For at least 18 months of my childhood (I was 10-11 years old), there was a strongly influential outsider masculine presence that made quite the impact on our 3-legged stool fam (I'm an only child). I never met this man, but I knew of him via the tumult his name coincided with. Therefore, I came away both fearful but also sort of in awe. For his presence equated with such the season of fruit basket turn over within the Turner household.
And though I was very much at arm's length through all of this, there was still plenty for my childhood brain to not only keenly observe but feel about this force. And this intrigued me firstly prior to some eventual (thankfully short-lived) terror.
Mostly, I indirectly observed how it affected my dad (who was in his late 20s at the time). I vividly remember him abandoning me late into the night on one hand, and, in turn, profoundly weeping whilst seated adjacent to me on our back porch swing. It was as if this force was both powerfully omnipresent yet completely unrealized simultaneously (by my dad). For it was the electric clothes dryer and my father were the smelly sneakers. As such, there was seemingly no respite from the ordeal ('till everything did eventually settle down).
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When my wife, Angie, suffered a stroke back in 2020, all we could do was hang on to our hope that she'd recover to the degree God would orchestrate. Because I'd suffered through my job loss in 2013, Angie's stroke thankfully didn't overwhelm my synapses / emotional core. That being the case, that definitely wasn't how our children experienced their mother's physical illness / disability. In essence, they were scared shitless.
As such, I remained cool as a cucumber never even weeping in front of them. And it wasn't due to me being emotionally absent or aloof. I simply had this track record with suffering that had profoundly prepared me for suffering further. Essentially, this powerfully unwelcome force was allowed to flow over me in lieu of it slamming me to the pavement.
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Whilst looking back, I truly grieve the heartache / feelings of hopelessness / violation my dad suffered all those years ago. I remember being helpless to do anything for him other than steer clear or attempt to sympathize (which was pointless).
My dad is a tremendously sensitive guy. Of course, that only exacerbated his heartache as he tumbled 'round & 'round within that sheet metal drum.
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Fast forward almost 45 years and in light of where I am today, I believe, there's some present familial tension tied to faint echoes of this masculine force from long ago. And this is especially true considering the fallout that's occurred throughout the course of this year between my mother and me.
Here's another thought: When I ponder how intrinsically roped in to my masculine archetype that I came to be within middle / high school (homosexual lust), I have to wonder how much this original mysterious force (& it's impact) may very well have laid the groundwork for my decidedly private pursuit.
In turn, as I've worked my recovery program and therefore become less & less incapable of seeing masculine value within myself (in tandem with my girls growing into young women), how might my 2025 position within this very same 3-legged stool harken back to that decades-old torrent?
Food for thought, for sure. You've heard me say it before. Masculinity is the most powerful force on planet Earth.
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