Category: Essays (Page 3 of 3)

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.

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.

My Last Day on Earth (If Only I had the Courage)

October 9, 2019 / Tom

It’s almost become cliche. Actually, it has become cliche. We’ve turned a profound question of introspection into one that bounces off our exterior, often finding it hard to penetrate the wanton shrouds we place on our every day life. Still, though, the question remains a powerful one, even if it seems lost to the swirl of our common personal insanity.

What would I do if this is my last day on Earth?

I ask mys elf this question while sitting in a whirlpool of daily existence, head throbbing with the weight of the day on my shoulders.. This time, though, I want to answer it honestly and without reservation. I truly want to discover my long-hidden truth.

The first thing that I realize is that I would not be wasting time as I do. I would not give a fuck about my job, although I would still care about the people I serve. I would not care about the mundane things I give so much attention to. I waste so much of my life in the mundane, struggling to grasp at golden rings that always seem just beyond my reach. I spend much of my life threading water in a mundane pool of worry. There, I worry about what would happen if my car broke down, or I got sick, or if something happened to one of my beloveds. Perhaps knowing that this would be my last day on Earth would free me from such worries. Perhaps I’ve enshrouded my life with so many veils of worry that I can’t see what life is anymore. Perhaps my throbbing head offers me an answer.

Yet it seems I’ve started answering the question of what I would do by suggesting what I wouldn’t do. That seems to be because I spend so much of my time doing things I would not do if faced with the end. Perhaps there is a sapling rose in the weed-filled garden of my life, a garden that I first must weed just to get to the flower. Maybe there is so much shit in my way that a clearing is necessary. It’s time, perhaps, to burn the fucking thing to ash just to clear out the trash. Maybe that is what my response is telling me. End the patterns that have never served you well, and let those that do bloom in their sacred majesty. Let me now pull out the most easily pulled weeds in my garden.

So, I would not be sitting at this desk wishing I was on a trail somewhere. I would not be looking out this window at the gorgeous blue skies wishing I was under them unimpeded by the glass, wood and nails of the box I am in. I would not be sitting alone wishing those I love were near, sharing in the glory of the moments we share alive and in health. I would not be asking myself questions the betray the misery of American human existence. I would not need to learn, or teach, or ask for the truth. I would just live, and life itself would be my teacher, my instruction and my honest breath.

I would be making love in the mud, dancing in the rain, searching for the rose in the weeds. I would be laughing an honest laugh and walking the hardest trail. I would hold your hand with all the vitality of a man in love with his mortality can muster. I would hold your face and kiss you with the knowledge that I don’t have many of those left, and I would cherish that kiss with all the attention it deserved. I would hug those I love with a heart wide open, and they would return the love because they, too, realize the frailty of our interaction. I would bask in such glory, having found heaven in my midst and hell in knowing I would be leaving it all behind.

I would write my book without the distraction that lives outside my soul. The words themselves would shout with the exuberance of a wild beast in his element, and they would shake your heart to its core. You would feel a pulsing in areas that may have been long-dormant and I would quake with you in an ecstasy of connection. You would tingle, and I would dance, and that majesty would wake up the world to a truth we’ve often left lost in the madness of our distraction. That rose would bloom in being free from the weeds. Free to bask in the sun of its day and the moon of its night.

If only I had the courage.

This morning there was such a sweet meditation. I was walking in a beautiful and lush valley, teaming with life and basking both in the light of the Sun and the shadows created by a ring of high mountains. I loved the way I felt in the valley, allowing the chill of the shadow to give the warmth of the light its meaning. My fingertips draw funny shapes in the dew that clings to the large leaves, and my eyes close in a silent prayer as nature plays around me. I can hear a distant waterfall mixing with the rush of a spring stream and I wonder if there is anything else I could want.

Those mountains. Their peaks begin calling out to me with a siren’s song, That is where I need to be. My heart pleads for me to go, but my feet sit idle. My soul screams at me to move, yet my mind stays still. All of me wants to sit on their summit, all but the part of me that needs to make it happen. That part of me holds firm to what it knows, what it was taught, lost in the fear of what lies just beyond. I am sure the view is beautiful. I am sure the climb is majestic. I am sure that the thought of moving scares the shit out of me.

My god, if I only had the courage.

I am awakened from this vision. Swirling in that brew created with parts of thought, parts of soul, and parts of heart is a stew meant for great consideration. Perhaps there would be no fear if this was my last day on earth. Perhaps the views would worth my final breath. Perhaps the climb would be worth each drop of sweat left in me. Maybe I could rise from this valley I feel stuck in if only I had no repercussions to face. Then I wonder what the repercussions would be if I stayed and failed to climb the mountains that promised at least a view of the promised land.

Now, however, I have no time to think about such things. I have to get to work, to meet my responsibilities. I have to bathe in mundane waters that keep the trail dust from settling on my skin. I have to hide in this box telling the world that “I am just like you” while knowing I am not like them at all. I have to lie just to find the truth, and I have to reconcile my wild nature with rules I had no hand in creating. If only I had the courage I’d have if I knew this was my last day on Earth. If only I could move.

The Language of Nature

September 25, 2019 / Tom

“Your breath touched my soul and I saw beyond all limits.” ~Rumi

I can almost remember the first time Nature spoke to me. I was young, so I didn’t immediately understand. I couldn’t decipher what She was telling me. I couldn’t make sense of Her call. Nature does not sing Her song in words. Her language is a much simpler to comprehend.

In my youth I couldn’t translate the language of Nature, although She tried to speak to me. When I put my hand in Her running stream, I marveled at her caress and how the gentle force of Her flow would push my hand back but then allow it to finds its place again. I could feel Her coolness refresh my blood warmed by the effort to discover Her, and as I sipped from her chalice She demanded nothing in return. I had no idea what She was saying, but in the refreshment came visions I had never seen and words I had never heard. I was, in my youthful exuberance, a boy in accustomed to the shallow words of human communication. I had not yet discovered the depth of discussion I would have with things not human.

From time to time, She would carry a leaf or a stick past me, and I would study them as they made their way to some place unknown. They would surrender to the flow of Her, and they would arrive at a destination of Her choosing at a time so absolutely appropriate. They would sometimes disappear beneath her surface in the tumult of descent, but they would surface a little later unscathed and ready to continue on their journey. I often wondered what they had learned in the force of Her undertow, if anything at all. The Stream, it seemed, twisted and turned and fell and found stillness without much care for the things She carried. She was just flowing, and those things that flowed with Her would always find their way. The storms may ripple Her surface and the cold may freeze Her edges, but she would always be true to Herself while the things that flowed with her would always arrive right where they needed to be. She would never change for them, for She carried them with the same level of affection whether they could sense it or not.

While I could not yet understand her language, she pulled at me with such a beautiful gravity. Within me was a desire to walk with Her, not as the branch or the leaf, but as a human being inspired to walk paths that sometimes make no sense to the world. She stoked that desire until, one day, I had to walk within her. Unlike the leaf, I walked upstream with a human purpose, and unlike the branch I would struggle not to drown. My lot was not to surrender to the current but to walk against it. My purpose was not to see the reality of Her placid destinations. My purpose was to explore the uphill climbs and the raging rapids that would take me to Her origins. My soul wanted to be a student born to learn from Her and she, in turn, would teach.

That was the first conversation I can remember having with Nature. It came not in a word or a book, but rather in a feeling inspired in our communion. There were no passages to read or prose to recite. There was only the caress of Her breath that would set me inspired for hours. She need never whisper a promise to me for all She needed to offer was a clear view of the Sunrise. She need never swear an oath to my heart, for committed I became just sitting upon a peak gazing at Her majesty. I learned along the way that the truest words are unspoken, and the strongest binds are not those forged floating downstream but, rather, in walking against the current.

In that journey She has brought me wisdom. She has shown me the powerful presence of a bear, or a moose, or an elk when alone on a dusty trail. She has brought my heart to great heights as the Sun rises above a vast ocean. She has touched my soul as I’ve swam with beasts normally unseen living in their watery world. She has lulled me to sleep in her subtle breezes, taught me humility in raging storms, shaken my confidence as the earth quaked around me and given me a sturdy tree on which to lean when the quaking stopped. She has awoken me with the crack of thunder, bathed me in the clearest water ever known, and taught me that often reaching the summit is not the end of the journey and that life often continues exactly where it began.

She has, at times gently and at times roughly, led me to the depth of my own courage and determination. She has shown me where the edges of my boundaries remain, and where my actions are not in line with my desires. On shaky legs I have climbed, determined to reach my objective. In uncertainty I have come back down as my mind shouted at me that I was unable. In Her way, she showed me that the voices within and around me often only tell their own truth, and that my truth is often not the same. She has shown me the beauty of overcoming exhaustion just to hear Her sing within a waterfall. She has led me to heights I once thought impossible just for the inspiring views they provide. She has taught me more than any professor while never speaking a single word in instruction.

Her language courses through me with every breath as I long to be entangled in Her pureness and lost in Her presence. I hear Her song as the morning songbirds inspire me to wake. I hear Her lectures as the cool mountain breeze wipes the sweat from my brow, and the scent of wildflowers fills my senses. I hear Her words of inspiration as my body weakens before I’ve seen the summit, and felt Her embrace as I marvel at that view. I’ve felt Her love in the presence of others who have heard her calling, and who understand the language that we speak in silence.

It has proven true the adage that once you hear the voice of Nature no other language will suffice. Once you’ve touched the face of her gods the thrills of flesh become obsolete. Nature is, in Her essence, that part of us left when we die. She is that call of the wild within us all and that lullaby that puts the demons asleep. Release your worry to the wind, and let the soothing power of Her wonder keep you in awe. She is dangerous, and failure often means a lover’s demise. Yet in Her passion she shows you the best of you, and if your end is the result She led you there to that placid place on Her shores. Such a journey is our destiny, whether we want it or not.

Quandary

September 23, 2019 / Tom

How many more days can I give my life to the wealth of others? How many more days must I struggle in order to give them the bounty of my effort, the blood of my time, the breath of my very existence?

When do I muster my courage to break free of this mold and smash it to the miserable bits it deserves to be? Do I have the talent to own my destiny, to speak my truth and to cast the whims of my heart out into the winds left to blow in my life?

Doubt, it seems, holds me enslaved to the master who who has played the game quite well. Fear, it seems, holds me shackled to the cornerstone of commerce squeezing out a living while casting aside a life. But it is I who have chosen to stay a slave, and refused to tear the bindings from my weary mind.

I just wish to write, to walk a million miles in the glory of nature while sharing that journey in a million truthful words; words that act as pixels on a mental canvas, little bits of truth spun into a tapestry of bewilderment. I wish to kiss the lips of life and tell the story in a way that sends shivers of delight down the spines of those who read it. I want to dance with my saints and demons and to share the tale of a tango lost in a whirlwind of discovery. I want to stare not in the quest that gives a master his spoils, but to see the passion within me rise with the glory of a life well lives and stories well told.

What, I ask the holy who know the answer to such things, was I born to do?

Those who raised me would certainly say I was born to struggle in the rich man’s game, engaging in the same fallacy as they that one day I will join that club. One must work for the man to become the man, or something to that effect. Many of those who I’ve endeared my confidences would certainly complain about the struggle while embracing it as an American birthright, one that often glorifies the act of busy while forgetting who we are busy for. Some who’ve I’ve entrusted my innermost feelings would suggest I just turn the key and free myself, often oblivious to the responsibilities I’ve chosen along the way.

So, the quandary is real, and the mess of truth no more makes sense as does the lie. A soul laying quietly in the meadow can only wonder what he does with the heat of day when the promise of a chilled night presents itself. Does such a man surrender to his lot in life or does he create it? Which, dear Universe, does this soul do?

One More Chance

September 19, 2019 / Tom

He remembered when the realization first set in that he was dying. He sat reclined among others, barely able to keep his focus on the discussion and completely distracted by the changes occurring in his body. The dizziness had set in hours ago, which he was able to dismiss that as nothing more than an illness. Then the nausea came, which he blamed on the unseen virus that was wracking the space behind his eyes. He felt strong, he just couldn’t keep the world from spinning around him. He felt able, he just couldn’t keep his food down.

Fucking cold.

He told himself that he was alive and would get better, as he had countless times before. He went about his life, helping someone with some heavy boxes they were moving. Only now, he needed to hold himself on the stair banisters as to not fall on his face. Only now, after the short show of normalcy, he had to stop to vomit the contents of his stomach. Only now, he could not seem to make any sense of what was going on around him.

Fucking flu.

Then there was the drive, and the conversation. He was glad he didn’t have to operate the car he was in. All he wanted to do was sleep, to hear nothing but the sound of air rushing around him and the faint sound of the radio playing soft music in the background. Sleep would, perhaps, take hours off the illness and give his body the rest it needed to recover. He tried to focus on the low hum of music. He hoped it would bring him some peace. Yet, he felt dizzy even with his eyes closed, and nauseous even though his body was complete empty.

Fucking virus.

Then came the moment. A feeling of numbness shot across his face as his nose felt as if it had turned to ice. His eyes opened cursing the dim light as his hands covered his nose, hoping to warm it again. The problem was that he couldn’t find his nose and his hand wondered aimlessly. He had lost control, and as he reached out for the windshield his arm went wildly in the wrong direction. He lifted his leg but couldn’t put it down where he wanted. He was dying.

Just plain fuck.

He interrupted the conversation around him. Get me to the nearest hospital. Why? Because I”m having a stroke. What? I’m having a stroke, get me to a hospital quick.

Jesus…fuck.

The car pulled up on front of the hospital, and soon someone appeared with a wheel chair and a smile. I don’t know that I can get in that chair. My legs are weak, and I have no balance. We’ll help you. Can you try? Sure. He was always game for a challenge, and it appeared one had been issued. His legs, however, were not up for it. His arms could not support his weight. Hours before he was moving heavy boxes. Now, he couldn’t move himself.

Fuck, I can’t do it.

Words he hated came willingly from his mouth. I can’t do it. We got you, just let us support you. Ok, turn slowly. Now sit slowly. Don’t worry, we got you.

He had been the one who always did the getting. He was the one who did the saving. He was the one who would carry someone to safety. This moment, the moment he realized he was dying, changed all that.

What the fuck.

They got him to a gurney in the emergency room. Apparently, they thought he was having a heart attack. I feel no pain. In fact, I feel numb. I’m having a stroke, not a heart attack. They would leave him for what seemed like hours. Time slows to a crawl when you are the one needing help. Minutes change to hours. Eternity seems a reality as you exist in this purgatory. Slowly, then not so slowly, his eyes began to fade. He could not control them, and it was far less painful to shut them off then it was to wish them to life. What if I never see my kids again? What if they never knew who I am? What if I can never tell them how much I love them?

So many things to do. Visions of mountains crossed his mind. He wanted to see the view from up there. He could see the wild, clear streams flowing from the glacial ice. He could smell the wildflowers dotting the trails he would take to the view of his dreams. He wanted to see the elk wonder in their natural home, see the moose plod gracefully without care of his existence. He wanted to hold her hand. Not just anyone’s hand, but her hand. He wanted to love again. Not just some surface love that sent ripples on his flesh. He wanted depth. He wanted his surface calmed as she stirred his depths to ecstasy. He heard his children laughing in the darkness, and he felt them crawl onto his lap once again. He could feel their breath on his face, and their hands grasp his finger as if to say “don’t go Daddy.”

He was, however, dying. He knew it just as he knew the sounds of footsteps meant they were coming again. This time, a new voice asked the wrong questions.

Seriously. What the fuck…

No, I don’t feel pain, so on a scale of 1 to 10, I’d say a zero. Now, if you want numbness, that’s a 12. I can’t see. I’m dizzy. I have no balance. I’m having a fucking stroke, not a heart attack. Let me rephrase that. I”m having a CVA, not an MCI. Got it?

He was hoping that speaking their language would help them understand. His speech had begun to crack, but it was still clear. The voice vanished in the swoosh of a hospital curtain. He was alone again.

Soon, familiar and friendly voices entered the room. He could barely see them, but he knew them just by presence.

How are you feeling? Not so good. They are taking forever. Do you want me to do something? Let’s see what they say. Oh, I will.

A threatened lawsuit had stirred something.

After all of that, the voices had stopped asking him about pain. They has stopped checking his heart for malfunction, and had instead switched to his brain. Calls to other specialists led to a diagnosis…

You are having a stroke.

No fucking shit, really?

He had entered the day ready to take on the worlds as he saw it. He would end the day not being able to see it at all. He began the day not caring how it ended. He ended the day hoping to see another. He had started the day not knowing its promise. He had ended it seeing nothing but promise and, with that, made a few of his own.

He would live. He would hike mountains. He would hug his children more. He would tell them he loved them as often as they would allow. He would live for the moment when love was in his heart and the strength of the truth he was about to discover. He would not sacrifice any of his calling to the whims of others. Yes, he would live, and he would do so on his own terms.

It was only two years before he had wanted to die. Now, he only wanted to live. If only he had one more chance.

To be continued…

A Real New Earth

August 28, 2019 / Tom

And thus, the art of fearless ingenuity, of passion-full connection and of courageous togetherness was lost to one meaningless voice.

We were lost, and we knew it. The sands in the hourglass of our moment had run thin. The voices were winning and the slope seemed too steep even for us to climb. All we need do from here was await that final breath, and the eternal darkness that followed.

What is, in the minds of beings who protest their awokeness and who can pen messages of hope on thin are, the end? Who are those who can write great works of nature from the cloister of their own fear? What masters are we who have not yet mastered ourselves? What teachers can we be if we, in our own moment of uncertainty, have not yet learned the lessons we so eagerly preach to others?

We are none of them, of course. We are covered in blankets of the hypocrisy that gets our souls to cringing. We are shrouded in the fog of our misgivings, standing at the pulpit speaking words we cannot hear and reading prose we only wish we would have written. Regret, the constant companion of the disciple of fear, whispers hopes of “next time” and oaths of some future accomplishment. If only that stalwart student who trembles in the darkness of his own mind could realize that all he seeks is with him as he sputters; that light is just within his grasp.

For the chosen few who nearly die to find their life, who nearly drown in the quicksand of despair to find a perch high above the peaks, there is a calmness in the darkness. He who has met the Reaper cannot fear it. He who has made friends with the sadness cannot drown in it. He who finds respite in the darkness cannot loath its arrival. We may nap in the sunlight, but real sleep can only be found in the pitch black of solitude. We sleep alone, even if we snore in a crowd.

What is life but boredom without such wisdom? We will always run from shadows we have not befriended. We will always be cut but blades we have not mastered. We will always be slaves to thoughts we have not accepted. Who was I but a boy before I accepted who I am? Who was I but a baby before I knew who I was? Who was I but a thought before I fell in love with heart that colored my flesh and sent tears streaming down my face? I was nothing but a sculpture of other artists, and until I took the hammer and the chisel to my own story did I realize the beauty beneath the stone. From there I could be me without excuse or lie be told. I could be then unabashedly beautiful.

I hold the hand of truth as we walk together into today, dreaming about tomorrow with the certainty that nothing we say may be but a promise, and that one day the aberration may arrive to test our mettle. The warrior will stand tall, bloodied but not defeated, and he will not surrender even in the moments when he gives ground. He will call out to his friends in the darkness, look into the eyes of the Reaper, only to discover that fire burning brightly within him. They will confirm his truth in their opposition to it, and reveal his zest for life in their calling for its end. Warriors, it seems, know victory from the throes of their defeat, and know rising from the harshness of their falls.

What we lose as we fumble in the darkness can be found when we grasp the torch of our truth. We must choose one or the other, we must surrender or find a way to victory. We must either walk through the pain or rot prostrate wallowing in our insanity. Which to choose is ours to choose, we wave the white flag or fight on to plant our colors upon high ground.

It’s there, on that high ground or in the muck of the valley below, that we find the real new earth. It’s beyond what some guru suggests you will find if you just do something they do. It’s past the shiny lakes and mystic ponds others would call “enlightenment”. It seems, to me, to be finding oneself in the muck, in the clear waters, in the rays of sun on a cloudless day and in the torrential downpours of storms and cyclones. The real new earth is, in my experience of it, whatever I define it to be in the moment I seek it. Sometimes its the victory lap, and sometimes its the humility of defeat. It’s rarely the same thing twice.

When we finally stand our ground, accept our sadness and our joy, and stake a claim to the life we choose to live we have discovered our earth, our home, our sacred shrine. It’s our birthright is we just choose to defend it.

Why Does It Feel Good to Enter a Woman? {Mature}

October 25, 2012 / Tom

Hey guys, do you want to know why it feels so good to enter a woman?

Nope. It’s not that. That’s your high school penis talking. It’s that type of boys’ locker room bullshit that has us falling in the mud as men. It’s why we can find ourselves, years after we began our journey, still spinning our wheels almost at the exact place we started. So stop living in the past and start honoring the man you are now. It’s time we start listening to the women in our lives.

Scary thought, I know. Most of us guys aren’t taught to listen. It’s time we start to learn. It’s difficult and it goes against our grain, but if we don’t a whole world of possibilities just passes us by. We lose far more than we gain by being the “men” we were taught to be, and I am one who is sick of losing.

So, what’s the answer? Why does it feel so good to enter a woman? (drum roll please)…

Wait for it…

It’s coming (sometimes too soon)…

And…

Well, not to be a party-pooper with some metaphysical stuff, but the reason it feels so good to enter a woman is because, in actuality, she is entering us (Collective groans from the audience expecting a micro-porn instead). Seriously, next time you go to rock the van with your woman, slow down. Just as you go to enter her, really slow down. Pay attention to every nanosecond, every small moment as you take your time fully connecting. See how you feel. Recognize it. Listen.

There, in that place, you will feel it. As that part of you slides into her (hopefully, if you’ve done your part, it slides with little effort) you will recognize the truth of what I am saying. While you are entering her she is, in fact, entering you.

Entering your heart. Your soul. Your entire Being. She fills you up, and takes you places you’ve never been. You both ride the wave, and you both end up exhausted mounds of flesh on the shore. In the end, though, you will say to whatever Universe you talk to in your moments alone, “damn, that Tom sure knows what he is talking about. I need to buy his book.”

Remember that sentiment. The book is coming, and your business is appreciated. However, the most pressing business at hand is to understand that sex is not just something you do to get off, it is something you to do experience a gift you cannot experience otherwise. Love. God. Whatever you call it.

When I see that picture of God as an old man with a rod in his hand, I often think that God isn’t the old man at all. God is the rod. The old man simply knows how to use it, and for that knowledge he gets painted all over the world and is worshiped beyond measure. So, learn how to use the rod and be worshiped. Not by the world, but by YOUR world. Her. The woman. The one who shows you who you are when no one else can.

That’s what real intimacy brings you. Not only does it bring you connection and love, it also brings you the best sex you’ve ever had.

Peace.