Man's Fear of the Woman Who Bleeds

A release condemned by modern man. Have we forgotten that this release is that of something grown to create new life? The shedding of a potential not yet known. The whisper of life and its cycles through the feminine womb. There’s so much power, vulnerability, intimacy, and bravery in that woman who bleeds.

But, we have concealed her shining aura in the covert and shadowy lands of commercialism and enterprise. Man has commandeered this time of clearing and surrender for woman and turned it into an isolating, secretive, and even taboo matter.

The woman who bleeds has thus had to deny the cries of her body in order to fit according to man’s dispositions. An override of instinct so that she may overthrow man’s leery-eyed prejudice of her.

But what has man to fear in the woman who bleeds? One could say his highly coveted life itself. The fear of death, surrender to an unknown force, new beginnings, and the withdrawal of his need to know the impenetrable mechanics of life. Man is afraid of that very force that breathes him and thus, he has set out to master all of its components. What was intended as mastery has slipped into the sticky hands of his anxiety. Knowing deep down that his time too will come, to shed the patterns he holds so dear.

Thus, he does everything in his power to control his environment. That is, to work against his means rather than with them, which would provide the mastery he initially set out for. However, to work with his means would require that he give himself up to his very nature, which he is not ready to do. He has a lot to learn from the woman who bleeds in that regard.

She has tried, through her cry, to reflect the destruction man’s obsession with domination has caused. Polluted waters, the justice-seeking of silenced and oppressed people, pandemic, and war are all echoes of a future calling on man to shed himself.

But what happens when he releases his grip? The mystery is too overwhelming. So much so that he has become a tyrant to his nature, exiling the parts of him he has yet to deduce through his reasoning. He only accepts them when they are fully coherent. Meanwhile, the woman who bleeds is happy and free not to make sense. Her rhythm, incalculable, stands on its own, shining through but also transcending her personality. It is her and beyond her at once. She has accepted the quality of such.

As a man, my heart wonders what my world would be like if I saw that woman, the one who sheds herself cyclically, as she is. Without knowing what to do with her or attempting to calculate or manipulate her dance, but to see it as it is and as it has yet to become, and love Her. This I find, although quite a demanding weight, is a meaningful integration to hand down to the ones who come after me.