close to the Earth, woven into the web of life, the art of dreaming, intuiting, and the force of love in all of its different aspects, become the intelligence that she lives by – and the diverting conditioning in herself and in others becomes like waves that make the surfing of her wisdom a true adventure.

Elisabeth Josephs-Serra

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The Ego or Love Compass (for men)

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Yesterday I Died

Yesterday I died, and only now, as I look back, do I see how – with every tiny domestic decision – I was determining the destiny of my eternal soul.

Only now, gazing back through the veil, do I see the significance of every tiny response I made, or didn’t make – of whether I said ‘no thank you’ to that cup of tea because my body truly didn’t want it, or because I was feeling rejected, and wanted to reject, and would’ve said ‘no’ to any drink, or to anything at all, that SHE’D offered me.

Only now, from here, do I see how much it mattered whether I offered her that hug from a tender seeing of her, an extending, a gentle reaching of my being towards hers – or as one more small move in a vast network of interlinking strategies – to get sex.

Yesterday (Monday) morning, on my last morning, I got up spaced-out and grumpy, (grumpy was our shorthand for passive-aggressive). God knows what I’d been dreaming! And Carly, my wife, my ex, I guess, annoyed at having me in this state, began instructing me in the psychological and emotional adjustments I needed to make – in order, as she put it, ‘not to be such a grumpy git’. She was in a hurry, she had to get to work. Her instructions were to the point, and sharp.

I wasn’t aware I’d woken up stuffed with silent anger, or that I was shuffling around the house in my dressing gown leaving a fog of resentment and disapproval in the bedroom, in the bathroom, in the living room, in the kitchen… I was too spaced-out to notice. And now, on top of it, I was smiling through my teeth, over-understandingly, at her instructing…

She was angry I was not receiving her anger. How could I oppose her anger in this way – I who had sworn to welcome her feminine mirror of my moods, I who had promised to behold myself in her reflection?

My suffocating anger began to swell my whole body, pumping its way into my mind, where it burst – in clever words. I politely attacked/defended my right to not be instructed, not first thing in the morning, not just as I was waking up. And I had a point – I knew it!

Now she was getting angrier and angrier – making me smugly righter and righter, up on my now-not-quite-so-passive aggressive moral high ground.

Yesterday I died, and only now, gazing back through the veil, do I see the significance of every tiny response I made, or didn’t make – day after day. Only now, as I look back, do I see how – with every tiny domestic decision – I was determining the destiny of my eternal soul.

I began to introspect… Why was she so angry? Was her anger to hurt me? Or was she fighting for connection, for intimacy, for love?

I’d vowed not to oppose her anger. I’d vowed to open to her anger. Why? Because, again and again, I’d seen and felt that this woman was fighting for love. Sometimes skilfully, sometimes unskilfully, but always fighting for love.

So had I been spaced-out (unconscious)? Had I been aggressive (albeit passively)? Had my aggression been impacting the atmosphere (energy field) between us? Had she been feeling it in her body (womb), even though it was silent and invisible – as a pounding punching to her middle? Was this why she’d been instructing me? Was this why she’d been giving me instructions to return to Centre and self-love?

If it was – then I had to admit it all, ‘confess’, come clean, and return to presence and love. If it wasn’t – well, then she was an authoritarian madwoman, an emotional dominatrix, a bossy bully, a controlling bitch, someone whose patterning/programming/survival-strategy was to control others by ‘helping’ them…

What was the truth? Had I been unconsciously aggressive on waking? And if I had been – could I admit it?

I felt deeper and deeper for the truth. And there it was, in all of its embarrassing obviousness: of course I’d been unconsciously aggressive on waking. Could I admit it? Could I drop all judgement of her ‘authoritarianism’, of her ‘emotional violence’? Could I admit that I, the innocent victim of her anger, had been the persecutor throughout?

Yesterday I died, and only now, gazing back through the veil, do I see the significance of every tiny response I made, or didn’t make – day after day. Only now, as I look back, do I see how – with every tiny domestic decision – I was determining the destiny of my eternal soul.

What to choose?

If I chose absolute honesty of heart – what destiny would I set in motion? I imagined this: that right then, we’d melt – into love. Then she’d leave for work – in peace – and we’d reunite in the evening in deep intimacy (I didn’t know I was about to die), and creativity would unfold between us – and in the days and weeks that followed we would explore that creativity more and more fully…

If I chose to root down in my judgements, if I refused to open to what I now knew to be the deepest truth, if I refused to admit, to ‘confess’, if I hid in my righteousness and indignation, holding to the position of the unseen and disrespected victim – then what destiny would I set in motion?

I imagined this: that she would leave outraged and despairing, and we wouldn’t speak that evening… The atmosphere would be clouded with disillusion, and she’d be further impacted by this (in heart, in womb), so that she’d withdraw for her own (energetic) self-protection – which would only add to my anger and pain, which (because I’d still see myself as the hard-done-by victim) I would not express in overt violence, but in further mind-violence (judgement), which I may or may not verbalise, but which she would feel nonetheless – and so the distance would grow between us over the days and weeks, and weeks, and weeks…

What did I choose – on my last morning?

Only now, gazing back through the veil, do I see the significance of every tiny response I made, or didn’t make. Only now, as I look back, do I see how – with every tiny domestic decision – I was determining the destiny of my eternal soul.

It was my last morning. I didn’t know it at the time…

If I chose to say “yes, I woke up angry, and I know you only got bossy because you were in a hurry, and because you wanted me to return to myself (and to us) quickly” then I’d shape the days and weeks ahead, which would inform the rest of my life – and ultimately, the destiny of my eternal soul.

It was a timeless moment. I didn’t know it at the time. Every moment is like that…. suspended in significance.

MJS, Cataluña, Spain, Dec. 2011

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Call to the Revolution of the Heart

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