Here ends “Men’s Work.” A writer is not a writer who is not read, so thank you for reading me. I extend a special word of gratitude to my female readership. Endings are numinous. That said, there is work being done to turn the core of what has been written over the last nine years into a book. When that happens, if that happens, I will let you know. In the meantime, and all-ways, blessings and peace.
It’s either love or something else. If it’s something else, let it go.
We don’t know, er, a lot about Lot’s wife, not even her name. All we know is that she disobeyed a divine instruction not to look back. Or, expressed positively, to forget everything.
Everything else can be debated and qualified, but not this: Here I am.
Liminality is the state of not knowing how or if a situation will resolve itself. It’s a rite of passage. If wise elders have not prepared us for this rebirth experience and taught us the necessity of relaxing into it, we will almost certainly resist it. Once a pattern of resistance has become established, our embryonic potential for love is lost. We become weirdly animated fossils, waiting for a death that has already happened.
Men's Work 