There has been a lot of talk about “shirt fronting” lately, a new word entered into the diplomatic lexicon by the Prime Minister of my country. World leaders gathering in one of our northern tropical cities, pondering planetary issues and testing alignment of ideas, values and economic trade to guarantee futures for the citizens in their countries. A complex set of conversations on a grand scale. I wonder what their sooth sayers might offer them? Would your blue bottle contents have helped ameliorate overdoses in testosterone? Is there an antidote?
World leaders are not the only ones with toxic testosterone; there are liberal doses all around me. Generous hugs from big men who don’t know when to shut up, air space occupied by male voices, a contest of ideas being little more than ‘my train is bigger than your train” are all around me. I wonder Biddy how your presence offered an alternative narrative and the elemental nature of the Celtic spirit brought the feminine to life?
The sea is rolling in and the wild winds are adding the treble to the bass line while the higher notes of nature and melodies are a mix of staccato and triplets. The elements have all the balance I need to remind me there are times when storms come and times when the sun shines. And always there is the constant in and out of the waves, moderated by sister moon in how they come in and out.
I want to be moderated by this gravity, and be healed and have my planet healed by this in and out, yet I find myself infected by the testosterone. I hear my language infused with violent metaphors, I watch myself regaling against the tide not going with the flow, hiding behind clouds unwilling to come clean and to let the sunshine in some days … my own set of shirt fronting behaviours.