Author: Tom (Page 1 of 71)

Tom is a stroke survivor, a seeker, a meditator, a veteran firefighter and rescue tech, a motivational speaker, a poet, and a blogger (new site) & author. He is also the father of three and as their student and teacher, has found applying spiritual practices to all aspects of life provides a vast amount of possibility and abundance. Tom has discovered that true forgiveness is the key to a pure heart, and a pure heart can lead us to wondrous experiences.

You can also connect with tom on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Tomgwriter55/".

There is a thing…

May 24, 2023 / Tom

There is a thing, but it is just a thing. It’s one of many things which are like drops of water that have combined to flow as a river. Still this is a big thing.

Yet aren’t they all big things? Every toe stub, every fall, every tear that falls seems to be a big thing in the moment of their arrival. We focus on the droplet and bitch about its temperature as if it is the only droplet in the river. It is the thing after all, the very thing we’ve been dreading and the very thing we’ve tried to avoid.

Damn, I’ve been so stupid. I’ve spend so much of my life so focused on the droplet that I’ve failed to see the river. So much time has been focused on the wounds that I’ve missed the healthy parts. What the hell have I been doing? Wasting my time with fools and frailty has caused me to sacrifice the only thing that has ever truly mattered.

No, for now on I’ll revel in the soreness just as I bask in the comfort. The sadness will be let go just as the joy will be. I will swim and laugh and enjoy the river and honor each and every drop as equal parts of the same stream. I will fucking love it all, even the parts I detest the most.

Ultimately there is a thing and we all have it in common. We live and in that life we will die. What we do with the thing is our choice, and how we do it is our power.

Yeah, I love this thing.

My Little Girl

August 25, 2022 / Tom

There she was, my little girl, getting set to leave me.

Yeah, I know. As the cliche goes, she wasn’t really leaving me. But she was. It was her time, and she was grasping it. It was a moment she had worked hard for, and she was taking it. I was the nest and she was flying away. All I could do is watch.

Was it really, though, all I could do? Of course not. As a man in love with a woman, in this case a Dad in love with his Daughter, I could do quite a bit. I could encourage her. I could help her. When she looked back, I could be there. I could offer a whisper, or a shout, or I could just be silent. This wasn’t about me, so whatever decibel level she needed ,she would have. Otherwise, I’d keep my mouth closed and my heart open.

Her older sister had left too. That was different, though. Her sister stayed close to home, so was within a short drive should she need me. My Little Girl, in the truest form of her being her, decided to go out of State, a not-so-short 7 hour drive from home. This was her toughness showing itself, her badassness claiming ownership of her life, and her independence shouting “I will let you know when I need you.” It was all the things I loved about My Little Girl, and all the things the Dad in me wanted to change even as the heart in me refused to try.

I always just wanted her to be her. Nothing more, nothing less.

The Day Had Come

So now it was the day. The day I had both loathed and looked so forward to. This was the day when I could no longer protect her easily or be there quickly if she called. The day when all of my admiration of this warrior woman would mix with all my regrets as a Dad, when all of my hopes for My Little Girl meshed with all my fears of her departure. The day when she was to give birth to herself, and her parents would become more of passive spectators than of active participants.

I stood in amazement as she was born, first crowning and then flying out of the womb. I watched her fight for life her first 10 days of it, and stood in awe of this baby who was somehow strong, independent and never willing to give up. Memories sprouted of when she would push her older sister around on a Playskool trike even before she could walk on her own. Yeah, this was a badass.

I can remember those moments when she’d hide behind her mom or me, afraid of new parts of the world showing themselves. Then one day she took off, facing the world fearlessly with a field hockey stick in hand. She transformed from the shy girl who would never talk to anyone into a kick-ass champion almost overnight. This had been her way since the day of her birth, and this would be her way on the day she gave birth to herself.

I know this was not really the day she had given birth to herself. It was, however, the day I saw her as a woman, and as someone I knew would do well as long as the world did not try to fuck with her. She had birthed herself long before I saw it and in the gradual stages that led to this day. In this moment, though, my eyes were fully opened even if shrouded by tears.

The Lesson Learned

Like any good lesson, this one keep evolving and showing itself. She’s gone, but still here. She calls and texts and send pictures in her time, in her way, just like always. I am not there to protect her, but perhaps she doesn’t need my protection as much as she once did. I’m not there to help her when she calls, but I’ve realized she rarely called for help. She has always helped herself, and figured it out, and proved to us all that she is capable of being…her.

I’ve come to realize that my fear was not of her leaving the nest, but of my failing to be there should she need me. I feared not being needed, not that she wasn’t capable. My fears had little to do with her, they were all about what I saw as my own shortcomings.

Just as she has since the moment I knew she existed, she continues to teach me lessons. Her older sister started the process and her younger brother keeps it going, each of them teaching me in unique ways. Just like her sister, neither is my little girl anymore but both will always be My Little Girl. My son will always be My Boy, no matter how big and strong he gets. That’s the thing about being a Dad. As we get older we had better get wiser, or we will simply cease to exist. It’s also true of being a human. Sometimes we’re frail. Sometimes we’re even pathetic. Yet we are blessed with the power to learn lessons, to effect change in ourselves, and to change the world in our newness. We are fucking powerful that way, and sometimes…well usually…all we need is something to love to show us the way to greatness.

He Called Them Duraznos

August 17, 2022 / Tom

He wasn’t born there, but there he was. He sat anonymously among the trees and plants and people who spoke some other language, wondering what the fuck had happened to bring him to this place. We was raised poor but surrounded by a wealth of friendship. One day, out of nowhere it seemed, he had been forced to leave all he knew to exist in a place with nothing but trees and plants and people he could not understand.

No one asked him his opinion about moving from his urban-ish freedom to the confines of a farm. He felt alive riding his bike with his friends, free to roam the streets of his small neighborhood, playing games and plotting pranks. His mother would give him money to ride his bike to the local deli to get small groceries. At times he would be allowed a small treat for his effort. The only instructions were, “Bring me the change!”

Then his mother remarried, and everything for him had changed. Now we was confined to the vastness of this new place, with nothing to plot and noone to plot it with. He just sat there, contemplating each of the 8 years of his life, wondering what he had done to deserve this purgatory. It wasn’t bad, mind you, but it was different and as he was to discover later in life, change was hard for him.

Later he found he hadn’t moved a great distance, but through 8 year old eyes it seemed as if he had moved a galaxy away. When he’d ask to go see his friends, he was told that it was too far and to forget them as though they had never existed. The phone would not be able to call those left behind. The mail would not deliver his letters. Nothing, it seemed existed before this new place where nothing but trees and plants and people who spoke a different language could be found.

The Peach Tree

In his loneliness he wandered about, trying to figure out what all of this new shit was. What became his new “family” didn’t seem to want to know him. He felt an outsider, and they didn’t seem to care. Everywhere he went he felt alone and misunderstood, like a foreigner in his own skin, alive in a place minus all he had ever known.

“This sucks,” he said as he kicked the trunk of a peach tree. He sat under it’s shade, playing with the hard and rotting fruit that had been stripped to the ground below.

A man, darker and larger than most the boy had seen, walked up and smiled. The boy sat, staring at the man, unsure of what to do or how to do it.

“Duraznos,” the man said, his smile beaming with excitement.

“Huh?” the boy replied.

The man reached up and pulled a peach from the tree, and sat beside the boy.

“Duraznos”

“Dur-azz-nose,” the boy repeated, the best he could.

The man laughed. “Si! Yes! Muy bien!”

The boy just shrugged his shoulders with a look that said “I have no idea what you are saying.” The man understood and repeated, “duraznos.”

The boy understood that. “A peach,” he said. The man laughed and said, “Si, a peeeech.”

The boy and the man laughed. It was the first time the boy had laughed in days.

The man pointed at the peach and then at the boy’s mouth. He handed the peach to the boy, and the boy took a bite. The peach was delicious, and the boy took another bite. He then handed the peach back to the man, who also took a bite.

“Mmmmmmm,” the man said. Now that the boy understood.

Someone yelled for the man in that language the boy did not understand. The man got up, swatted the grass from his pants, and smiled.

“Duraznos,” the boy said.

The man smiled, and replied, “peeeech”. He then gave the boy two thumbs up and went back to work.

A Lesson

The boy walked home, not feeling as sad as he had. Later, as a man, he never forgot the soul who spoke a different language nor the kindness he had offered. The man didn’t care that the boy didn’t look like him or speak his language. He just saw a boy who looked sad and decided to brighten his day. The boy decided to return the favor the best he could. The man shared a durazno, and the boy shared a peach.

The remarkable thing is that kindness, no matter what it is called, means the same thing to everyone. It also tastes sweet, and gives those who need it most just a little taste of something wonderful. And that was the lesson. The boy didn’t need to understand someone to know kindness, and the man didn’t seek anything but some kindness in return. They both just needed to show up, and change the world.

““Your acts of kindness are iridescent wings of divine love, which linger and continue to uplift others long after your sharing.” ~Rumi.

A Summer’s Dream

July 8, 2022 / Tom

I’ve found you.

I’ve found you in the sounds of rushing water returning to the sea. Ages spent playing on her banks, feet frozen in the current, now have me longing to bathe in her rapids. Come, hold me there and wash me pure, touch me and I will die hearing the power of our truth set free in Spring’s release.

I have found you, and you shall know me as no other.

I’ve seen you.

Up on the summit, looking out beyond trees, my soul has seen you. Hiding among the flowers you are, dancing when no one is looking as carefree as one could be. I’ve seen you, though, and you have not known it. I’ve loved your dance and found my rhythm in your steps. There are no dreams but this dream, and there are no answers but you.

“They thought her insane, those who watched her dance yet could not hear her music.” I can hear it, and I am dancing with you.

Despite the moments where no answers came to the questions I have asked, I now sit and gaze at this vast horizon. Somewhere, out there, you are dancing and singing and wondering and doubting while I sit here, longing for the moment when I can touch the horizon and feel it touch me in return. I wonder if in the breeze that now dries my skin there is your whisper, reminding me that this road still has some miles and you are waiting upon a shore somewhere. I cannot help but to whisper back, hoping you can hear my prayer.

When we kiss will you feel that wave of truth wash over you as that river in which I’ve bathed? When we search for each other in the night, will our hands find flesh where a dream once slept? I do so wish for those things but only if your lips are the “amen” at the end of the prayer and the note that starts each day’s song.

I shall see you there, one day, of that I am sure.

A Lifetime Ago

April 19, 2022 / Tom

Lost in the fray of my own frazzled mind, I bow.

I was not good enough, or I was too good. There was no hope in you for me even as you hoped for all you never had. You walked and I watched, you ran and I agreed. You forgot and I let you remember.

I scared you, or so you said. I was a force, or so you suggested. There you were, set free upon the altar of great love, blaming the very key that unlocked your chains and left them piled on the floor. You blamed them for your fear, for your consequence, and then you hid behind the creature you feared the most.

Time. We just need time. Time to remember the moments of quivering ecstasy as we laid gasping for air, our sweat mixing into pools upon the ground.

More. We want more. I want more of your body taking mine into agreement. You want more of me owning all that you wish to give. Yet here we are. Me being too good or not good enough, hopeful in this hopelessness, a spectator in a sport that sees you run in some other direction. There is no sense to this senselessness. We will just have to walk our paths alone.

Memories. They curse at me as they bring me to my fullest arousal. I will move on. I always have, but I shall not forget. Memories that both tease me and lift me to the sky will ensure I remember. The pulsing throb in my manhood matching time with the echo in my chest will drive me toward dreams long since left behind. I shall let go as I hold on, my prayer being shouted the same as always as the eruptions remind me of what has been gained, then lost, then gained again.

You will whisper my name again someday. Perhaps such music will be played in your aloneness as your mind and your fingers wander to those hidden places. Maybe the song will be shouted as your hips buck and your flesh shakes. Certainly there will be a moment when your heart beats and your mind hears my name. You will then reach for me, find nothing but the space you asked to be created, and wish I was there to remind you of the kingdom we could have created.

I wrote this a lifetime ago.

Yet it could have been written at any time. Fuck those who take their concept of time so literal as to make it part of my existence. To hell with those who seek to make me old, or young, or tired, or plagued by their insanity. They cannot hear their roar for the sounds of the chattering in their heads, and they cannot see their promise as the fog of fear gathers before their eyes. Who am I to tell them any different? Who I am to stifle my own howl because they cannot stand the sound of their own warrior voice?

Talk all you’d like. Walk all you can stand. You will still be a puppy unable to see the moonlight. You are blinded by your mother’s tit, eyes closed as you take the nipple, being fed all that you can stand of all that she can offer.

Yet I will still love you as I have a lifetime ago. I feel no bitterness toward either of our limitations. I have forgiven you much in the way I have forgiven myself.

Time will always try to get the better of me. I may die never again hearing your voice, but I will have heard it once. Your music may be silent in my ears, but I have known its rhythm. Perhaps even the moments of great losses I have found great wins, even if in my final moments I exist in an empty space with only the memories to hold my hand.

Rise! Dear Heart…

March 30, 2022 / Tom

The floodgates have opened. The writer is back, his heart in tune, his soul awakened, and his growl nestled firmly against her breast. He has survived for this moment, and in honor of his survival a prose is born for those who are fighting for their own. He is in this spot because he willed himself to live, and he will never let those he loves shrink from the battles they have at hand.

For those who are struggling, who are facing battles unparalleled in their existence, he hears their growls as well. Even if they can’t yet hear that sweet sound, he hears it echoing in his own past. He knows and he hears, and soon his heart beckons them onward.

“Rise, dear heart, for you are loved and you are needed.”

The rains pour on the battlefields of our existence, making slick, muddy work for warriors climbing to the summits of their lives. Yet they must climb. They can never quit. They may rest and they may crumble, but they will rise to meet the challenge.

We must be vigilant, for each other, and not fail to reach our destination for a lack of effort. We must find our tribe, those pure hearts in tune with our own, who will push us forward. Those beautiful souls who sing our song and give us shelter when we need to rest. Such love is not romance, it is human and such power is not fickle, it is divine.

“Rise, dear heart, for though I cannot walk this path for you, I can walk it with you.”

Push, and walk hard, but know that if you call I will come. If you ask, you will find my hand reaching through the smoke and it will not let you go. I dare not pretend you cannot do this on your own, but know that you need not be alone as you face the storm. No matter the distance, I am here. No matter the reason, I am beside you.

I am no stronger than you. I have no superpower. You are everything I am, maybe even more. Yet in the ebbs and flows of this life I will carry you when I am strong and your are not. As I am able, I will lay with you in your despair and hold your broken pieces until you are able to mend them. Perhaps each act of such love will be returned, and perhaps not. The gift is in the giving, and the gift and the giver are one. Life itself demands nothing less of warriors.

For now know that you are cherished, you are needed, and you are not alone. You will have us at your back and you will not face the demons alone. We are so blessed to watch you rise, dear heart…

The Frightening Beginning

March 29, 2022 / Tom

Often the hardest part of a story is the beginning. There is an awkwardness in the uncertainty that makes the first words hard to come by. The writer sits and stares at the page, the pen quivering in his hand, hoping for something miraculous to be born. A breath, a pause, and then a sudden dive into an unknown sometimes more frightening than anything he has ever experienced. He leaps into the realm of his soul. It is there he must come to terms with who he is.

He must jump, however. Sometimes the ledge, though appearing secure, is a much more frightening place to be. That very thing that inspires him scares him, yet it is the very thing that gives him life. That inspiration is the air he breathes and the fire that gives him warmth. It can also strangle his faith and turn all he longs for to ash.

In that uncertainty lays a truth, a truth much stronger than the reality found in the security of the ledge. Through weathered skin he feels the tingles of warmth that bely his deepest desires. In eyes made both clear and blind by time rests a cynic and a poet, and though the words ring true in the sight of her beauty the quakes shake him to his core. It is time.

The Poet

What is a poet without his pain? What is wisdom without the cynicism that flows between each lesson shelved within his heart? It is in all that he is that he gives all that he has. It is the inspiration that drives him onward and the sight of her that awakens the truth within him, and the touch of her hand that causes an oath to be reborn within his heart. He has no choice save to recoil or to jump. He trusts his instincts as he takes the leap forward this time.

It is the poetry that gives him wings and carries him as he plummets toward whatever is his fate. He could have stayed safely perched “up there” but something demanded he just…fall. She smiles and the words come to him. She speaks and the letters all make sense. Perhaps this is the moment where it all rhymes and suddenly he will find her in the clouds, his prose never more beautiful and his soul never more rewarded. Time will tell if those words read like Rumi or like Poe, as all inspiration shows us the truth eventually.

He is just the poet but she is the word, the ink, and the spirit that guides his hand.

The Intention

In the flesh, he is but a man and she but a woman. Yet in the essence of all things that mean nothing, they are so much more. Universes are born on their aspirations, worlds are built on their dreams and wonders are created in their desires. It is here he holds back his words, and she her heart, until something finally sets them free.

That is the frightening beginning. It is a space birthed in the hope that something that has been never been can somehow exist this time. Time, the enemy of all mortals and things made to die, is given relevance only through the fear that perhaps this time will be no different than the others. The intention of he that is but man and she that is but woman is that this time all that is hoped for, dreamt about and wanted will exist for both. When just a man and just a woman meet in the dark, it is the darkness itself that becomes a mortal memory.

When both the poet and the soul behind his work jump into the abyss together, time transforms from a fruit they feared to pick into one whose sweet nectar cannot be wasted. It is in the trust that they find their harvest, and in the leap that they find their trust.

It is there I find myself, a poet seeking the right words, softly whispering to that sweet intention that she will know that truth through prose written in the clouds. While he is but one side of whatever will come, he is still one side of that promise. It is that side he gives his attention, walking slowly alone with his thoughts until that smile awakens him and that touch tells him all he needs to know. While there is uncertainty in that frightening beginning, there is also so much hope.

You Fear the Wolf

January 13, 2022 / Tom

Be a wolf and others will fear you. The wolf is dangerous, so they say. They pretend the wolf demands a wide berth and that in his solitude he is a hazard.

Bullshit.

The wolf is feared because it refuses to be domesticated. He refuses to lay comfortably by the fires others have built and and refuses to be fed from someone else’s bowl. The wolf refuses to howl upon command and sits for no man upon instruction. What he does, he does from his own heart. What he feels, he feels from his own soul.

His freedom is what scares you.

You, and you know who you are, will fade into shadow of your own fear and blame the wolf because he has teeth on which to survive. You will cater to the voices of fear that arise from the pits of your mind and fail to find the freedom calling from the pits of your chest. How many times have you shrunk from the challenge of walking in the snow? How often have you slept rather than run up the mountain to howl at the moon? Do not dare tell the wolf he is to blame for your fear. He has only exposed what shit you have carried in your skull since you were a child and your incessant need to be comfortable.

His resilience is what scares you.

You, and you know who you are, shudder at the thought of his growl. Yet you see not the strength of his commitment and the desire of his heart. You are blind to the moments when he was left bloodied and beaten and you are deaf to the growl that awakened him. You lie and you swindle then through stones at the truth. How have you forgotten who you are! Do not hate the beast who breathes his truth in ever breath and knows his rhythm in every heartbeat.

Heaven has called you, and you have failed to answer.

His truth is what scares you.

So when you say you fear the wolf, understand what you mean is that you fear your failure to be one. You fear not his reality, you fear your inability to engage in it.

His reality is what you envy.

Moments Like This

January 10, 2022 / Tom

Just remember for a moment.

Remember the last time you were left holding onto a hope that had long since dimmed. Words shared of things to come, of dreams to be realized and of promises to be kept were tossed into the fires of Forever Lost. Just remember the silence and feel the dread of the space now left beside you. Pause with that memory for a while.

Remember the last time you felt safe in an embrace and certain that there’d be another. There was once a trust in such consistency, a trust now dashed in words both spoken and unspoken, in promises both made and left broken. Remember the minutes where the ether grew cold around you as the hurt burned deep within you. Relive the moments where nothing made sense.

Remember the last time you heard the truth. There were moments when you could trust both the word and deed of your heart, moments that have since faded into memory. Now, remember the moment when you lost all things that anchored you into the joy of your reality.

Yes, please, just remember for a moment. Remember, though, for a moment only.

It is true we have suffered, each of us. We have made mistakes and we’ve had mistakes made upon us. We’ve walked lonely roads and whispered the saddest songs. We have risen, roaring a fierce determination that “this too, shall pass.” We’ve been the wretch and we’ve been saved. We were once lost but now are found.

Now forget, dear soul, all of those memories. Forget all of the broken shit you’ve seen scattered about your fields. Focus on this moment. We were made for moments like this, and it deserves our full attention.

Stand With Me

Please stand with me, and enjoy this summit of understanding. See what is around us and in front of us. Possibility stretches beyond the horizon, past the blue sky, and well into the depths our understanding. While there is no guarantee we shall embrace all of it, we are sure to have this moment, found in this spot and felt in this this space. Once we know what we have now we can then seek what is possible.

Nothing behind us matters, and nothing in front of us has been decided. What we have is a moment between two dates, a speck of time between here and there, and the power to choose paths of destiny. We can pick which path we take and then can choose to enjoy the journey.

Now I lay under the stars and seek your voice among the embers of memory that dot my evening sky. The cold north wind caresses my skin and awakens the wolf within me. I’ve once sought my solitude and fought for its mercy. Now, I seek my pack and those who will stand beside me as the winter tickles at my soul. I pray such beings exist, and that there will be a warm fire to share when everything around us freezes over. While nothing in our midst is for the faint of heart, we are not such beings. We have lived. We have fought for our survival and we are here to tell the story.

It is in moments like this, when we can lay warm even in the harshest snows, that are born in the pains of hell. It is a hell we need not bring here, but it is a hell that should give us pause to honor where we are.

Something of a Dream

January 3, 2022 / Tom

She was there. She was right there, and I let her go.

She is something of a dream. Strong. Beautiful. Perfect for me in every way. Yet when it came time to let her in, I let her go. I shrank from all I knew of her into a cocoon of helpless thoughts, and I ran from an embrace that felt so much like home.

I’ve wondered why. In the time since then I’ve had ample opportunity to quell my thoughts and explore my apprehension. I’ve had time to wander around my stupidity and remove the dead parts that clogged my stream of truth. I look at myself from then and cannot believe what I had done.

What is left? An opportunity to learn. I can watch from a distance as others dine at our table. I can understand what quakes inside of me when I hope for just one more chance. Now, I know what I lost and know that I will not soon make that mistake again.

Dreams sometimes can turn into nightmares. My hope is that nightmares can also turn into dreams.

I won’t pressure her. I can’t. Instead I can hold her in my heart and hope for the best for her. Sometime in our moments I grew to love her and in that moment all I wanted was what made her smile.

My hope is that she finds love, ecstasy, and a companionship she deserves. If she doesn’t, I’ll be here understanding that while I am a fool, I’m not the type of fool who fucks up twice.

In that way, perhaps I can be something of a dream to her, too.