I wanted to put together some things that happened over the past month in my life. These are things that were said to me, and my responses (or the outcomes) of such things. I find the human experience so freaking remarkable I just have to share some of my own.
Author: Tom (Page 48 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/".
We all know someone who is eternally broken. Languishing in a pool of despair only she can see, we know her well, and we honor her often in our absence.
She’s focused so often on the wounds that now she gazes at them as if any sign of healing is a miracle. Perhaps she’s picked at them for so long that the scab brings wonder. Perhaps she’s grown to love them so much that she now challenges them with the same sordid acts of contrition she demands of any other lover.
You know those acts well. You’ve used them in various states of your life. The endless descriptions of every tiny fleck of dried blood falling away. The countless words used to describe the miracle of an unanswered itch, of the one-time-in-a-million when she disciplined herself not to scratch.
You know she’s not healing at all. Much like a baby in the womb pretending to breathe, she is pretending to heal. Her smile is a fake one, her joy an act she’s learned to practice throughout the years. You know she’s spinning her wheels in the mud, and although you hope with all your might for traction, you know her rubber is certainly nowhere near the road.
In your love you allow it, but in your mind you’ve stopped listening. You know that when she finally finds the bedrock lying at rock-bottom that her wheels will take hold and she will be, finally, moving. The bedrock, that wonderful place at the lowest spot of your experience, is rough for a reason. You can’t slide on the gravelly plain, and you find all the traction you need to finally begin building the rest of your life. Your feet and hands find all kinds of holds, and you will not slip because there is nowhere left to go.
Yes, rock-bottom is a wonderful place I no longer fear. I visit there often if for no other reason that the Sun looks brighter, and the air is so clear that breathing becomes effortless. It’s awesome how light you feel when you have nothing left to lose.
The Never Healed fear that place. She loves her scars, her wounds, her open places of suffering. She only knows herself as them, and they keep her from knowing the truth of who she is. Lying naked on the rock-bottom you can’t help but see yourself. Much like sky diving it’s scary until you’ve done it. Then, somehow, you love your nakedness, and the way the Sun feels on those places you once hid from view. You stop loving the white-lined proof of your painful past and begin loving the warmed flesh around them. You stop seeing the dark skies and find the stars that darkness allows you to see. You stop talking, and in that stilled silence you find the beautiful music that was always around you.
That’s why the Never Healed saddens me so. All the pretending and iteration drives me mad. Silence…I desperately need silence from you. Not because your words are so insanely maddening that I want to scream, but because silence is the sound that bears the most wonderful fruit. I have no need to hear how wonderful your dance is, I simply need to see it and, one day, dance with you.
I do love her in my own special way even if I need to distance myself from all of the kicking and splashing she’s doing to prove herself worthy of my attention. I want to tell her that thrashing about is not swimming, and that she’s never going to get to the shore that way. I want to tell her that all of the energy she is wasting fluffing her feathers would be better spent plucking them away. I want to tell her to shut the fuck up, and that the healing is not about the story. The story is about the healing, and it is one that sometimes takes forever to write. I don’t want to read an unfinished story where the cliffhanger ends in the middle of a misspelled word.
I don’t say a thing. I just sit and read and listen and curse my patient mind. Actually, I laugh at it. I once saw her as a starving person whose Universe gave a plate of food. All she could do is pick through it, looking for the bones to choke on, all the while complaining about how hungry she is.
Ah, well. We’ve all been the Never Healed at some time in our lives. We’ve all been so blind that we need to describe how wonderful the landscape is even as we run into every wall we’ve created. We are, in essence, them and they are, forever, us. We shy away from getting wet as they thrash about, and we curse our ears in the words they use not because we are healed ourselves, but because, at some depth of understanding, they remind us of who we are. We are all scarred, we are all storytellers, we are all desperately searching for something. We are, often, nothing more than the weakest parts of us hoping that, one day, we will be something more.
Once again, I’ve hit myself on the bedrock of my life. Oddly, this place doesn’t create scars, it heals them. I’ve left my clothes somewhere, up there, and I have no desire to find them. I just want to lay here, for a minute, and bask in the pleasure of this place and know, too, that there is something awesome about being Never Healed.
Laugh with me, please. Or at least stop crying. 🙂
I sat in my aura of self-content, basking in the sunshine that dove its way past my window. My warm skin gave way to the sweat born of heaven’s gaze, and I smiled broadly at the warmth received, a warmth welcome after such a harsh winter’s game.
Then she whispered.
She whispered tortured pains of a million days ago, creating words that suffered again and again in persistent swirls of melancholy. Through the battle-tested armor the tides of hidden flames burst through. Words flew like daggers through the air, disturbing the bright sunlight with their shadows, landing everywhere.
She had learned to cleverly disguise her pain, standing firm against her own judgments by sprinkling sugar it its salty sea. She could smile though the agony, create masterpieces in the refuse of a long field of dreams, and bandage her wounds which such skill that even the worst of them looked healed.
And then she’d whisper.
Gone were the joyous words of a peaceful mind, replaced by the viper’s venom as the little girl in her sought vindication. In the throes of agony created long ago by a Child who had no choice but to make them, she spoke. Her tears cradled the Little Girl as her mouth swore oaths of heated vengeance. Vengeance that she reaped upon her older self.
Her body broke down in the undercurrents of such distaste, her heart gave out in the storm she only pretended was over.
So, I smiled. I was happy to meet this tortured, angry Angel. I had always suspected her existence, but now I got to meet her in the flesh, in the shattered pieces disguised as daggers on the wall, their shadows distorting the awesome spring sunshine.
So, I smiled. I did not fear this broken Little Girl, who often disguised herself as a Woman I no need, nor desire, to fix. My smile was, to her, like a cross to a hungry vampire, causing her to dive deeper until, suddenly, she could only sink to the roots of her despair.
Then, she whispered.
She whispered words of truth, her choice made to forgive that Little Girl; the Little Soul who chose their words of hate. The Little Mind who blamed herself for those random acts of violence. The Little Heart that beat strongly against their sworn oaths of savage belittlement.
She could not forgive them. They were forgiven the moment she forgave herself. The Little Girl had taken their punches, their torture, their savage words of hate and made them hers. The Woman let them go, and then that bars around her fell, sounding like chimes lightly dancing in a summer’s breeze.
Then, she whispered.
Never in the annals of human hearts have such beautiful words been uttered. Never in the history of mortal man has a soul sung so loudly. The world around her became her playground, and as she lost the things that bound her to the places of wartime battles, peaceful fields of surf and sand were found.
And I smiled. “It’s nice to meet you, Little Girl, my what a beautiful woman you’ve become.”
She whispered in her laughter words now echoed in her song. She let go and took flight…
I’ll see you in the spring.
Nearly every day, I pick a “Buddha Card” from a deck I have on my writing table. Then, I meditate briefly on what it says. Sometimes, I write what comes out as a result, others I just smile and laugh at myself. Over the last couple of days, I’ve decided to write what I think. I apologize for the lunacy. 🙂
Ok, maybe I don’t. LOL.
Today’s card was “Rules…”. Go figure.
Who is this Master Born to write the book Of my life? Who, born of such wisdom and pure delight Walked the sand before me Leaving their footprints in the places I will walk? Do not carry me of my accord. I can walk, and I can crawl, Or I can be left to feed the creatures of the sea Forever... Mocking me. Do not boast of your resurrection. Just let it speak for itself, And let me die a million deaths. If just to know the truth but once To write my book mySelf. Do not mind me As I play in the grasslands you were taught to loathe. Do not throw your careless stones Or bask in the glory of someone else's joy While you bathe in misery. Do not know me Without first knowing yourSelf. Do not try to mimic my dance Without first hearing the sound of your own song. Stop blaming me for the smile that crests your lips. I bow to know one Yet bow to everyone. I've been tossed aside only to find myself in such glorious company And I know...you So very, very well. I've felt you space between my toes And felt your tears flow from my own eyes. I've hated me too, and loved you just the same. I've burnt myself with the same embers You now use to warm your lonely heart. The reason you can see the scars on my hands Is because I've let go of the hot stones that burned them. The reason you can criticize my wounds, Is because I am naked to your inspection. Do not judge yourself so harshly I understand your pain. You know what you are thinking now? Fahgettaboudit I'll pay it no mind anyway. Although I could always wear your judgment As a banner across my empty pockets. Perhaps... Or perhaps I just will laugh... Smile... Take you in my arms and make you feel the light. Hold you down until the crimson flowers bloom. Until the prayers begin And the body begins to fail, and the sweat pours out in ecstasy. You will find life there Believe me... Or don't, sadness creeps in for those who have never came There... Or anywhere for that matter. Enough rambling. I think I've bent the rules enough. Who am I kidding... I'll be gay just to enter the business of those who hate me. I'll be a color not to their liking. I'll be a man not a man at all, or a douchebag of various degrees. Whatever I need to do to be just like... Me. Do not worry, my fearful friends The shift is coming. Away from the book you were taught to love, Towards a book that has no words. Away from the parchment of a godless heathen Stuck in a cave trying to create his Own. Making mountains out of dust. Gray skies out of blue. Man, a sinner before he was even born. Take the rules that made the sane crazy, That made the loving man afraid of his own shadow, And burn them... Just don't hold on to the hot embers We've already seen what damage they can do.
My Obituary
Thomas P. “Gyandeva” Grasso, whatever age, citizen of the world, passed away at his home, wherever that home may have been. He was surrounded by his loved ones, including several of those he had never met, while he was doing something he loved, and likely thinking about what the end was going to mean (since the end can never come). He was likely debating the pros and cons of death, and found himself to be, as always, right.
Tom was a world traveler, even though he rarely left the United States. He loved everyone, although everyone didn’t always return the favor. He tried, as he might, to ease the suffering of others whether through fire department work, EMS work, or simply reminding them how stupid they were being listening to the voices others had implanted into their heads. He once amassed some measure of wealth, and considered himself blessed when he lost it all. He considered his greatest failures successes of enormous magnitude, and found that his life began the moment he discovered he had nothing left to lose.
In lieu of flowers, Gyandeva requests that you take yourself (and no one else) out for a good healthy meal, followed by a pleasurable round of self-gratification (in whatever way you find your SELF gratified). If you have a partner, please exhibit public displays of affection in a way to make conservatives cringe, and then beat up a homeless person to make them happy again. Donations can be made to the charity of your choice, although most charities will take your money and do very little in return with it. Rather, perhaps putting your money in the burlap bag Tom wants to be buried in will do much more.
Funeral will be held in the woods somewhere, where he will be given back to the Nature that gave him life. He looks forward to becoming worm food and fertilizer. He also hopes that he travels far and wide in the intestines of some wolf somewhere, and then is neatly deposited in a nice little pile along some polluted stream. Please try to avoid stepping on Tom in this case, but if you do, please try to be respectful in your cursing and polite in scraping him off.
By the way, Tom wants to inform you that there is no light at the end of the tunnel, because there is no tunnel. Please stop focusing on the dark specs you see on the blanket of light, that’s probably wolf shit better left undisturbed. After all, wolves don’t like when you mess with their shit.
Peace out.
I am Born (A Poem)
In the sullied storied yesterday It began Lost to the ages in a whimsical verse Gone to the ether in a mystical prose Like that, the flicker dies And like that, I am born. Somewhere bits of me resound Yet, for now, I remain lost Lost in the melancholy of stories not forgotten In the foggy pieces of hell I've grasped, I've held on to Despite the burning flesh of my embrace. Somewhere in the distant shadows I can hear the singers sing And feel all manners of their hallowed dance Their footfalls in the sand Their faces lit by the orange gaze of burning wood I long to know their joyful sound. Yet, there...somewhere...everywhere We are lost to the Wind Bound by faith not our own Held firm my mystics we have never known Scratching at the Earth... Begging to be free. What, dear Shaman friend Do I do with such a freedom? When the shackles fall and the song is all my own? Who teaches me to build that Fire? To dance that Dance? And the Wind guides me beyond the grasp of man? Who, dear Warrior within Do I love in such a free-born flight? When the light shines in I love the darkness, When the darkness comes I crave the light, Never to seek Never to know myself again. I laugh an insane-man's laugh As another layer falls, another universe is born. You cannot exist in the spaces I now go. You cannot fall when your wings are thus unfurled. You cannot lose when there is nothing left to win. Now, go, be free, and never speak of this again. Let go, She said, this peace is yours to know. Hold on, He said, and die forever in this mist. Dance around the fire of your own design, Choreographed by the Master that you are. Do not look to them for answers, You were born with all you'll ever need to know. At the shoreline I stood, A prayer uttered by my footprints in the sand, Answered by the lapping waves, Singing praise to their depths, Calling me in, as I gulped down air To breathe where no breath could be taken. Birthed by the ocean where I feel so at home... Warmed by the fire around which I dance... Cooled by the subtle breeze of yesterday... Embraced by this joyful dance of life... I walk out, slowly sinking into all that is... Releasing to the waves all that ever was... And there... I. Am. Born.
I think I heard in the analog Something of your voice Reminding me of some simple folly Some simple vice, some simple thing you needed me to change. To make this white rose red, Is to see it seething in the throes of your despondency, I simply walk away, Before I see you as less than I saw you yesterday. In my absence, what do you see? When you have no one else to blame for your imperfections? When you have no one else to throw those stones at, That you have gathered in your yard? Tell me, or don't, it doesn't really matter, Who are you when you not the fixer of the broken man? Just another aimless drifter I suppose, Just another soul lost under the bridge down by the bay. Who are you, do you even wonder, When you count your friends by their ideas When you hold that candle to your own weathered veil? Does it, too, burn with the madness you are so pained to see? I can't remember when last we spoke, When the Sun shone so brightly up above To cast our forms upon the icy ground, My shadow next to yours. Yet, I hear your voice, still... Reminding me of who you thought I'd be Of who you thought I was, Of who you thought I AM... Your mistaken identity of me. If we judge the bird newly emerged from the egg, We shall never see it fly... If we hold too tightly to the nest on which we're born We will never know the truth beyond this tree. If the Universe never moved beyond that single speck, You'd and me, we'd be just ideas in the darkness, If we never took that step beyond the cave, We would have never seen the waves break upon the summer sands. So, count as honored the very first of us, Who walked beyond the length of chain, Others had wrapped around his neck, And chained to the walls of their own making. Count as blessed the very first of us, Who squinted at the Sun, Who stepped out beyond the darkened walls around him, Or her, as I think the case may be. Stand firm in your hallowed prison walls, And see nothing of the stars. Embrace the bars you've grown to love And feel nothing of the true wind caress your skin. Try not to hate the free One who cries at your plight, Or beckons you to fly... For he loves you... or she does, as I think the case may be. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, For then shall be filled, Surely no prison is right for the free man So what shall be his fill? Nothing, I suppose... It's all just a dream, a screen-less movie played upon the open air, A lost cause in the realization That there is no such thing as an empty glass. And that bread alone cannot satisfy your hunger There must be something more... Than the manna from a book, Or the thoughts from a man who's never known the Earth to move around the Sun. Oh...sigh... There I go again. Sadly mistaking the sand for the concrete you say it is, I'll watch the house you've built fall, While you say that was always the reason you built it. Goodbye, I must leave, The ideas mounting will surely bring us back to... I think I heard in the analog Something of your voice Reminding me of some simple folly Some simple vice, some simple thing you needed me to change. To make this white rose red, is to see it seething in the throes of your despondency, I simply walk away, Before I see you as less that I saw you yesterday.
Who taught you
That the essence of love
Was found in faking a smile, and feigning a laugh?
Pretending that lemon's sweetness had touched your lips?
Who taught you
That kindness was in lying to your fellow man,
Of pretending to be happy
When you are sad,
Or at peace
When bathing in turmoil,
Or joyful
While you are fighting back the tears?
Who taught you
That God was someone you could talk to?
That angels and demons care of what fruit you choose to eat,
Or what leaf you hide yourself behind,
Or what altar you'd bend your knee before?
Who taught you
That heaven was some place you went?
That you had to die, not live, to get there,
That you needed to sing the praises of some other man's fantasy
As a price of admission?
Who taught you this?
And why did you choose to listen?
Who taught you that you were not good enough?
That the beauty within you was not beautiful to see,
That the fire within you was not enough to light your way,
That the song you danced to was not a song at all?
Who taught you that your smile was not as powerful as the Sunrise?
That your touch was not uplifting,
That your whispers could not send the chills
I now feel running up my spine?
Who taught you that your pleasure was a sin?
That your screams of ecstasy are best kept hidden in the shadows,
That your open displays of love are things best kept secret,
That you are not the one to be free?
Who are these bastards, and how can I meet them?
I want to show them what I see...
The beauty, the strength,
The Heaven that is you.
I want to know the ones who taught you
Not to believe in what you knew,
To silence the voice within that shouted out your name
Even before you knew a single word.
I want to see those who have such a power over you,
Who can make a river flow uphill.
For they are truly gods among us.
Must we forsake ourselves to be
More
Like
Them?
And you've chosen their hymn,
Without even realizing it.
You've ceded your power,
With barely a whimper in the cause.
Why do you choose to learn the book
That has never worked for them?
Surely the purpose of such a faith
Is to not need the faith at all...
"Surely the purpose of such a faith
Is to not need the faith at all..."
Let that settle for a moment.
And a moment more.
Surely the purpose of your crutch
Is to help your wounded limb heal.
Not to hold onto
Once you are mended.
Or not, it seems,
We're stuck in some unholy matrimony
Where ideas struck by other men
Mean more than the footprints we can press ourselves into wetted sands.
Who taught you that you're a sinner?
Some heathen prank of a lowly god
Who needs you to bend your knee at some ornate altar
He was surely born upon?
Who taught you that you weren't enough
That something out there would make you more,
Would give you more
Would hold a torch while your cried loudly in the darkness?
Who handed you that crutch on which you lean?
The very tool that keeps you from walking on your own?
And why?
That's where the weakness begins.
I say goodbye to their thoughts
And hello to my own experiences
May I never need your crutch again.
May my healed wings now take to flight.
I've never seen a thing in nature
Bow before a cross
Or kneel before an altar
Or seek refuge in a church.
I've never seen a fowl or fish or beast
Read a book to teach them what they know
Or need the words of others
To be
A fowl
or fish
or beast.
I've never seen a tree
Change itself to lumber
And I've never seen a flower
Seek to bloom to your perfection.
So, who taught you that you weren't as perfect as a rose?
That you were wrong the moment you were born?
What evil lurked within the mind
Of those who judged you even before you knew your name?
I guess if you thought you were good enough,
Or happy enough,
Or could fulfill your wildest dreams,
You would not need their silly book,
Or silly building,
Or silly notion of what is right for you.
If you could be free,
That would mean they could be free too,
And freedom scares those who cannot own their place in hell
Or heaven, or in the spaces they find between.
The spaces they create
In order to blame an Other, or give thanks to an Other
That same creation
Taken from another man's design.
Breath...
Deep breath...
Release...
Hated is the one who has been freed.
Feared is the one who slips the rusted shackles of collective thought.
He spreads his arms to feel the pinch of steel and wood,
In order to truly free.
Through the peephole I saw you. You were dancing, wildly, joyfully, with a purpose that seemed to have no purpose at all. I could see your body move beneath the thin fabric of your dress, and I could hear you pant loudly at the effortless exertion of your dance. You were in bliss, and although I swore I could hear your heart beating loudly in the distance, I stayed back, allowing you your moment where you thought no one was looking
Through the peephole I saw you. You were laughing loudly at the ether, sharing moments with the Sun as you twirled to Heaven’s sound. Your lips glistened with the anticipation of each coming note as your hardened nipples gave testament to the pleasure of all that just had passed. I could feel my excitement build as each part of you that sang touched each part of me that heard your song.
Through the peephole I saw you. You were moving lightly as even gravity seemed to not have a hold on you. There was no effort in your motion, and it was like nothing existed outside that room you had found, where you could be hidden and yourself without the telling glances of the world around you.
My tears came spilling through the peephole. I fell in love with you that instant, knowing you as you were before the roles you play for me were born, before our universe became filled with the power of our minds. I wanted to dance with you, but then you’d see me too, and nothing would be the same.
I both hated and loved the door through which I gazed. It kept me from this you I saw, and I hated it for that. Yet, it gave you security to dance to the great unheard song, to laugh to jokes not yet told, to fly among the clouds that saw fit to meet you there. For that, I loved that door, and I gave thanks for the little spec of light that brought me there through my darkness. Through the peephole the light will shine, and through the peephole we would shine if only we’d stop looking at the door.
It’s through the peepholes of our lives that we find life, and through the doors that we find death, and in the walls around us the holes by which we can make our escape. It is when I see you that I see me, and when you fly it is then I realize I, too, can be free.
May the Sun rise with a kiss
And set with the same
For such power exists
To set the wick to a flame.
So may heavens set sail
To find such a land
Where Angels and Demons
Can meet on demand.
There a breeze comes alive
Gives a song to the mast
This ship cuts through surf
That gives life to the past.
From the depths down below
To the stars up above
We don’t set sail out of fear
We set sail out of Love.