Where have all the cowboys gone???
We told them we didn’t need them
Told them we could do what they could do
and even went to great lengths
to prove we could do it better
We rode the pendulum, like a horse
until the rope swung too far
and now we’ve hung ourselves with it
And we’re waiting for our cowboys to rescue us
when only our true savior can…
Today the song “Where Have All The Cowboys Gone” played in my mind’s eye as if I could see the quiet desperation of the world longing for the masculine to return after long being put out to pasture.
I hear the sadness from the tears of my own heart praying for divine reconciliation.
In trying to “earn” our place in the world we’ve displaced theirs.
I’ve felt the truth rattling deep within my bones for the past decade. Too afraid to dare, air and share and bring to the surface that which goes against the very grain of the “feminist movement.” Worried that if I had the audacity to utter the soul-wrenching sentiments I’d be labeled “subservient” or worse yet a “gold digger.”
My true feminine essence still longs for the cowboy way. To be protected and provided for. To simply be and be love and decorate the shelter that safety brings to me. Wanting to nurture and create for it is innate.
Where have all the cowboys gone?… We drove them away, I’m sorry to say. They’ve lost their place along with their footing. Damned if they do and to hell with them if they don’t. It hurts my heart to see the hurt on their hearts and we are all suffering because of it. Though some may not willingly admit or even see the pain it’s caused.
We want them to use their balls but we are the ones who took them and strapped them on ourselves. Begging them to grow another pair instead of giving them back.
And here’s how it happens. BELITTLE by little. By tearing them to shreds that tear at the threads. Unraveling the fabric of family. The divine and holy design. Now being reassigned and redesigned and look how that has worked out for us.
I know I’m not the only woman who feels this way. I’ve heard the lonely lyrics from not just that song but from other female hearts who concur with its melody. We want our men to lead. We’re tired. And I’m sure they are tired of us blaming them. We have to all own our part in the collective breakdown. The pendulum swings both ways and it’s time for it to finally find its proper place and center of gravity.
Two wrongs make nothing right. Grace must take the place of all the finger-pointing and love must fill our empty holes through the foundation of forgiveness.
I’m sorry for my part. I’m sorry I took literally those comments I heard as a child, like “Never depend on a man for anything,” that was uttered from hurt parties not wanting the same suffering for myself, only I suffered anyway by going to great lengths to keep it from happening, that were completely out of alignment with my truest of nature. I apologize to any man I may have emasculated by that forced independence. For dismissing any of the beautiful gestures that came out of your masculine core that came from the truest place I wasn’t able to see through my wounded perspective. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry for depriving myself of the gift of receiving the essence of you.
I’m sorry for the hurt that may have turned you into one of the men that hurt. I know hurt people hurt people and continued blame and shame only perpetuate the cycles. I wish to help close them. Lovingly. With grace. I surrendered to God who reframed my lenses that were bent out of shape. I can see clearly now how blurred the lines are and distorted this world has become because of our lack of true vision. We need to fix our eyes on God who can make all things new. The only true savior any of us needs. Our divine Abba Father who will heal our earthly daddy wounds that were likely just passed down from previous generations. To let our walls down so we can feel and heal. To open again to the things we’ve closed off from. To look in our own eyes and the eyes of each other, and see the truth behind this illusion. To stop listening to the masses that make us all look like asses and tune in to that still small voice that is calling us home.
The “High on Life” Coach