Author: Tom (Page 43 of 71)

It’s a Saturday night and I am completely alone. I sit watching a movie in the vestibule of my existence, not quite wanting to enter the main room where I store my deepest thoughts and wildest imaginations. Yet the voice, that wild creator of mayhem and precious chaos, beckons me forward.

I’m fine here. I see the freedoms bestowed on me through time. Gone are the tired rants of misaligned ideas, replaced by the sanity of wonderful aloneness. I need count on no one here, I can imagine what I wish and think thoughts of unlimited potential. I can sit in stillness and wander the caverns of my mind, never quite scaling the sheer cliffs of angst and never quite setting the table to certain despair.

Yet my heart and mind push beyond the boundaries I have set upon them. I can feel the taut power of my legs as they remain ready to leap forward, yet I can also feel familiar chains wrap around the same limbs, preventing my escape. Am I ready to make the leap, or am I simply meant to honor my space without even a dream of moving beyond it?

Time will tell, or so I’ve heard. I notice I am far from unique. We all struggle for importance in the hearts of others. We find those who we wish would offer us such peace, and we prompt them into some sort of action. We are drawn to certain others like moths to a flame and we seek a solace in them that affirms our beliefs – either this world is full of liars and cheats or we can find an anchor on which to moor our sanity.

Silly man, I think. Stand your ground and fight. Don’t bleed here, in front of these voices. Pick up your sword and slay them, and lay down the weapons you use upon yourself. Do not struggle with their lies, instead stand strong and resolve your love to the truth. Your truth. And nothing but your truth.

I remember the sacred oaths of yesterday. I hold firm to the power I’ve built within the very cells that cried with me so very long ago. I can’t deny the visions and voices, and I won’t belittle the cynicism that seems to carry this baggage of mine up the mountain trail. There’s a reason I’m a lone warrior with many loves who illuminate the darkest areas of my path. There’s cause to be firm in my understanding of who I am. When I bleed, I keep those I love clean. When I cry, I keep those I admire dry. When I fight, I keep those I adore so very, very safe.

Who am I to keep pushing you away? Who am I to not believe in you? Who am I to simply look the other way when I feel your eyes looking too deeply into my soul? It’s not your diving I take issue with, it’s your lack of looking that drives me away. It’s your fear the stirs my stable cauldron. It’s your resistance that is the stone the sharpens the knife I use to cut myself.

I realize the irony of the most difficult things being so alive in their naked simpleness. I feel your hand in mine but feel your heart out there somewhere. I see into your eyes but know your mind is walking in a different forest. I absorb your embrace but know your heart is so very far away.

The long and short of this is that I am fine with the apparition. I’ve made peace with the ghosts and the voices, having battled them to a draw in the final stages of this recovery. Once they won with ease, then I returned the favor. Now, I just embrace them as part of a process that began long before I can remember, back during a time when a boy thought he was helpless and a man thought he could find power in the rage of a liar’s mind. A warrior is he who has discovered that he could love without anger, be powerful in his surrender, and in the process battle his demons into angels, and transform his losses into wonderful victories.

Tomorrow I will awaken, and I will sit on my buckwheat throne and rule the only kingdom I will ever need. I will meet those voices there, and I will command them to speak. I will find my peace in the mischievous summer stream where I bathe, and see the footprints of those who walk with me not in some wild demand of weakness, but in the strength and power of a true love’s free will. Those footprints will be cast by those who wish to be there, and who wish to share the path with a lone soul carrying bags of gold for all to share.

I like that idea. The riches I carry have little value to most. To a certain few, however, they are priceless wonders of a warrior’s treasure acquired in the sweaty dance of battle and spent wisely on the souls who have decided to stand alongside him. There are no senseless games here, just kindred souls putting one foot in front of the other in total harmony.

Until then I will find my slumber, and dream my dreams, wishing you were there. I will awaken wishing you were next to me, knowing full well that you may never be ready for such a gamble. I will recognize the beauty in a security I may never find, in a space I may never see, and in a dream I may never fully realize. Yet I will smile in the recognition that I am were I need to be with whom I need to be there with. I laugh alone, and I bid a good night to the ally I fully trust in the blackness of this night.

I left her to go about her business, and I arrived alone in certain memories. I left a moment of knowing togetherness only to now lie among the stars, a man whose only lovers are thoughts created yesterday, who today bear gifts of a hopeful tomorrow. The space I now lie is my friend, the night air that surrounds me is my moment’s comforter, and the stars above my guide to a wonderful, loving destiny.

Find me there, if you wish, or simply go your way. In either case I love you, and in either way I know myself with nothing more to gain.

Peace.

• Sometimes tears aren’t agents of pain. Sometimes those precious little drops are signs of growth, of love, and of an undeniable quest for liberation.
• If grown men don’t cry, as I was taught, then perhaps that is why grown men aren’t growing. They’re grown in stature, but small in the face of Universal truth. Love scares them, pain frightens them, and suffering is their constant companion.
• Tears sprout from the great ocean within us. The more we try to contain them, the more powerful they become. Let them flow, let them rise up and rain on us. You, the flowers of this space, need watering too.
• Ever just sit there, feeling the powerful wave of emotion, basking in the warmth of human interaction, of truly being saved not by some character of fiction but some truth of realization, and just let it go? We call that crying, and it is an art unto itself.
• I see her crying, the tears rolling down her face. Tears are like the surface of some great sea. If we stop and focus just on them, we ignore the depth that they defy. If we ignore them we can be left in treacherous waters. Instead, see them for what they are; the soul speaking through the ether in ways only it, and its mate, understand. Feel her tears, and find the truth of a gospel rarely read but often seen.
• Ever wonder why all tears taste the same? Oneness…now chew on that for a while.
• I’d rather anoint myself with my own tears than some holy water somewhere. At least there is truth in my tears.
• Few things are better than tasting her salty drops as they land on me from up above and realizing I can’t tell if they are drops of sweat or tears of pure joy.
• Raindrops may not come from cloudless skies, but rainbows aren’t born without the Sun. Tears may not come without the contrast of pain, but a smile is not born without joy.
• This too shall pass. Now, cry it out so you can make space for what’s coming.
• Some say tears are a product of sorrow, and laughter is a child of joy. I say you can’t have one without the other. So maybe, just maybe, tears and smiles are siblings born of parents who not only need each other, but exist in the world only for one another.
• I love you, so cry on my shoulder and watch the flowers bloom there.
• Sometimes the saltiness of tears is the sweetest nectar.
• Sometimes when I kiss her cheek I can taste the saltiness of tears cried long ago. I realize that they’ve faded, but are not gone…bitter testaments of times not yet healed, of moments not yet lost to now.
• We’ve sown the seeds of our discontent, so maybe our tears will help them sprout.

I’m not sure when I became so afraid of you.

When the very idea of you began to spook me. When the notion of falling started to send those waves of fear up my spine. When those vibrations of love became so foreign to me.

Maybe it was when I hit the bottom. I doubt it, I found my strength there. Nothing comforted me like those cold slabs of rock bottom on my bare feet. There’s something remarkable about the darkness there, about the certainty and the uncertainty, about the idea that I’ve fallen, but I can get up.

No, I don’t think that was it.

Maybe it was when fall. I don’t think so. The fall is where I found my wings, and even if I wasn’t sure how to use them I was focused on learning. I wanted to fly, but even the strongest wings need time to unfurl. Besides, I hadn’t met the rocks below, and those would become invaluable to me.

If it wasn’t the fall, or rocked bottom, maybe it was the jump. Maybe it was the view from up there on that ledge.

I don’t think so. I sat there, staring at the unknown, questioning the abyss. It wasn’t until I landed that the realization that I feared the fall and the landing set in, and that I had grasped at everything I could to prevent that demise. Yet the fear of falling and landing wasn’t created on the ledge, it just manifested there. I had no idea then that the jump would not be an end, but a wonderful beginning.

I realized that the fear was all created sometime before the fall, and even before the ledge. I was taught stores where the fall was a failure, where the inevitable surrender was sinful, where the death was a certain ending. I was taught to grasp at branches that stemmed from trees planted by others, and that letting go was a sign of mortality to which one could never recover.

I was taught to fear the fall before I even knew there was a ledge. I was taught that clawing at empty air had a value, and that being fixed was the most value I could bring to another’s life. I was taught I was broken…

And then I chose to accept the lessons, to become an idle participant in a life I was given to live.

I was lucky. I found great acceptance of the loss of my former existence. I found unending value in the loss of all I once held dear. The choices of my life were shown to me, and as I accept full responsibility for my life those choses began to change, and I started to make new agreements.

New agreements. A rebirth. A mighty bird risen from the ashes.

And now the truth.

I am not afraid of much anymore. I’ve been dragged to the ledge. I’d been forced to look over the precipice, and then I was pushed.

But I decided to fucking land. And I decided to dwell there for a bit.

Now, I’ve decided to fly. Fearlessly spread these fucking wings, embrace the wind, and fly.

I don’t fear you. I love you. I embrace you. I see you. Your fear does not scare me, and your past has no authority over me. Your decision to stand your ground has no bearing on me as I decide to jump, and perhaps your hearing my screams of ecstasy will propel you to not look back as you take one foot over the threshold and…

Jump.

I’ll catch you and we’ll fly together. We’ll shine brightly on the world’s horizon, and we’ll burn brightly is the fortunate stars in an eternal evening’s sky. we’ll share the value of some great cosmic event of which very few will even notice.

Or you’ll decide to remain firmly in your space. I will love you from the ether but in the ether I will be. You’ll embrace the security of frozen ground, the knowing of a past repeated in resistance, the realization that some dreams are best kept at a distance.

It’s a silly thought, this wondering. It is a frivolous worship of a future never set in stone, a prayer to human stupidity and a gospel to nothing that has ever worked before. If the bedrock taught me anything it is that there is no greater value that loving the struggle on the mountain, finding joy in being pushed off a cliff, and basking in the wonder of a free fall over which you have no control even as responsibility is being learned.

The fantasy is a lie, of course. So, I’ll just sit there and admire you from across the table. I’ll just embrace the jolt of power I get as you take my hand in yours. I lay in the sunshine of your smile and not think about another fucking thing.

How’s that for a lesson? In an instant I grasped at straw upon a hill, was pushed from a ledge, felt the wind flowing around my skin and landed upon a wonderful awareness. In less than a blink of an eye I lived, died, and was reborn. I lived in past, died in a future, and was reborn squarely in the arms of a present moment where I could feel nothing but certainty and love.

That is where I live, in spaces unafraid of the story, unfettered by what could be, inattentive to much beyond the beauty sitting across from me and the smile that seems to light up an entire section of the Universe. Fuck the rest of it, it’s just nonsense.

My life, it seems, revolves around time.

It seems to be the basis by which all things are measured. My life is measured in years, although I really don’t have anything to compare it to. If I lived to be 100, I’m not quite half-way through my journey. Yet, for all I know my journey could be coming to a close, and all I have to measure it by would be the amount of time I had and what I was able to do with it.

The trouble is, you think you have time. ~Jack Kornfield.

Yeah, that’s the trouble. I meander through this moment believing another is coming. I try to slow things down, become more present in the moment. Presence sometimes seems like an act of control, something where I intentionally get in the way of the future in order to freeze the present. It doesn’t work that way, and I often just get stuck in a cycle of obstinence and resistance, believing at some level that I’ll get it right one day. One day I be so present that no time truly exists.

Hogwash.

I actually don’t want to be that enlightened, assuming that being present is truly being enlightened at all. I want to be a spiritual rabble-rouser who is implicitly in love with his own ego and completely unafraid of being wrong. I want to feel the gift of time slip through my fingers, and I want to get stuck in the mud after being told not to play there. I want to feel the power of a good woman on top of me, and know the pain of her departure. I want to feel it all.

I want to push your boundaries, not because I want great or bad things for you, but because I learn something about myself in the process. I want to throw away the old paradigms and make one up as I go. I want to make out with her on a park bench until everyone around us loves the love we are making. I want to throw mud at the bigots of the world only so that they have to wash themselves. Maybe some of their anger will wash off too.

I want to make love in the woods because I think the trees should see some human awesomeness for a change. I want to bathe in a stream not to wash the dirt off, but to let some of water’s clean on. I want to touch you in the most loving way possible, not to lay claim to you, or to own you, but to set us both free.

What does any of this have to do with time? Got me, but it sure felt good putting those out there. Maybe by the time you are done reading this that little tingle in that little spot of yours tells you all you need to know. Maybe in time we will all understand each other. Maybe it’s time we just sit down and try.

Maybe one day I’ll put my hand on your thigh and you’ll move it upward. Maybe one day you’ll kiss me so hard you need to surface for air. Maybe, must maybe, you’ll see controlling the wave was nothing more than one colossal waste of time.

See, the problem is that even though we all think we have time, we often realize its over way too late. If you all bury me in December I’ll realize I never did get that 14er in, or I didn’t make enough love in the world, or that I just shouldn’t have waited for “next summer” to run that obstacle course race. Maybe I’ll realize that I didn’t share enough of my heart, or expose enough of my soul, or tell you enough times just how fucking much I love. Maybe when the mouth is silent the words will come. Maybe when the flesh is weak it will finally appreciate its strength.

Time. I curse the man who realized its existence (we all know it couldn’t have been a woman. She’s always late), but I value his invention if for nothing more than to help me realize that my potential will never be realized when, it must be realized now.

Did I say “now”? There’s that present moment again. Dammit. Maybe the tenses are good to reflect on the value of time. We have the past (I’ve wasted so much time), the future (I may not have time), and the present (now is for all eternity). So maybe the present moment isn’t just a moment of peace or a glimpse of eternity. Maybe it is a recognition of potential that resides in honor of possibility. Or maybe it is whatever the hell I want it to be.

I can never be sure about things. Even when I am certain, I am not sure. Even when I am firm on a path, my mind wavers at each crossroad, my feet weakened to their task.

Sometimes my mind ebbs and flows like the languid waves on a rustic beach. My heart dives into a knowing, my body gives its all in the moment, but the tides recede and everything changes. Sometimes, if I am an astute student, I can see the drift line of the last high tide etched nicely in my own space, the experience diving into a place where the ocean once met the sand.

I’ve played in the places where water once lived, now left to jagged, broken shells and remnants of things that used to be. The wavy line of sea’s high mark goes on and on, like the mark of infinity embracing the evidence of things that end. It looks dirty in the places where the ocean leaves her mark yet, if one looks closely, there is great treasure to be had there.

The gulls know it, they ransack the place, looking for a meal or treasure of some kind. The pipers play there, hoping to cross paths with an easy score of loot or, at the very least, have a place to meet and play and conjure up a scene for artists to externalize on some canvas somewhere.

I go there too. I love the juxtaposition. There is this seemingly dirty line that separates the power of the ocean from the hot sands, the space of love from the space of despair, the darkness of night from the wonderful dawn of understanding. I sure love playing in the ocean, but I value the journey across the hot sand to get to her, and the wonderful gifts the drift line can give a soul willing to stop, to look, and to listen to its gifts. Sometimes I find the most wonderful sea glass. Others I find treasures I wish to take in honor of the ocean that left them. Still others I get cut, and I bleed, and I curse the moment I decided to play in a place where trash seems to become treasure, where yesterdays’ wonders have become today’s refuse.

I’ve discovered that I’m not comfortable in either Yin or Yang. Instead, I find a home in the drift line. There is no Yin or Yang there, rather a mixture of the two. Black and white are not always paradise. There is a certain evil in their purity. A soul that has never experienced the other side of the drift line has never truly lived, and a heart that remains steadfastly firm in the pleasure of the one in order to never know the pain of the other never gets to know the beauty of the space. So I like to find shelter in the middle, where I can at any time feel the comfort of the sea or the scorching of my feet in the hot summer sands. Sometimes, if fortune shines on me in a certain way, I can feel them both at the same time.

The drift line is, mostly, the truest experience of this life for me. The constant struggle to survive in this version of our world, the unending battle to retain my wits in man’s circus of unenviable unconsciousness. To those who have said, “You think you are perfect” I’ve simply responded, “And you think you’re not. Which is the saddest idea?” Love never demands your complete attention, yet suffering demands you focus on nothing else. Peace never demands your grasp, yet fear always demands you hold on tightly. Truth never demands your worship, yet the lie always demands you bend your knee upon some altar. Your choice creates your experience, and your experience often defines the ripples you send upon the waters you so beautifully travel.

So I play in the middle, waiting for a chance at whatever experience there is to be had. I’ll find the smoothest glass and a wonderful treasure and, once in a while, I’ll cut myself and bleed upon the sand. Sometimes I’ll jump in the sea, and others I’ll burn in the sand. Yet I’ll always know a home where either is possible, and where both provide a glimpse of the other in a wonderful tide of experience.

It’s not hard to get there either. It is, as all things are in this life, a matter of choice. I just need to choose to go there. No approval need be given, no judgement need be made.