Author: Tom (Page 6 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/".

One Pane of Glass

November 26, 2019 / Tom

Outside, a blizzard rages. Inside, I am comfortable, nestled nicely on a sofa beside her warm body, watching the driven flakes of snow head to meet others that have fallen before them. There is but one pane of glass that separates me from the wilds out there. Just one pane of glass between the me found in this comfortable place and the me begging to be in the place that calls me.

The slow drum and dribbles of the washing machine fills this space, a rhythmic, modern tune hummed inside while the wild, ancient song of winter whips outside. Still, in this comfort and safety my mind wonders out there, to the place where deep snow has buried the earth, where the winter winds blow hard in autumn, where the parts of me that existed well before my flesh was formed once played. I can feel the discomfort of the cold air on my skin. I can feel the challenge of moving in deep snow. I can feel the desire for survival well up inside me. It is a fire I’ve known well, built in the moments of darkness where no light was assured, kindled in those times when I was frozen to the bone.

The wild part of me wants to be challenged. The hunter in me wants to stalk his prey. The hunted in me wants to dare the hunter out from behind his tree. The beast in me wants to prove I can survive. The coward in me wants to push the beast out of his cave. Nothing brings me to life like answering the call of the wild, and nothing says home to me like the wilds themselves.

I once believed I had surrendered to fear. That was a lie told by fear itself. I had but given myself pause to regroup so that I could move forward a little bit more. Sometimes victories are not measured in miles but in inches, and sometimes victory looks like defeat. Defeat cannot, however, stain the soul that moves past the fear within him. Defeat cannot pierce the heart of the warrior who stands firm against the onslaught of the demonic hoards born inside his mind.

I fear heights, so I’ve climbed tall ladders to protect my brothers facing fire below. I’ve feared death, so life brought me to its doorstep to show me a truth. I feared sharing myself with others, so I tore off my veils and became a naked warrior ready to just be me. More fear comes, and I challenge it, often discovering what I will do and won’t do now has little to do with fear, but more with desire. While I fear skydiving, I answer less to that fear and more to the fact that I simply have little desire to jump out of an airplane.

If that desire grows, I will jump with a wild yell. That truth I learned, the one I mentioned before, was that a fear of death is a fear of life. I choose life, living as fully as I can in any moment even in those times when victory looks exactly like defeat. I will not let panes of glass get in my way, instead honoring the oath sworn on my lifebed. I will splinter any walls that get in my way, and step over the shards of windows shattered in answering the calls within.

I wonder if there are others, those intrepid souls who hear the calls of life lived before this one, and answer with all the might their hearts can muster. I wonder if there are souls out there now trudging through the deepest snow just for the challenge of it. I wonder if there are warriors out there who hear the call of hunter and prey, beast and coward, sinner and saint simultaneously and who, like me, feel at home in the forests that echo those calls. I wonder if we speak one voice, hear one song, and peer at hope through the same, lonely pane of glass.

Life is what we are given as a promise of our birth. Love helps us overcome the obstacles to life we are blessed to have fallen across our path. Truth is what binds life and love to a single, simple calling. Find life, discover love. Discover love, know truth. Love life in truth and never die again. Even as your final breath is drawn, it is the one who has discovered life who can never truly die.

You

November 13, 2019 / Tom

I see you.

I see that wonderful mix of courage and fear, and I marvel at your intricacies. I see the way you rise to the challenge of your own mind, and how you answer the call that is born deep within. I see the way you care, the way your heart spills out over the canvas of your life. I love how you leave you brushstrokes all over the place, and how I can touch the lines you’ve left on my soul. I see you, my artist, my muse, my living love.

I wonder about you.

I wonder about the Divine magic that made you, and the wonderful truth you’ve been born to be. I wonder what good I must have done to have you cross over into my life, and though I never can quite tell what it was I know I’d do it all over again just for the chance to kiss you. I think about the tears I’ve shed in utter darkness, and wonder which one watered the flower whose fragrance now fills my soul. I wonder about you, my love, and how you were born within me before I even knew I was alive.

I know you.

I know the bumps on my skin raised in the thought of you; Braille from my soul the Angels wrote with hope when sky burned with fire. I know the truth of your name whispered in the very beat of my heart, a promise of life eternal beyond the mortality of one man’s mind. I know you from lives past, those vestiges of things left behind but never quite forgotten. I know you as surely as I breathe, and I know you as a certainty gifted to a man not quite deserving of the honor.

I love you.

I love you along the clear creeks I see in solitude, and in the deep snow I fight alone to touch the depths of Nature’s breast. I love you in the songs that birth tears in my eyes, and I love you in the smiles that come in those things that only you can do. I love you in our sweet embrace that pulls us past our moments of hellish uncertainty, and in the shudders of unholy fear that come in its wake. I love you in the throes of ecstasy that beg me to love you more and in the truth that this man was made for you, and you were made for me.

It’s you I see who has showed me the way to the sweetest summit. It’s you that’s given me the pause to wonder, to find the Sun in the darkest skies and love beyond my eyes held shut. It’s you I know who’s pulled me from the whirlpool of my mind into the center of my heart. It’s you I love. You are the destination of my soul.

52 Years (A Warrior’s Lament)

November 8, 2019 / Tom

I met a man recently. He was a strong-looking older man, a Vietnam Veteran, a warrior, a man who’s had his own sense of loss and of struggle yet somehow survived. He had cancer twice, an illness he says was due to Agent Orange exposure during the war. He lost friends in battle, a lost even more in the years since. Yet I could sense in his struggle he had something that got him through it, something that prompted a man who had been beaten to rise, who had been nearly defeated to turn his chest to the demons and beat them into submission.

It didn’t take long before I found out what that something was.

“My wife died last month. After 52 years of marriage she’s gone.,” he said with a tear in his eye. I could feel the pain ripple across the room. I could see his agony restrained in tired eyes. I could hear his prayer for just one more kiss, for one more word from her whispered in his ear, for just one more minute with the woman he loved.

Nothing, it seems, can make a strong warrior crumble like the loss of half his heart. He seemed completely unwilling to surrender to age or to an enemy. But I could sense this old and wise man was completely ready to surrender to the loss of his great love. I could sense that no battle he’s ever waged was as fierce as the one he was in now. It seemed he knew that he had no part in this outcome, and that a broken heart could do what no bullet, no struggle, could.

He had married her before he was sent into combat, something not unique to the time. He loved her right away, and when faced with the likelihood of his death they decided to commit to the love they felt. If he died in combat he would die her husband, and she his wife.

He survived the war and the effects it had on his mind and his health. In their life she had often said that she had been married to two men, once to the man she knew before the war, and again to the same man after the war. He shared that she had been the reason he fought hard to survive many battles, but fought even harder to survive the long one that came when he got home. She had been there, always, his partner and his love, and he honored her as his wife each day of their life together. It was an honor that gave him life, even after he was certain his life would be over.

“She was quite a babe,” he said. “The guys in my platoon were always asking me about her. I think they loved her too. Here, look.”

He pulled out his wallet and showed me a picture of a stunning woman. The picture was black and white, but looked brand new, and I couldn’t help but understand his admiration for her. She looked like a pin-up model, even if the picture was 52 years old.

“She took this so I could take it to Nam with me. I carried it with me every minute of every day, and I have ever since. It has never left me, and I’ll be buried with it.”

“She is beautiful,” I replied. “Let’s be honest though, you had to be quite the catch to have her marry you.”

“I wasn’t bad, but I was better with her. That’s the thing about us men. We know we are good on our own, but we also know we are great with the right woman by our side. Even if she’s not there, she’s there. You know?”

I agreed with him, thinking of my partner who was over a thousand miles away doing her thing. I thought about how much I missed her and wished she was near. I hate distance, and I hate weeks of separation, but I realize that there is a good reason for the displeasure I feel in the separation.

I offered him my condolences, and though the words were heartfelt they seemed hollow in the space between us. He accepted with the graciousness of a man who was searching for any comfort he could find, even if it came from a stranger. The weeks since her passing may have helped him restrain the streams of his tears, but they seemed to do little to lessen the lake of emotion that gave them breath. I shook his hand and he thanked me while I issued a prayer that this would not be the last time I got to see this man.

“Namaskar,” I whispered to the ether. A part of me recognized this man and I believe a part of him recognized me. Though strangers until this moment, we were brought together to share a bit of wisdom, he to show me something and me to offer my gratitude in return. Perhaps I offered him some comfort but I know he offered me some perspective. In this brief interlude I remembered my grandfather and grandmother as well as the love I have inside me.

What a gift, and one I’m happy to share.

Love is not a fixer

November 6, 2019 / Tom

One of the hardest things you will ever have to do is tell someone you love that you have no desire to fix them. Whether it is to someone you are romantic with, or friends with, or a parent/sibling/child of, the moment you cease all responsibility for their behavior it becomes the moment you risk losing them forever.

Or at least for the time being.

People want to share their pain, their suffering, their anxiety, and their fear. More often than not, they seek out fixers, those who will take ownership of their mess and step into piles of shit with them. People also want to “fix” other people, often sacrificing their own happiness and joy in the process. We are often so conditioned that love is only real if it includes an abundant willingness to suffer, and we want to so desperately prove how much we love in our relationships that we will forget the truest source of all love — the love we have for ourselves.

During one of the most painful times in my life I was told I was a project, that I needed fixing. I realized in the moments that followed that the pain I felt was derived not only from the constant need to please others, but in the feeling that I would never succeed in that effort. That fixer became like a sponge that I felt the need to constantly fill. In that need I would create situations and instances where I was broken. After all, if I was broken wouldn’t the fixer show love in the repair? If I was Humpty Dumpty, wouldn’t she then ride up on her horse to put me back together again? If I wasn’t in need of fixing, who would I be to her?

And that “her” can be a mother, a father, a friend, a lover. It can be anyone we seek approval from when we have not learned to find that approval within ourselves.

Nothing speaks to self-loathing like constantly breaking yourself to please a fixer. Nothing paints a picture of despair when one day that fixer leaves, and not only were you helplessly broken, but you were also not good enough to be fixed. The hammer you used to break yourself suddenly becomes too heavy to hold, and the fractures you habitually created in your heart bleed real blood. You were broken, just not in the way everyone thought. You were in need of repair, but not by any person other than the one looking at you in the mirror.

That first “goddamned motherfucking shit” you utter is the first moment of real healing. That first string of profanity you growl as you try to stand again is your first moment of awakening. It’s not the thunderclap you hear from beside your Bodhi tree that shakes you out of your sleep; it’s the sound of your reconciliation as it pours from your heart The tears run down your face in a flash flood of reality, and they cleanse you of your inequity and purge you of all sense of sin.

Then, finally, you can breath with little strain. You realize that the truest sense of love comes not in fixing someone, but in not taking ownership of their repair. Your truest love emanates from your sense of self, and you have no desire to fix others or have them fix you. You can walk, run, or sit based on needs the meet your purpose and, in turn, help those around you meet theirs in your way, in your time.

When you stop being the fixer you can truly love someone with all of you, and not just the part of you carrying the toolbox. When you no longer see yourself in need of repair, you can then love yourself and others beyond that cracked area of you that once needed to be filled. When the bandages are no longer the only part that can be seen, the healthy parts of you will flourish and unite with the healthy parts of others. You will not see others in how broken they are, but in how powerful they are. You will stand on your own next to others standing on their own, and you can then walk together freely in liberation and in healthy love.

Love is not the fixer, or the broken, or the wounded. Love is the selfless act that makes nothing broken, or wounded, or in need of repair. Love is the soul that rises from the ashes and the spirit that growls in the moonless night. Love is not the hand but the sword it carries. Love is not the rope but the blade that shreds it. When all seems lost you can count on love not to heal anything, but to stand by the one healing. When the twilight comes and the Sun takes forever to rise, love is not the one pushing the Sun above the horizon but rather the one shivering next to you in the cold. Love is not the one sewing your wounds closed, but the one holding your hand as the needle pierces your flesh. Love is not the healer. Love is the one who stands by you while you heal yourself.

So when the one who loves you dearly says to you, “I cannot help you,” he is in pain right next to you. He is writhing and wincing in the agony he shares by your side. Yet, his love for you has him remain idle for he knows in his heart that real love is found in the allowing space for the strength you are realizing, the truth you are discovering and the power you are finding not in him, but in your own self. What greater love is there to offer than such a truth?

The Fragility of My Mortality

November 4, 2019 / Tom

It was bedtime and, as often the case, I went in to sit with my 13-year old son to end the day. Being a parent can be hard and sometimes the lessons we need to teach our children can be tough, but at the end of the day I like to reinforce to my kids the truth that I love them and that I am their Dad. That means that I am not just a teacher, but a role model and a man who will always do the best I can. For me, being a Dad isn’t just about teaching hard life lessons and preaching a certain kind of virtue. It is also about being vulnerable and exhibiting strength in that vulnerability.

After our talk, I ended with a “Good night, my son. I love you. You are my favorite boy in the entire Universe.” That had been my agreement with my son since he was born, and I’ve stated it so many times I could not hope to count the recitations. Despite our familiarity with that mantra, it never seems old to me. Each time I say it brings a certain amount of truth, newness and commitment into the space we share. I know soon, if he still allows me, the word boy will change to “man”. The one thing that won’t change is that he is my favorite man ever born.

The conversation used to go like this:

“I love you, bud. You are my favorite boy in the entire Universe.”

“And you are my favorite Daddy in the entire Universe.”

“I’m your only Daddy.”

“And I’m your only son.”

He has an advantage over his sisters. My middle child is currently my favorite 15-year old in the Universe, and my oldest is currently my favorite 25-year old. My son is simply my favorite boy, young man, male, whatever. He need share that favoritism with no other in his gender. He is the only one of his kind, the “man” of the house when I’m not around although his sisters have no need for a “man” of the house. They’re quite easily the strongest, most able and most independent people I know.

“Dad, give me a big hug.”

I certainly don’t say “no” to those opportunities. I assume, with some wisdom gained through the experiences I’ve had with his sisters, that those hug requests will diminish in time. This was the first year I wasn’t invited to walk with him on Halloween, that privilege being extended to his friends alone. My middle daughter didn’t even dress up this year, deciding to attend a high school haunted house with her friends instead. My oldest gave up doing those things that remind parents that they have children. Now, I have adults, and with them nothing but memories of smiles coming through princess makeup and GI Joe camouflage. I can still see each of my kids in my memory, their bags and plastic pumpkins in hand, running in dresses and scary costumes, enjoying that holiday as only kids can.

I used to be Daddy. Now, I am Dad. I used carry them on my shoulders, now I can barely lift them. They used to rely on me for so much, now I am barely tolerated (even when they rely on me). So I will never say “no” to a hug request, and I will put all my energy into that hug while it lasts.

Last night’s hug filled me with great joy, but also with great sadness. I could feel the fragility of my mortality looking over my shoulder. I could feel the moments fading. I could sense my end, although with that sense came an intense focus on the moment I was in with my favorite boy in the entire Universe.

I realized in that split second that I would not be around to see much of my son’s triumphs, or be there to help him in his tribulations. I would not be there to hug him when he needed one, or talk him through a question that entered his mind. I would not see so much of this young man’s life. I could feel a tear being born in my soul, but he would not see it. For now he would just be hugging his Dad, oblivious to the fragility of mortality that plagues us all. I could give him the gift of presence, knowing full well that one day he would fully understand the burden that mortality brings all of us who love someone deeply. The way I love my son, and my daughters, who will one day need me only to find I am gone.

That is where my “fuck” comes from. That fuck I give in this life, that fuck that says I want to be there for them, see their lives unfold, experience their joys and help shoulder their sadness. Mostly though, I know the sadness they will feel in my passing and I want to spare them from that burden. I know, however, that is a wish that will never be granted.

I woke up this morning understanding what this experience means. It means that I can’t be wasting time on the mundane, the meaningless drivel that often permeates our lives. Instead, I need to focus on the remarkable, and sharing that remarkable with those I share a love with. I need to leave a legacy of love, of words, of lessons and of memories because one day those things are all that will be left of me. I have spent a lot of my life focused on nonsense and I’ve wasted my energy on plenty of endeavors that have little meaning to those parts of me I will leave behind. I cannot build my memorial on fiction, I must build it in truth.

Perhaps that is what being a parent teaches us. Perhaps it need not be so much about “raising” our children but more about leaving them a legacy. Not a legacy of wealth and comfort, but a legacy that they can lean on when times get tough. Perhaps our role is not just to warm them, but teach them how to warm themselves and not leaving them to wander on their own, but to share with them a compass of morality, of character, and of love. That way, when they call for me and I can’t come they can still hear my voice, feel my hug, and know that I have never, ever, left them.

And I will always be their Dad.

The Winter is only a beginning.

October 30, 2019 / Tom

Moments Before (A Mature, Tantric Journey)

October 29, 2019 / Tom

As the Sun rose, a familiar calm nestled in my body. Beads of sweat tumbled from my skin, soaking our altar where the heights of passion had just pulled us out of our question and flung us into our answer. You, me, heaven all exist in this space, in this now, in this life. We need be nowhere else.

Moments before I had looked up at you, watching you bite your lower lip in time with the rhythm of your hips. I could see your body highlighted in the moonlight and the little rivers of glistening joy running between your breasts. My hands on your hips, I pulled you closer until we had squeezed ever bit of space out from between us. Your gasp, your moan, your letting go, your quiver. My heaven.

Moments before you had taken me in. All of me. I had filled you, and you surrounded me, the flesh speaking tongues of spirit, the heart crying tears of joy. My lips devoured you, my arms held you, my fingers caressed you as the once glowing embers of desire flashed into a roaring eruption. Second, minutes, hours had passed yet no timepiece ruled the night. Our souls passed from the humanness of our being and into the Lightness of our truth, a truth found in the rhythm of our movement. Movement that matched the tempo of our hearts, and the pulsing of our souls.

Moments before you had held my head in your hands and kissed me with a fire that burned beyond our human perception. Our mouths united, our tongues played and our hands touched those secret places only love can find. In a single, united breath we discarded the veils that hide our treasures, allowing our fear to fall forever to the floor. We left ourselves open, our hearts exposed and our minds open to the infinite. Such bliss. Such warmth. Such love.

Moments before we had stood facing an evening sun creeping slowly behind the western mountains. In the pinkish hue of this promise your head rested lightly on my shoulder, your hand tangled softly with my own. In the silence of this moment I could hear your heart beating in the slight Spring breeze, a breeze that carried your fragrance amid a touch that united our souls. In the swirl of soulful magic I saw you in the fading light and was reminded I am but a man beside a beautiful woman. I noticed how your eyes sparkled in the sunlight, how your soft lips glistened in the twilight, how your breasts always seemed to tease me and how your body had awakened me from certain slumber. Whatever life my bring, whatever it has brought, I am here with you now. Then, a silent prayer.

For the moments before I had always wondered. In the moments since I had always known. In the moments to come I will be ready. There will be more.

The Captain

October 25, 2019 / Tom

I see you, old man.

Some may call the light in your eyes crazy, but I see the pure, unshackled joy in them. I see each ray of your light as a synopsis of an untold and unedited story, a magical journey most would not understand because you have written it all by yourself. I see the love pouring out of you while you draw your art, ready to share it with a world that does not understand you. You put your purest thoughts in colorful shapes on a poster board, hoping to share a bit of your light with others and that they return the favor with a few quarters lying without purpose in their cup holder.

I see the way you smile, the way your light shines through the spaces where teeth once lived. Your weathered and aged skin bears the lines of a billion smiles and signs of a billion tears, and your lips curve naturally upward as though you sleep with a perpetual smile. When you smile I notice one eye closes just a bit, like an old sea captain mastering an aging schooner. I see you looking at each approaching car as though they were stars in the nighttime sky being used to plot a course to lands still unknown. I see you weaving a tale in your mind, each footfall a word spoken to those deafened by their own imprisonment. I see a bit of you in a lot of me, and I don’t even know your name.

Yet through what I can see, I can also feel. I can feel the heartbreak, the loss, the misery and the chaos. I can see your joy but I can feel your sorrow. I can see you arguing with invisible antagonists and hear your voice holding firm against their tide. I feel them teasing you, poking at your wounds, reminding you of why you ran away to take your place among the anonymous. I can feel them breaking your heart over and over again, and I can feel you wanting them to leave you alone even as you grasp tightly hoping to never let them go. You are not anonymous, my brother, not to some of us who can dream, who can feel, and can sense the currents of life under the hull of own ship. Those of us who know we are but seconds away from being just like you honor your kingship, while those of us who fear being like you turn our heads in ignorance, ignoring that part of you that is so much a part of us.

I’ve seen you walking, pushing your overflowing cart for miles to that island where you spend your days. I once wondered how you magically appeared until one day my question was answered and I saw your old body pushing that cart at least a mile and half from your destination. I came back that way an hour later and there you were, sitting in your own world, drawing on your poster board while waiting for the stars to shine. I’ve watched you walk up and down the roadway, art in hand. Once in a while someone would provide you a gift, yet very few of them would seem to appreciate the gift you were in return. If only they would exist in the experience, they would have seen the glory of the moment. They would have seen your smile and felt their own. They would have known something unique, maybe for the very first time.

Yes, I see you, old man. Not that you’ve asked me to, but because I can’t help myself. You’d likely wish to stay anonymous, just a crazy artist most would believe lazy and inept. Yet I know you. You work harder than most, trudging up lonely highways with nothing but the voices to keep you company. You live for a smile and a few shekels, and the liberation your flight has given. You talk to yourself in the open unlike me who is too afraid to let those voices roam in that ether. You have built your ship, raised its masts, and found one port nestled on the island where you tell your stories. I know there is a part of me who is jealous of you while there is another part of me who fears being just like you. The two may never reconcile themselves, but I know I am more like you than you are like me.

Tonight, I will hop in my car and head to a comfortable place with comfortable people. You will pack up your cart and walk miles just relish in your anonymity. I will find some distraction to keep my voices subdued while you engage in a lively debate with your own. I will seek refuge tomorrow among the beasts and hills and the open trails, while you will seek to engage others who fear you, who ignore you, or who give you a tiny bit of their refuse as a gift. I will bask in the beauty of nature while you deal with the insanity of people who see you as insane yourself. Yet both our ships will sail in their own way, and the seaworthiness of our souls will be challenged in the journey ahead. We’ll both beg for winds to fill our masts while cursing them as they seek to drown us in our misery. One of us will dress the part of the Captain while the other works naked in the rain. Just know I see you, and that part of us that exists in reflection, and that the part of me that is speaking to you is that part of me that is you.

Take care, my brother. In truth, Namaskar.

One Day (A Poem)

October 21, 2019 / Tom

I knew, from the day that she first told me,

In a swirl of wondrous mystery,

One day it would all be over.

A hand that once wrote an impassioned plea,

Would turn to stone.

A finger that once drew on her glistened lips,

Would draw no more

Eyes once moistened in tales of spirited victory,

Would be closed forever.

Breath that once whispered wanted dreams of love,

Would be silenced for eternity.

I knew, from the moment of that conception,

When the tides had turned and I nearly drowned in my own insanity,

That the end was just around the corner.

But I did not want my hand to become so cold,

Or my finger so absent it’s truest intention,

Or my eyes dried to the truth of my heart,

Or my words silenced

Before their time.

One day you shall feel my flesh and know that I am gone,

What was warm, now cold,

A room filled with laughter, now coldly silent.

One day you will call my name and birth sadness when there comes no answer.

Perhaps.

But we have but one day left,

One day to fill our cups with honey,

One day to traipse where the Earth meets the Sky,

One day to end the life of all regret.

So that we may etch on the stone that marks our end,

“Here lies a life worth living.”

The Risen Man

October 18, 2019 / Tom

When the Phoenix rises above the ash, he has no desire to return. That’s how the Phoenix knows he has risen, when the cocoon of ash and ember no longer hold any appeal. He may tell the story of destruction, of death, of rebirth and of resurrection but only the living part of that tale is his. What came before his rebirth fails to matter. What matters is he lives and rises to the Sun, and surrenders not to any darkness.

Until that moment when the piles of blowing ash no longer stain his mind, he is a slave to it. Until that moment when the pulsing-orange embers cease to burn his soul, he can only focus on the pain. Until that moment when his fisted hand rises into the mountain air, he will be buried beneath the surface of his agony. He will say words like “healing” and “growth” but he will mean none of it. A seedling may seek the sapling, but until he pushes through the soil his is but a hope, an egg in which no bird can fly.

The seedling cannot bloom to share its fragrance with the wind, and the egg cannot sour among the breezes of this life. Born in the nest of ash and ember he is but a promise, a dot of potential to which no truth can be assigned. Yet, with some battles and some defeats he finds his true victory. He stirs to crack the surface of his ashen shell, punches through the shell that once imprisoned him, and feels the clean air for the first time. Once risen, he cannot fall even when he falters before his god. He can only fly. He can only soar. He can only live his truth.

Once that breath of life fills his chest there is no death in which to surrender. The body may surrender but the soul that burst him through the ash will live eternal. He will leave his footprints in the mud and, sometimes, drops of blood upon the soil that guides him in his travels, but he will not die. Those who knew him will hear his song ring out from within the forest veils. They will feel him in the drops of dew that wash their tired feet. They will know him in their own rising, and they will find him as their shackles fall to the ground. Their name will be his, and his will be theirs, and they will forever be bound in the life that births their quest, and the quest that births their life.

Return to the hell that burned him is impossible. He never gives that thought a moment of attention. It becomes like a subtle whisper in the woods, one you know is there but cannot be truly heard. He is healed, truly, remarkably, and with that wisdom in his heart he turns to face the wind, smiles, and takes to the flight he was born to take.