Iron, without care, rusts. It must be polished, treated with the utmost care so as not to flake and crumble, to the earth descend in red dust. Such a thing of beauty will become tarnished with words of inferiority. Why is such strength belittled because Adam finds it emasculating if this power vessel is molded to withstand tyranny?
Should I collect dust, decaying from idleness? Am I too stubbornly wielded? Should I be a docile sculpture in this metal made? If ancient chalices had been capped, would the luster of current cups shine so brightly?
An institution houses FeMALES and males. Too often, identity is found in the function rather than the Creator. A crisis. If identity is found in task rather than by the sculptor, a drunken stupor of superiority complexes will bury, scar, or shatter the gorgeous vessel. Sadly, the institution often regards the beaming, fire-forged treasures as a threat to roles dueled out.
Why this waging battle? Can’t a compromise be claimed?
Why does Adam feel shut-up if Eve is bold too?
Cellulose splattered with red ink dripping from a thorn quill commands iron vessels and those of “finer” metals to stand down. All were molded gently in the Creator’s eye. He breathed into both and gave a voice to all, neither one for a greater reason than the other. Both are prisms for the kingdom’s call. If this be so, then stop her tearing down. Let her stand with you and further all the glory, not to herself or you, but always and forever to the Artist.