Author: Tom (Page 25 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/".

The Stoic Man

May 17, 2018 / Tom

Questions posed by The Voice during my run this morning.

Who is this Stoic Man and what is his purpose?

My thoughts invariably shift to the child I once was, alone in a dark room sobbing in the life offered him. Nursing his bruises, both of the flesh and beyond it, wishing things were different. Oh, sweet boy, do not lose hope, salvation is coming for you!

I’ve visited that boy many times in my reflections. I remind him that he is loved, that he is strong. I try to comfort him in the moments when all seemed lost, and death portrayed itself as the only answer. The boy envied his brother who had died near birth. The man was grateful to know of his existence. The boy longed for the encouraging words of his late grandfather. The man needed none of it. The boy sought redemption in the absence of such pain. The man found salvation in that very darkness.

I often wonder if, at some level, that boy felt me in the space next to him. I wonder if he endured simply to meet the man who held his hand through the ether. Such wonderment has to be, for me, a mystery of belief.

My mind then drifts to the younger me, trying hard to find his way. Anger was his friend, for no one could hurt him in the red waters of rage. “I need nothing from you,” he’d say to those who offered their hearts, “I want none of you” would be his mantra to souls who would invite him in. Tears would flow from his eyes in the loneliness he sought, and pain would be his companion as he often hurt the very ones who loved him. He could not believe in them, for he was taught that trust was what others could enjoy. His was to be a solitary path.

The stoic man honors the younger self and cherishes the lessons he would learn. “You’ve walked your way, and look at the steel such fire has created,” says The Voice. My soul kisses the memory of youth on the cheek and, as always, forgives him for his blindness.

The weight of past pain has long since departed, and my footsteps are lighter now than ever before. I think of them, and wonder what gifts I had given them in my sightlessness. I can only hope some beauty remained after all the dust had settled, and fondness of the speck of light that always existed within me somehow is remembered more than that darkness that gave it breadth. I hope the softness was remembered despite the hardness, and that some saw the promise of what could be more than the perception of what was.

The losses, the pain, the misdeeds, each showed a way to my own strength. Weakness somehow will always provide a path to power, and pain will always offer a way to fulfillment. It’s why I no longer vilify myself for any of it. It’s all taking me to somewhere I need to go.

The Stoic Man honors the weakness that once defined him and the light that drove him forward. He is, after all, the sum of all he’s ever known. His purpose remains to add to the experience and do so with an intention born not of hype or pretense, but of truth and circumstance. He walks the path laid before him and, where none exists, makes one. It is life he loves, and it is living where he finds his purpose.

He could have quit long ago. His last breath could have been a lifetime ago. He decided to live. His way, no longer a slave to the methods of others.

The run over, I sit on a bench by the lake I’ve grown to love. I wipe the mud from my legs and stretch out my aging hips that protest the activity. “You didn’t say a word during the run,” I say with a laugh to my now screaming muscles. “Now I can’t shut you up.” I’ve learned to laugh as soon as I can about fear, pain, suffering, whatever. The laughs come in their own time, but come they do. My body craves the joy almost as much as it craves breath, and my mind seems well-adjusted to the idea that I simply want to live. Not be alive, but LIVE.

One day, this dream will all be over and I’ll return to the vast Sea I’ve come to know. I’ll be bringing with me a life lived, fulfilling the purpose my spirit has to experience. Perhaps I will have met some who find my purpose has brightened up their lives a little, or a lot. Perhaps I’ll discover those who wish to live as well. Perhaps our minds will stop long enough for us to really get to know one another.

Or not. Whichever. We’ll be fine either way.

The Sun has never said to the Earth, ‘You owe me.’ Look at what happens with a love like that. It lights the whole sky. ~Hafiz.

She is Beautiful

May 16, 2018 / Tom

There are times when she is beautiful.

When she drops her veils and you can hear the strength and weakness in her voice, she is beautiful.

When she loses her inhibitions and her strength pours out all over her, she is beautiful.

When she smiles as the skies rain tears of misery, she is beautiful.

When the Sun glimmers off the lonely trail of her tears, she is beautiful.

When the sweat pours from her brow as she tills the fields that sustain her, she is beautiful.

When the thought of her touch punches through the smoke-filled visions of my mind, she is beautiful.

When she thinks she is at her worst; when her hair is not kept, when her clothing is at its most casual, she is beautiful.

When she lets you see her as no one else does, she is beautiful.

There are no rules nor standards to her beauty. Her eyes light up the narrow pathways you take to get to her. Her smile drives you forward when the challenge seems too great. Her tones and inflections lift you up without you even asking, and her stoic grace brings your courage in the moments you fear the most.

It seems there are no times when she is not beautiful. What a lucky man is he she loves.

Said to No One in Particular

May 15, 2018 / Tom

“I wish that you had faith,” I whisper to no one in particular.

Through those winding tales we weave as our own, we lose something. We lose the faith we were born with, that very gift given us at the moment of our conception. We learn to distrust the process of living. We learn to grasp, and in that grasping what we want we often let the very essence of our experience slip through our fingers. So forgetful are we of the promise of our creation that we let life slip away. Gone, forever, is the promise of our birth.

“I wish that you would trust,” I say to no one in particular.

I know well the scars caused as we walk helplessly around, cutting ourselves on the shards of broken hearts strewn haphazardly on the ground. We blame others for our wounds even as our feet fall to the will of our desire, even knowing that the failure to clean up the mess we’ve left is ours and ours alone. Others have given us the hammer, but it is we who strike the blows. Others have given us the spade, but we dig the grave with our own hands. “Trust,” I say. “Please trust. You have never been led astray. You’ve chosen to be lost. You can choose to be found.”

Lost diamonds hold no value to the lapidary, a wadi no import to a man dying of thirst. Be brave, and be satisfied in the precious moments that quench your desire. Seek them, and do not stop until you reach them. Trust, for the process of your humanity was created for you to enjoy.

“I wish that you would love,” I say to no one in particular.

Somewhere in the expansive abyss in which we exist, we fear. We fear the dark, we fear the light. We fear the mountain, we fear the valley. We fear aloneness, and we fear togetherness. Fear turns the dream of life into the desperate nightmare of existence. We seek the shackles we use to bind us to imprisonment while giving thanks for the length of chain we call our freedom.

So says my mind to the beast that lives within, “bind me to my fear, and let it anchor me to the spaces I call my home.”

So says my heart to the demons that feed the beast within, “Surrender as I slay you with each beat, as I tell a story written long before your birth.”

So says my spirit to the dark corners where both lay, “Paint the pathways in black and watch the white specks of the canvas that is love seep through. Know then that you exist at my will, and shall be summoned to bathe the newborn babes of my desire in the pools that I so choose.”

In the echo that replies, I see I am speaking to no one in particular. Phantoms as they are, the demons are but mist even as I choke the life out of their wicked form. Dreams hold the power of the dreamer, and no other to inspire save those equally afflicted. In the reality of hope I see you, arms outstretched and a smile that lights your lips afire.

“I wish that you had faith,” I whisper to no one in particular.

The Old Man by the Lake

May 11, 2018 / Tom

I’d been on this trail hundreds of times in my life. It remains one of my favorite places to be. It’s meditative. It’s peaceful. It refreshes my soul.

As had happened so many times before, I passed an old man walking with his dog. He always went in the opposite direction. It would take him mostly on a decline rather than upward, and was generally a bit easier to finish. We’d always say our good mornings, as his happy dog would quickly sniff me out before deciding the birds were a much more enjoyable prey.

Today, though, something was missing. I noticed it right away as he approached. His dog was much closer to him than was ordinarily the case, and he wasn’t walking with his normal gait. It was like someone had placed a heavy weight on him, and he was having a hard time walking with it.

He was wearing dark sunglasses, unusual for him as I knew him on this trail. He wore the same hat I’d always seen him in, but it didn’t look the same. His hair seemed disheveled beneath it. It seemed today he wore that hat not to protect his head from the Sun, but to hide the mess underneath it from the world. I took all of that in as I realized the most important thing that was missing in this scene.

She was not with him.

She was always the first one to say “good morning”. Her smile was easily seen from a distance, and the cadence of her footfalls always seemed to be one he would try to match. They were always talking and laughing as they walked, and her morning greeting seemed to be a signal to him that he should share in her kindness. She seemed to uplift him, and give him a certain lightness, and he seemed to be a satellite to her, his star.

“Good morning, sir,” I said a bit earlier than normal. He sighed, and mumbled a “good morning” barely audible in reply.

“How are you?” I asked.

“You don’t want to know,” he said. I’m sure he believed it to be true. Most don’t ask that question truly wanting an honest reply.

“Sure I do. Is everything ok?”

I could feel his sadness begin. It was like the early stages of a tsunami, the energy around him receding as the power of his torment seemed to build. I braced for what was about to come.

“My wife died last week. We’d been married for over 50 years, and walked here almost every day of those 50 years. This is the first time I’ve been here since she died.”

“Oh,” I replied, “I’m so sorry. Are you ok?”

“I’m doing the best I can, considering. We had never spent much time apart, so this is all new to me. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to dump on you like this.”

“Please. I’m here. We are all in this together, my friend. You were blessed to have each other. She may not be with you physically right now, but I will bet anything that she’s with you where it matters most.”

I could see a tear spill past his dark sunglasses. I was sure it was not the only one that had followed a trail down his cheek. The dog came and sat near him, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she was following some command no one else could hear.

He looked down at her. “I still got Pearl,” he said. My heart responded silently, “And she still has you.”

“Well, I have to go,” said the old man by the lake. Maybe I’ll see you next time. Have a great day.”

“I hope so. You too. Maybe I’ll walk your direction some day. I’ve never done it.”

“Try it sometime. You may like it,” he said as he took his first step, a note of humor in his voice. Pearl took the lead, forcing him to pick up his gait a bit. The sounds of the small stones crunching under his feet heard no echo on this walk, but I doubt he noticed. I’d bet he was busy having a very intense conversation in his heart with a part of it he so desperately wanted to hear reply.

I turned and went back to the meditative way I usually walk this path when on my own. The sounds of the stone crunching under my feet have a certain rhythm to them, often giving me a vibe that has me completely in tune and in love with everything around me. It seemed, to me, that no one is truly ever gone from our lives, that the feelings inspired by both their physical and emotional presence last our entire lives. We are inspired by reminders, and our ability to remember (rejoin) with them.

The energy of the stones crunching as I walk reminds me. The way the Sun looks caressing the lake reminds me. The relationship I saw between the old man and his wife reminded me. The loss he felt reminded me. The blessing of love he shared reminded me. I may often walk this path alone, but I am not ever truly alone.

Our Destiny

May 4, 2018 / Tom

I’ve often heard what I’ve wanted to hear. In my weakness, I’ve listened to demons. In my desperation, I’ve heard only sadness. In my self-loathing, I’ve heard only lies.

Deafened by the chorus of voices singing in my head, I’ve failed to hear you. Silenced by the criticisms of those I wish to please, I’ve failed to speak my truth. I have heard them and in turn, have silenced myself.

I’d wanted so much to be the perfect boy, the perfect man, the perfect teacher, and the perfect student. I failed, always it seemed, to gain your praise consistently, and to have all of me embraced by all of you. I’d surrendered to your voice and therefore surrendered to the voices singing in your head, the voices that silenced you, the voices that had you lie to the world about who you truly are.

We have failed each other, my love. We have slung mud and thrown stones not our own (but took ownership of) and in turn, have inflicted great pain upon the very soul we wish to love. I’ve helped you build those walls around your wounded heart even as I’ve built my own, often blaming the very existence of my creation for the distance we keep. It is I who slice away at my own existence, but it is you who I seek to blame.

I wish to end this lunacy. Come kiss me, please. Let’s silence the voices that keep us from hearing one another, and tear down those walls we believe secure us from the threat of love. Let me hold you until my dying breath, and let me hear you whisper in your sleep the sounds that fill my heart with joy. Make love to me until the Moon has had her fill, and then let me beg you for more as the Sun rises to meet the challenge. Let’s not forget the voices that once kept us imprisoned behind bars of our own making. Instead, let’s use them as a guidepost to show us how far we’ve come. Let us remember that solitude as our sweat mixes in ecstasy; let us give thanks to that silence as it is filled with sounds of love.

This must be our destiny. Two souls once battered by time and happenstance stand together on the same mountain, gazing at the same Sunrise, holding true in our memory the passion shared the night before. Two souls now healed into one powerful testament to truth; lips touching and skin quivering in a hymn only the gods could have written.

This is love, that great testament to what humans potential is reached when human limitation is abandoned. I first heard it in my darkness and now feel it in the light of my own being. I first believed it when all I saw was my own end and now see it in the truth of all that is. I first knew it in your eyes and now feel it in the bond between my feet and the moving earth beneath me. Challenged though I may be, I know it’s there even when I’m silenced by a Master that has something left to teach. I have no truth save this one, which is all the truth there is.

We have risen not to be put down, but to walk together on our happy trail. We have found our footing not to be shaken yet again, but to be steadfast when the ground tries to shake us from our joy. We have survived the challenge of all that was just to meet the challenges of what will be. It’s all led to this, the moment we were promised at the moment of our conception, the thing we call our destiny.

Peace.

Come Here, to me Now

May 3, 2018 / Tom

“Come to me here, now,” I say to the ether. Bewildered, I stand alone on the precipice. Confused, I rise to meet the day as my hopes touch the horizon, and my dreams fall silent in repose. It all feels so real, even as the truth falls off me like raindrops from my flesh. Certain, I turn to walk toward a destiny of which I have no idea.

The beast in me growls at the subtle hints of darkness that try to invade my morning light. I dare those demons to rise up and challenge my soul, a snarl lighting up my smile as the shards of doubt fall away from my weathered flesh. Fuck with me at your peril, come at me to your demise. I dare you.

There are moments in which we are tested. I’ve grown tired of shields and armor, and have cast them aside to take on the wits and sinew of challenges near and far from my heart. The weight of security is burdensome to me. I’d rather face the test with truth and raw power, daring it to beat me where I stand. If I lose, I will humbly kneel to the lesson I have learned. If I win, I will stand tall with the same humility and honor the scars of battle with the wisdom they’ve provided. Either way, a student as I shall find a way to survive and live to learn another day.

There is a loneliness to such knowledge and a solitude to the truth a warrior discovers. In the silence there echoes a song of truth, and in the noise a dampening of the bullshit much of time heaps upon the mind. Soon, the lines of life blur and fade to nothingness, as life becomes the practice, and truth becomes the way. In the chest of such a warrior there beats a story of persistence. The once bent and weary seeker soon sits tall and straight in his own silence. The once weak and desperate now walk strong and determined. The practice no longer is meant to get them somewhere, for the strong have arrived already. Where they go from this place remains to be seen, but they no longer worry about the destination and choose to, instead, focus on the journey.

There is no truth where the Sun rises. The only truth is in the light that warms my face. There is no reality in the stars that guide my way. The only reality is in the footfalls I choose to get me there. What is gone is gone, and what is to be will be. All I have is this heart, this mind, and the wisdom the book of life has written within me.

Forgetful though I am, I remember. A man though I be, I am divinely powerful beyond all imagination. Separate though I seem, I am fully connected to all that is, all that was, and all that will ever be. I care not for the stories of those weakened by the need for ghosts. I care only for the steely gaze of a soft heart, and the touch of love that caresses the sweat of labor from my brow and offers a soft pat on my ass to remind me that it remains beside me. I care not for the story or the dream, but for the taste of your lips on mine and the song of pleasure that pours from your soul when it can take no more, but wants it all.

I go now, onward to whatever destiny this day shall provide to learn the lessons meant to be taught. “Come to me here, now,” I will say to the ether, awaiting a reply. I will touch the horizon and the confusion will end. I will dream so loudly as to shake the very edges of the Universe. Then, I will know that I have lived well, to the purpose that pours from within me. Then, I will speak your name and you will believe that I am.

Love.

The Ledge

May 1, 2018 / Tom

The Ledge. That single place that is the line between where we’ve been and where we can choose to go. We stand there, alone in our assumptions and solitary in our thoughts, uncertain.

We are, in our power, the definers of our moment. In our sense of who we are there is often a hint of who we were mixed with the sense of who we wish to be. Those hints distract us from the moment, as the abyss before us and the jagged rocks behind us often keep us from seeing the beauty that exists on the very ledge we stand.

Often, our hearts have been shattered, our brains have been injured, and we stumble amidst the dizzying tears that blind us from our light. We lose sight of the power born in the scars we see, and the strength shown as we rise from the tumbles we have taken. It’s not the fall, my love, that matters. It’s the way we stand, dust ourselves off, and honor the truth that there is no injury in the standing. The injury lays in the way we remain crumbled though we’ve stood, hoping for higher ground when every place we stand is a summit unto itself.

Honor yourself on the Ledge. Kneel upon that sacred ground, and give thanks for the place where your knee meets your moment. Own the strength to stand, to gaze upon the power that you are in the distant horizons you seek to touch. Recognize the power you have created in scaling the jagged stones and stumbling down the rocky pathways of the places you have been. Just don’t lose sight of where you are in the moments you gaze forward and backward. Don’t forget who you are as you gaze at the stars above your head. You are there, already, just honor what you know to be true. You can no easier stop the Sun from rising than you can stop your truth from unfolding once you tap into the nature of its existence.

The truth for me is love. Not in the cozy, smiley ways we think of love. My love is whatever it needs to be in the moment. It can be brutal, comfortable, loving, harsh, caring, distant, accepting, intolerant…sometimes even all at once. The one constant the love I feel and share offers is my truth. It is what it is unapologetically. It sustains me in times of great challenge and weakens me when a challenge is exactly what I need to experience. It picks me up when I’ve fallen, and trips me up when the path has become too cozy and life is not being lived to its fullest. It sits with me in my moment of blindness and leaves me when all I have is sight. Love gives me what I need, always. Especially when I’ve lost sight of who I am.

Suddenly, I find ourselves standing upon a Ledge. That Ledge, you know the one. We’ve all been there before.

The Lion Thus Rises

April 11, 2018 / Tom

Much of what we hear is just a shadowy echo of our mind, limiting us within the walls of our own fear and keeping us chained to the reminders of security we’ve created along the way. So secure we believe we are, with heavy chains binding us to the illusion of solid ground, that we never quite break the radius of deceit we’ve limited ourselves to. We never get to experience the fullness of this life as we have relegated ourselves to tawdry visions of life that fail the meaning of our purpose, and leave us struggling for one last breath at the end of a life hardly lived. That one last breath will not come even as the regrets pour in. Both are sure to fade in the finality of what is, what was, and what could have been.

Why limit ourselves to safety? Rather, life is lived in the rush of excitement that chances we take provide. Push the pace, ride the wave, and dispel the notion that you were meant to be limited in your repose. Stand tall knowing you are a life to be lived, a moment to be equally cherished in the glow of sunshine and the emptiness of darkness. You are, completely, in the right place at the right time regardless of how frightening your surroundings are. Embrace the moment, for there is not a balloon that expands resting on its laurels. Be brave, even in your uncertainty, knowing that you are never alone even in your darkest hours.

We all have a choice to either cower in the face of our life or growl in intense response. We are all presented with opportunities to show the Universe who we are. There has never been a lion who hasn’t first sulked in his own cowardice, but yet he rises in his own experience to live a life of majesty. Surely in his brash youth he stumbles, but in the wisdom of his experience he expands and, thus, rises. His survival depends on it, and the lion always fulfills his destiny.

We are faced with a similar choice but because we are led to believe our survival often depends on a lack of boldness, that the pain of limiting life is somehow less than the pain of jumping into the ether, we often fail to live in order to be alive. We often survive at the expense of a vigorous life where anything, and everything, is possible. We may live longer, yet we often fail to have really lived at all.

I seek life. I seek the rush of energy I feel when I take a chance. I seek the growl that involuntarily rolls from my chest in the face of challenge. I seek the scars, the wounds, the triumphs and the wisdom that comes with trying, failing, trying again, and making it happen.

Through the Snowy Clouds We Come

April 9, 2018 / Tom

An early morning Spring snow finally gives way to a warm, morning Colorado sun. The clouds part like white balls of fluff in a loving breeze, allowing for the chill to be transformed into a comfortable radiance that renews the will of life all around. The mountains, steadfastly holding their place in the West, hide their summits in the scattered remains of the snow that was and the storm that gave way to a warming of the soul.

Blessed am I to pay attention to such things. My soul searches for a vindication of the beauty I feel around me. The cold, bitter winds prepare me for the beauty of the warmth that will follow them, a warmth sure to come if I am just patient enough to weather the storm. There it is, in the cracking of the sky-borne veils that hide me from a different reality, the truth for which I’ve felt was coming. My skin warms, my eyes close as the smile of realization crests my lips, and a song written long ago rises anew within my breast.

“I love you,” I whisper silently to the ether. The winds know my target, and they carry the notes of my hymn toward waves cresting gently on an open shore. As the rays of hope flow through the clouds and leap from the open heart of our star, the snows surrender to the caresses of love and begin to flow downward from the hills, replenishing the oceans where we bathe. The mountains and the seas are connected despite the miles that separate them, each owing the other their very existence. We, in our own ebb and flow, both climb and swim according to the seasons of our lives. Once in a while, we find another traveler who not only shares in our flow but helps light the way our hearts tell us to go.

“I love you, too,” comes the reply. Sometimes I feel it in the mist of waves spraying as they crash on rocky shores. Sometimes it comes as the ground gives way under my feet as they test the essence of a foundation. Yet it always comes with her voice, somehow echoing in my chest and silencing the voices in my head. It always is her, and it always announces the arrival of something wonderful.

Behind me there is nothing I care to carry. Dead weight only slows me down. Ahead of me is nothing I care to see. Winds have a habit of changing a landscape on which I’ve yet to stand. Here, where my feet touch the soil, are the remnants of yesterday blowing in the wind mixed with the streams ahead as they quench the thirst of my desire, both only relevant in what gifts I am to see. There are freshly bloomed flowers marking their time with a sweet fragrance I can’t help but love, and razor-sharp pebbles just waiting to tear at my flesh should I stumble and take a fall. I bend to smell the flowers being careful not to harm them in my admiration, and mock the stones where they lie, reminding them while I cannot crush them beneath my feet they are, in fact, beneath my feet. They may reply at some point, but for now they simply help me enjoy the scent of life around me.

I wonder as I wander, having faith in my every footstep even as I question when the promise will arrive. I felt her there for some time, hearing her voice in the splashes of mountain waterfalls and the drips of thawing winter snows. I’ve felt her love as I wash the blood from my tired flesh, and known her love even in the stings of pain as the water invades my wounds. I’ve entered her a million times in my dreams and risen her to ecstasy even in the kiss we are sure to share. My strength resounds to hold her tight, a perseverance born to honor her in the way that she was born to be. My imperfections have been razed to show her beauty each and every day. I have been tested and tempered to be the warrior she justly deserves, in the way she has always dreamt it would be.

Like a roughly-hewn statue I stand, heart open and arms outstretched to receive her when she comes. She will finish the masterpiece that time and failure has exposed, providing a shine to the marble, a gleam to the weathered stone. I, in turn, will adorn her soul with love, and shower her heart with truth and honor that would make the Stoics proud.

That is what I was born to do. That is what I’ve lived to provide.

Lovers such as we, lovers born to stand tall together in the winds of time, know the snowy clouds and the Sun sure to break their icy grip. Hand-in-hand the truth revealed makes the gods of love envious of their passion. No work do we share, for love like this flows effortlessly through time and space to feed the oceans where we bathe. The demons that we’ve defeated to finally arrive in each other’s arms know better than to test their luck, accepting defeat rather than the sight of love left to run rampant on the mountaintops. The steely threads we weave bind not just hearts, but truths, together unbreakable regardless of the test at hand.

This is what we’ve were born to be. This is what we have lived to share.

Such stories written in the annuls of eternal truth has known no limitations. This light is not born of man or woman but of the essence of both. This sound is not issued through the reeds of egoic woodwinds but sung by the heavens through the tender strings of a lover’s harp. Such an orchestra is not created by the whims of tired minds but assembled through the strength of will only twin souls can muster. Together they forgo their fear, tamp down their doubts, and rise above the clouds to share a Sun that’s always been there, waiting for the storms to end.

~The End

TG (2018)

The Things I Don’t Understand

March 30, 2018 / Tom

There are so many things I just cannot understand.

And that is ok. It isn’t my job to understand them. They are “out there” beyond my grasp, and that is where they belong. I have no reason to own them or make them mine. All I am responsible for is right in here.

So, how does that lack of understanding of things out there change things in here? That is, for me, the importance of the experience. The significance of any experience I have is found in the energy it exposes within me, as well as the perspective I’ve chosen in seeing it.

The challenge is neither to change the things I don’t understand to suit me nor is it to actually understand them. All I need do is understand what external things do to the internal me, and either change how I see them or accept the fact that they are not for me.

In the twilight morning hours,
The beginning of the day,
The stars I used to find my path,
Slowly fade away.

In their absence a bewildered man,
Can curse the reasons why,
Or he can honor the star that's left,
That lights the daytime sky.

That’s where the beauty of wisdom lies. People, all people, have an unalienable right to be who they wish to be. For me, it’s about focus. Do I continue to focus on those nouns (people, places, things) that expose my own negative reactions, or should I focus more on those nouns that inspire positive adjectives in my soul? Beautiful. Happy. Peaceful. That answer, of course, depends on me.

In my time in the fire service, I met many firefighters. I would say, “we can hate each other and love each other at the same time.” There were many I was diametrically opposed to. Some were racists. Some were misogynists. Some were just assholes (as I am sure I was to them). We may not get along one bit in life, but when the sirens echoed and the bell rang, we loved each other. We’d go into some of the most dangerous conditions inspired by one cause; to help someone who needed us. We could find a common bond even in a vast sea of differences. This experience has taught me that commonality was possible even between completely opposing forces.

In the Yin Yang, there is commonality where they meet. There is a commonality between night and day. The stars that vanish are still there, we simply can’t see them in the illusion that is the blue sky. The Sun still exists even when absent, and shines brightly even in the harshest daytime storm. How do I know? Well, its existence can be proven by the fact that I can see the clouds, the rains, and the effects of the winds as they swirl around me.

As with everything, I have the power of choice in my own experience. That’s how we create the experience, after all. The trueness of the Universe within us allows us the opportunity to create the experience by how we choose to see the experience in both duration and effect. We are truly more than two dates on our tombstone at the end. Even if forgotten, our ripples live on eternally.

Unfortunately, many of us meander through this existence without really knowing who we are, what we truly feel. We aren’t taught to develop the connection with self (Self) necessary to truly trust our instincts, to actually understand how we feel when the myriad of reactions inundate our minds. Our reactions are often nothing more than “the surface of things” and certainly isn’t where the voice of our Self resides. Those reactions are often voices instilled in us by our parents, our caregivers, our neighbors, our friends and our society. In that installation, we often lose sight of our own voice as it gets buried in the muck others heap on us. In the end, there is no tombstone marking the burial of our truest Voice, only the wreckage and debris we leave behind in not hearing it, or trusting it.

Trust. Let go. Let God. Be happy. Fuck it.

Sound advice. It’s not my own, mind you, but it works for me. I meditate to not only hear that voice but give it an outlet to find me when it needs to. I’ve connected so strongly to it that when the opportunity to move to Colorado presented itself, I took it despite having no idea where I would work. I just knew the voice I’ve always heard when here, and the voice that shouted at me “go” when the opportunity arose. I had, I felt, no choice but to trust things would work out. So far, they have.

Equally important to me is the experience I’ve had when only hearing the voice others have given me. I’ve found misery, disaster, suffering, and a usual negative outcome in trying to please a voice not my own. This holds true if I follow both action or attitude, especially when my own Voice tries to speak to me in opposition. I’ve never done well when ignoring my own voice, although I’ve certainly found value in the attempt.

Now, it is time for me to enjoy this wonderful day, and sit in contemplation on the many things I don’t understand. I’ll be ok with not understanding them until I’m not. Then we’ll see.