Category: Short Stories (Page 4 of 46)

Morning

August 23, 2019 / Tom

The morning. I love the morning; its promise, its peace, its solitude. A part of me is thankful most don’t like to wake up early. Bathing in the wondrous shards of dawn scattered about the western sky, I can marvel at the promise arising on the eastern horizon without ever hearing a complaint. I can just exist in the respite, touching the face of the God I have found, enjoying peace as I commune with a nature most have either forgotten on not known at all. I pity them, for nothing seems to act as a reliable mirror to the soul as the nature we were born into. We may have forgotten her, but she has never forsaken us. Not even in our current state of denial.

In my experience, nature is never more alive than she is in the early morning. It seems creatures both earth-bound and taken to the sky rejoice in nature’s transformation from darkness to light. The grass looks greener, the air feels crisper, and the mountains look even more majestic bathing in the orange hue of a brand new day. The blood flowing through a man’s veins seems more energized as he shakes off his evening slumber, reminding him that he is quite a part of something bigger than his job, his thoughts and the opinions others may have of him. He is, if nothing more, as much of the sunrise as he is part of the night’s darkness. I feel as if I can howl as I sit still spinning on my Earth, and I know if I do it will be part of this great chorus that surrounds me, awakens me, and takes me to heaven.

On this morning I can hear the long-lost chants of my Native brothers and sisters playing through time. I can sense my soul touching the face of a Spirit guide, the one who has shown me much in my journey and reminded me of who I am. I can hear the footfalls of warriors paying homage to a great fire in the sky, and sense a caress of a great Chief piercing my sky to touch my heart directly. I don’t feel worthy. I know, he says. I’ve never felt worthy. Yet the Sun rises for you, he says. Should it? You cannot stop it, he replies. She loves you and shines on in your heart even when your eyes are closed. The warms the insect and the gods alike, and glistens on the smallest puddle the way she shines on the largest sea. Just shine, he says.

I want to cry, but a smile crests my lips instead. I want to feel sorry for myself, but a warriors song springs from my chest. I want to wallow in the mud like a swine, but instead I take to flight like the eagle. I am not looking for prey as I soar. I am searching for liberation from the lies I would believe. The lies I tell myself. The lies I hear from others. A man cannot live on bread alone, he says. No, he needs to live on freedom from himself as well.

This moment must end. There are responsibilities to be met, money that must be made, people that must be helped. The sigh that pours from my soul begs for a morning that never ends; where words can be written and stories shared as a way to accomplish all things that face me this day. A sigh that is a prayer to something to see me through yet another moment of being something else. A sigh that is a hope that somehow, someday, tomorrow’s morning will be different.

Missing Her

June 24, 2019 / Tom

Under the darkness I slept, transported into a dreamscape of someplace wonderful. In the expanse between this space and time’s horizon there is nothing but perfect crystals poking through the nighttime sky, and I am a man transported from mortality to eternity. I feel the pulsing of my heartbeat against the stillness of my mind, my body both awakening and resting as the cool breeze brushes along my skin. In this slumber I hear the rustling of the trees just outside my door, and it seems my breath tries to keep pace with the natural rhythm of the Earth’s gentle winds. I’ve dozed here, surrendering to subtle pleas for rest and, hopefully, for a chance to find her once again.

I miss her in these moments of our separation, and when I can’t touch her hand I reach out for her in my dreams. There was a time when she was but a wish, a formless mist in the pulsing of my heartbeat, the rhythm of a breeze that had me looking for her everywhere I could. I’ve searched for her in the lonely trails that took me from someplace low to someplace high. I called for her in the lush canyons and heard my heart’s echo in reply. I felt her coming near as pieces of me fell away, as my soul shed those needless bags and blunders that once defined who I was. Those pieces left a trail as I walked and, somehow, I felt she was following them straight into my waiting heart.

Soon, I realized I was not walking a path just my own. She was leaving a trail as well, and the pieces we were leaving looked very much the same. It seemed as though each stone I turned in my search for her was a stone she had left behind, and each echo made in canyons was not my own voice, but her song reminding me the path I was on would be so worth the effort when we finally met. Our poems sometimes seem written by the same hand, our hearts seem to know the same breeze, our embraces seem to somehow have always been. If there were lifetimes before this one, I’ve known her there. I’m pretty sure we’ve walked together before, or flown the same skies, or swam in the same oceans. My soul knows hers, and hers mine. We’ve been this way before.

I miss her in my sleep, and often rejoice when I awaken in the night to see her silhouette nestled nicely among the shadows. I can find her form in any disarray, the way she rests and hides herself from the noises of the night. I sometimes just stare at her in this portrait, the pixels of time and fate mixing into the rhythmic breezes and hopeful prayers of a warrior who has found his home. Not wanting to disturb her, I caress her in my heart and whisper my truth through the ether into her waiting heart. Then I drift off again, content in the peace of her presence and in a love that has been in our dreams forever.

On this night, I rest alone in a dream of my own making, breathing in a mystic’s rhythm with love pouring from my grateful heart. Then the miracle arrives, and I hear her call out my name. I lay with that sound, the vibrations coursing in the stillness creating little ripples in the puddles of my mind. I stir a little, then feel her hand on my shoulder.

“Come to bed honey. I miss you.”

I smile a warrior’s smile. It’s the kind of smile of a grateful man who finds himself wedded to perfection smiles, that type of smiles that crests on a once-starving man’s lips once he’s feasted on something far superior to bread alone. I stir, excited to lay next to that perfection and feast on my own gratitude.

I can hear her say “I’m not perfect” and utter my truth.

“You are to me. And you need be nothing more than yourself to be that perfect.”

Her being her has never been anything less than perfect for me. I may be challenged in my own frailty while standing in her light, but her light has always shown me another way. I may feel fear in walking on trails I’ve never walked before, but I’ve never doubted the safety of our space. My black and white may be challenged by her gray, but she has always steadied me in those transitions from what I know to what is possible. I’ve never viewed those challenges in terms of being right or wrong, for in this love I’ve never been wrong in trusting her. I’ve never been more right either.

I sit up to make my way up to bed, realizing I was dreaming just the moment before. I turn toward the stairs, half-expecting to see her standing there waiting for me to follow her. There is nothing looking back at me, not a shadow, not a glance, not a smile; just empty air. I grumble a little sigh, feeling the sadness that often comes when realizing that beautiful dreams sometimes don’t match our reality. I stand, and head toward the stairs and up to bed, realizing that nightmares don’t match my reality either. I can’t help but smile in the lesson.

When I was securely swaddled in my blankets, I breathed deeply to say my “good nights” and offer my well-wishes. Something dawns on me in this pre-slumber ritual. I was in peace, the type of peace that I feel when she is near me. I looked over to the empty space on my bed, and instead of sadness I felt that beautiful peace. I could not feel her skin, but I could feel her. I could not hear her breathe, but I could feel her breath in my own. I could not talk to her in the shadows of this night, but I could talk to her in the light of my soul. My body wanted her near, but in the caverns of my soul we lived together, never to part even as our flesh went in different directions. My mind is troubled in our separation but my Being is never far from hers.

A man in the truest spaces of love must learn to reconcile the cravings of his mind with the knowings of his heart. He must learn to breathe with the rhythm of her nature. He must find gratitude in the breezes of togetherness that cool his skin after he’s been baking in the Sun of solitude. He must trust the process of life to bring him to loving waters when he thirsts, peaceful feasts when he hungers, and contentment’s rest when the fatigue of longing becomes too great for him to bear. He must trust in a truth – sometimes he will leave his footprints for her to follow, sometimes she will leave hers for him, and in other times they will etch their time together on the same trail at the same time. Either way, he has found her and she him, and they finally know each other again. How far they’ve come since the days when they could only dream of one another, and hope for that arrival.

I miss her. In that there is no lie. It’s a solemn truth that makes itself known in every hour of our separation. There is also another truth. I have found her, and in doing so have become the luckiest man alive. On this night, both truths have mixed into one, my black and white has transformed into her gray. What more could I ask for?

Getting “On Rope”

June 21, 2019 / Tom

In my dreams my mind issued a challenge to my heart, and I awoke to a realization.

In the experience of reality, I wonder what is actually real. Are the thoughts dripping in my head real? Is the doubt that often invades my certainty an instinct or simply a voice from the past? Is what I feel in my gut or in my head? How can a mere man tell the difference?

I often search for things to confirm my security or my doubts. Despite my fear of heights,I was once high-angle rescue technician. That fear, coupled with the dislike of pain and injury, caused me to check things repeatedly before getting “on rope” and trusting my life to it. I would look for issues with the rope, for problems with my harness, for abnormalities in the gear and the correctness of the knots. I made sure the team was trained and able. More importantly, I was also confirming the integrity of those things before giving them my trust. When I knew things were right, I would breath out my fear, hop over the edge, and head downward. Nothing exhilarated me more than facing my fear and defeating it on its own turf.

Perhaps that is a wonderful metaphor for my life when facing the various fears I’ve accumulated over the years. I have, as I am sure many have, been in some extremely dark and cold places. Oddly, when I would survive one dark corner of my world another would eventually come that changed my understanding of what darkness really was. I’ve also learned that my perspective, like my eyes, don’t actually adapt to the level of darkness in a space. They adapt to how much light is present. I’ve learned to seek out the light.

I still do not like pain and injury, although I’ve developed a high tolerance for both. So, I’ve learned to check, and recheck, things in my life to best ensure my survival. I check the integrity of the proverbial rope. I inspect my “gear” to ensure its strength. I ensure those who will be on my team are equal to the task at hand. Then I go on rope, and begin my journey into fear prepared. I may still fall, and I may still get hurt, but it won’t be because I ignored the things within my power to address. I knew I could only control so much, meaning my own actions and my own mind, but that I also had no control over so much my life and well-being depended on.

In the fire service, we learn techniques to give us the best chance to survive. We “sound” floors before entering a room. We check the roof before getting on it. We size up a scene before working a fire. Mostly, we rely heavily on our own experience and training to get out of many precarious scenarios alive. My experience (and the loss of some friends) taught me to instinctively check things. Constantly. Without fail.

So, I awaken to the drip…drip…drip of a nagging thought pressing on my heart. I start checking the proverbial rope, the lifeline I’ve tied to the anchor of my life, running my bare hand along its braided sheath looking for distortions. I check the knots I’ve used to bind me to the steadfastness I seek, looking for loose ties and uncertain bindings. I go within to ensure I’m thinking clearly, and that I’m certain of my plan. Then, I step off, trusting my instincts and hoping those I’ve placed my trust in won’t let me down.

I’ve gone on rope.

Nature, Because I Love You

June 20, 2019 / Tom

It’s no secret I have a deep love affair with nature. In my nearly 52 years of life I have yet to find a thing about nature that I do not love or find fascinating. I’ve seen tornadoes spawn in the skies above me, stood in the winds of hurricanes, survived nor’easters, fought wildfires and hiked in blizzards. I’ve also basked in a harsh sun, sought refuge from muggy, humid New Jersey summers, swam in oceans both crystal clear and with zero visibility. I’ve swam with sharks and sea turtles, touched the skins of long-sunken ships, breathed fresh air above the treeline and talked to mountain goats who seemed way too big to be so nimble at 14,000 feet. I’ve showered under great waterfalls, swam in mountain springs, and buried little bits of me on trails shared by moose, elk, and many other forms of life who I could feel not just around me, but within me.

Nature has not only become a part of my life, but has also changed my life in indescribable ways. I’ve discovered the silliness that exists in the type of human endeavor I was taught, and the miracles that exist in natural simplicity. I’ve learned the value of liberated solitude, the type of solitude where I am not running from something or someone but running to that part of me that exists out there. I’ve made companions with those primordial parts of me that feels something in the trails that I hike and run on, a memory living deep within my cells that pours out of me like a great ancestral story. I am reminded of something that happened long before I was born, in a place that exists in my soul, a story told by a voice I’ve not met but perhaps know better than anyone. I tell that story in my labored breath as I move, each drop of sweat a wordy testament to a story that was started in the very beginning. Not my beginning, but our beginning.

I can say this with unequivocal confidence. If you want to find yourself, exist in nature. Don’t just hug a tree, be the tree. Don’t just hear the rushing waters of a spring runoff, feel the waters echo within you. Don’t just hike a path, absorb the path. Don’t interfere with the moose, or the deer, or the chipmunks along your way, be with them. You’d be surprised how nature wants to exist beside you if you don’t try to disturb it, if you just share the same breath as everything around you.

One can discover solitude in a crowd in the unique and intimate connection made with nature. Soon, human voices sent out by people distracted by their thoughts become just another part of the surroundings. You can walk with a friend, climb with a beloved, or smile at a total stranger without ever feeling disconnected from the natural truth you’re enjoying. You can even learn to share some of your own thoughts without being distracted by them, just as your footprints share your existence with nature without ever disturbing the trail. Be totally one with nature and you will not lose Her, even if you are stuck in a box doing your thing (or someone else’s thing) during a workday. She will call out to you in your dreams and inspire you in your efforts even when you aren’t anywhere near a trail. She is that much a part of your humanity, your Divinity and the essence of your soul.

I’ve come very far since my introduction to nature. Where I once stood on a mountain gazing at all that could be seen feeling that I need to be here, I’ve now discovered the glory of actually being here. Where I once was a sprout confined by an impassible ocean of water, I am now a part of endless peaks and valleys that I can certainly walk across. Where once my experience was limited to the feeling of looking at the vastness of ocean before me, I know can touch the sea of life that begs me to caress Her. I am no longer reminded of my limitations, but of my limitless potential. What, may I ask, can I not do?

It is there, in my boundless truth, I stand gazing once again and wishing my beloved could be here swimming in this limitless possibility, awakened by the earth course through her soul. It is here that I wish we stood together, blooming under whatever clouds or sun or rain or clear sky we find ourselves under. It is here I echo nature’s truth when I turn to her and see the awe of Divinity shining in her eyes. I swear as I look back at my first time on a mountain, saying in those whispering prayers “I need to be here” that I also said, “we need to be here”. In that vision I hear her respond, “Why?”

“Because I love you.”

Yes, I Can

June 19, 2019 / Tom

I remember hitting the beach in November 2014. It had been a month or so since I had a stroke, and I was still dealing with many of the effects caused by a part of my brain dying. I was dizzy most of the time, and my balance was what I’d call “challenging, at best”. I could not climb down steps without a rail or assistance of some kind, and my eyesight was still not as reliable as it once was.

Throughout the recovery process, I took on challenges with a “yes, I can” attitude that I believe helped dramatically speed up my recovery. I would meditate on regaining my vision, internally visualizing the act of seeing as well as the rerouting of the necessary neural pathways. I would use those visualization techniques in learning to walk again, in rebuilding my strength, and in finding the joy that resided deep within me. I would not choose the darkness even in my blindness, and I would not choose being a victim even in my disability.

Instead, I choose my power and decided to “do the best I could”. I set no lofty goals save doing my best, and I would not get down on myself or the world when my best did not meet a prescribed standard. I would accept my “new normal” and let whatever came my way through hard work, meditation, and circumstance to flow.

When the recovery process was complete, my neurologist ask me to confer with him because of what he deemed “a miraculous recovery”. He asked me about my process, about my attitude, about what I saw as a stroke victim who had recovered quite quickly. I first corrected him, suggesting to him that the first key was that I was not a “stroke victim” but rather a “stroke student”. I had experienced and learned so much from being stricken that I could not see myself as a victim. I was a student, and I had be so well taught.

At the end of our many conversations on this subject I asked him what he thought. “I think your attitude, you visualization techniques and your relatively young age all combined to provide you a miracle. I’m grateful to have learned something from you.” At the end of the rehab process he had to test me to release me from his care, and he began to “invent” tests just to try to get me to fail one of them. At the end of that trial, he simply said, “wow”.

That led to that moment on the beach. I made my way slowly down the steps in Ocean City, New Jersey, from the boardwalk to the sands. I walked slowly and unsteadily to the water line, and closed my eyes to listen to the sounds of the ocean. I had picked the beach because I knew I had a high likelihood of falling, and I wanted a relatively soft landing if I fell. As my body absorbed the sounds of breaking waves and the gulls singing high praise of their paradise, I closed my eyes and a vision of me running came. Something inside of me wanted to run instead of my planned walk.

A voice inside my head, the one that spawned from memories of the many times I struggled walking with a walker, the one that had to hold on to the rails as I walked in physical therapy, the one that experienced imbalance in a crowded and wavy pool, spoke to me in fear. “You shouldn’t do this. You will fall, and if you get hurt and it won’t be good. Just take your time, relearn, and don’t listen to whatever that is that wants to run. Be good. Be safe. Don’t venture too far outside your comfort zone.”

Yet, I could only see myself running. The voice would persist, but so would the vision. I inhaled deeply, and made my choice. I would run.

“You can’t do it,” screamed the voice in one final, protest.

“Yes, I can,” came my reply.

I opened my eyes, and looked south. I was near the 27th Street entrance to the beach, and south is a pier that extends into the ocean. I decided I would run to the pier and back which is, if memory serves me right, about a mile in each direction. I intently moved one foot forward, then another, and so on until I was moving in a very slow jog. It was probably slower than a fast walk for some, but I considered it a run. I kept going until that first fall.

It was not a graceful fall. Nor was it painless. But, as most of my falls have been, it was a fall in the right direction. See, when the voice of fear shouted “see, I told you!” so did the voice of “yes, I can!” as I rose from the sand. This time, however, the voice of “yes, I can!” was definitely the louder of the two.

Nothing solidified the “yes, I can!” voice within me like having to overcome the emotional and physical disabilities thrown on me in 2014. That voice is still the loudest within me, even when I hear that says, “no, you can’t”. The one thing that has proven true for me over the years is that whichever voice I agree with is the one that is telling the truth.

“Whether you think you can, or think you can’t, you’re right.” ~Henry Ford.

I finished the run, exhausted and bit bloodied but more confident in its completion. The next time I ran I fell less, and then one day I didn’t fall at all. I then decided to run at night when I couldn’t see, testing my brain’s ability to find balance without sight, and readjust quickly. Of course I hit the earth in that task too, but again I rose until one day I didn’t fall at all.

Perhaps without that “yes, I can!” I’d still be holding on to rails, afraid to run. Maybe I’d still be in a bed somewhere, dreaming of walking again and hating life for not being able to. I realize that not every circumstance ends the way mine did, and I still feel some effects from that stroke, but isn’t the lesson more about standing as tall as you can even when standing seems impossible? I’d like to think so.

Sitting in my own sh*t

June 18, 2019 / Tom

Right now I think I will just stew.

You know, sit in my own shit, swirl in the whirlpool of my thoughts, feel the various pains and discomforts in my flesh and poke at the scars both time and circumstance have imprinted on my mind. I think I’ll just sit there until the stench becomes unbearable. It is in that unbearable weight of being that I find the desire to get off my proverbial ass and do something else.

There is so much value in sitting in my own shit. First, I would have no idea what my shit was if I didn’t spend time in it. I’d just walk along my life’s path smiling at the the world without truly knowing what I was smiling for. I would not be able to appreciate the fragrance of my beloved marigolds if not for the stench I sometimes sit in. I would not value the breath of fresh, clean air had it not been for the stagnant pungency of my own shit. I would not understand the value of the effort I put forth to leave that cesspool behind and to head to places wildflowers grow. I have so much gratitude for the full breaths I can take because I know the pains of holding my breath while sitting in the muck.

Second, I would not understand the wonderful power of my own creative divinity had it not been for those moments when I sit in my own shit. I can create whatever it is I choose. I can sit idle, and create stories of woe and tell tales of a boy lost in the shit of others. Or, I can write my own story, one that rises out of the shit and steps into the fresh air of natural beauty. Either way, I have the power of taking the circumstances presented to me and of choosing which direction I want to go.

Right now, though, I am stewing – sitting in my own mess and observing the process. I can see the light poking through the haze, and I know I am getting tired of the discomfort. That fatigue is where great change for me occurs, where the cowardice of uncertainty is replaced by the courage of self-assurance and where I put myself on the mountain’s ledge just to get a look at the view. Transformation begins the moment fear is turned into courage and the harshness of inaction is replaced by the warrior’s surest intent.

I am, after all, a warrior even in those moments when I am stuck stewing in the piles of my own discontent. I use that time to sharpen my proverbial sword and to understand the nature of my own desires. After all, what good is a warrior who approaches living with a blunted sword and who has not seen the brilliance of his own wise introspection? What good is the shit if not used to make ground fertile just to raise delicious crops of life in the chaotic rows in which they’ve been planted?

I have found no other purpose to those moments when I stew. Those moments are not really me, but they expose me – the real me – as I emerge from the mess. I’ve found my heart there, the essence of what first pulled me from the pile. I’ve found my courage in the slop, the courage that guided me beyond it that very first time. I’ve found the truth as I’ve gazed from the haze and saw the option of light and wonders of flight. I’ve discovered, and continue to discover, things I never would have seen if I was not trying to find a way beyond the shit to walk into the expanse of nature that beckoned me.

And there I go…soon.

The Hour of Separation

June 17, 2019 / Tom

“Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.” ~Khalil Gibran.

There, this man finds himself knowing a depth eternal in its scope, not waning in the process of knowing itself in sadness.

Not long before, I woke to see her image in the shadows of an early morning. I’ve long memorized the contours of her form, the way she hides herself from the night’s disturbances, the way her hair flows from the shadows and her breath can be heard through the various white noises of our space. I swear I can hear her breath despite the noise, but I also know that it is quite possible that I hear her breath in me, just like the subtle way I feel life in her living, and love in her affection.

There I lay, just studying her in the darkness not wanting to disturb a thing. Being beside her is like arriving at a lush oasis, a place where the storms around me lessen in their ferocity and my thirst is quenched in a single touch. It is here, in her presence, that I awaken to awaken, finding myself in total bliss, breathing in the joy and gratitude I cannot, and have no desire to, run from.

Yet, as has been the way with the process of our journey, such a bounty must end and the thirst must return to be quenched another day. As is often the case, we arrive to depart where we found ourselves reunited, and my heart again breaks open in bits of stoic bewilderment as I turn to watch her leave. I know by the look on her face in that indescribable way we feel each other that she knows this pain as well. I appear less able to appreciate whatever beauty there is in this separation.

What is there in a stoic man who once was so devoted to his own solitude as to wish its liberated end? Perhaps I knew the dysfunction that demanded my aloneness, and the imprisonment I had actually created in the wanting of such a thing. Aloneness is liberating when it breeds the awareness of love, but it can be a prison when it builds a wall to love. Solitude is a wondrous space when it blooms under the spring sun, but our petals wilt when that solitude hides us in the shadows, afraid to face the light of what has hurt us before.

I seek not to hide behind those bars while calling myself “free”. I seek the wide open spaces where I see my soul dancing in the distance, her hair twirling in the breeze, her smile glistening in the morning sun. I seek no separation in the prisons we often build searching for safety. Liberation is not safe. It’s a space wrought with danger, and known through our sweet victory over both the wounds of our past and the fear they inspire. True liberation is often crawling to love’s sweet precipice, looking down into the abyss, and knowing you are free to fall or crawl back to safety. The experience of love is, though, in the plummet through the mysterious and formless spaces the child in us often fears to go.

That is where I am, plummeting through the formless mystery as my heart breaks open, and I become one with the depths of a realization; I have no idea how deep this goes, and I have yet to find that place where I will land. I just know this love, the depth of which I’ve yet to fully understand, and I know the beauty of the oasis we find ourselves in all-too-infrequently and the madness of the thirst that is a companion way too often.

I shall draw the bowstring of love until it touches my cheek and I shall let loose the arrow of truth until our hearts are united once again. Perhaps that arrow will pierce the hearts of lying demons that play tricks with us in the shadow of our safety. Perhaps that arrow will be yet another rung on the ladder of a truth two souls feel in the open presence that they share. Perhaps that arrow of truth floats in our internal compass, pointing us to the truth of our union, directing us to the True North of our journey together, and finds us in an oasis where we reside much more than we leave.

There is a wild truth in this existence, and as I watch her leave I know its power and its promise. What prose there is left to write I cannot be sure, but I am certain of its existence.

Rise

June 12, 2019 / Tom

Don’t be fooled by the voices. They will lie to you, for they wish to drive you to your knees. They will tell you tales of woe, hoping to make that sword of love you carry too heavy to bear. They will deceive you into those bleak corners of your mind, those spaces that block out the light from your radiant heart, so that you can be blinded to the truth of who you are. You are a beast, a warrior without bounds and a loving heart without cause to live in fear.

Do not own those moments when they washed you clean of your honor and robbed you of your strength. Those moments are part of the story, but they are not the story. Your story goes far beyond those moments of weakness when you banished your truth into the shadows. You are not the wounds, or the sword, or the shield, or the battles won and lost before. You are all of it, and now you get to write your own story with the pen you’ve chosen. There are so many blank pages yet to be etched with your truth. Let those be the testimony of the wonders of who you are.

Do not banish those voices from your space. Rather, embrace them, love them. Those whom were once your masters now bow to your power, though test you they will. Now, the wise self has risen up to master the story, and though the mind may mutiny in moments of remembrance the heart will remind the Master of her purpose. She will then rise, look into the Sun, and feel her feet root in solid ground while her crown touches eternity. She has risen, again, and she is magnificent.

There is a space in our souls reserved for honoring the warrior within us. The warrior is not birthed in our exit from the womb, but birthed in the the muck of our existence. Our strength is not assured in the moment of our conception, but in our victory over our own resistance, in our rising from the mud we have fallen in. Someday that moment will arise when the warrior must be heard. When that moment comes, she will stand, unsheathe her sword, and choose to rule the landscape of life that lies before her. She will uproot the weeds and give the flowers life, and she will carve into the stones of her being words of great truth, all her own, and she will see the awe of who she is.

I, but a man yet a warrior as well, will bend a knee in honor of that spirit. She will bend her knee in unity, for the warrior in us will honor the warrior in each other. The two shall embrace and light the world with a kiss, a path united in nothing but the truth, in nothing but the fearless endeavor of love.

And so it is, and so it will always be…

The Big Move

June 5, 2019 / Tom

I remember the moment I knew I wanted to live near the mountains. I was standing on a spot at an ashram in Gold Hill, Colorado, looking east (it’s called the Sacred Mountain Ashram). I had never seen anything like the views that were before me, and I had never felt such a kinship with nature as I had at that very moment. She flowed through me, and I felt a sense of home I had never experienced.

I had been to Colorado quite a few times before. I had been to Colorado Springs and meditated at the Garden of the Gods. I had been to Pueblo, Denver, and Fort Collins. I knew how good I felt here, and how nice the people seemed compared to what I was used to back East. Nothing, though, prepared me for this moment when the

mountains whispered to me through my feet, and nature called to me through the center of my chest.

There had been much transformation for me in the years prior to that moment, and there would be much more in the years afterward. I knew there was little hope that I would live in this environment. I was married at the time, and it seemed we had set roots that weren’t going to be disturbed any time soon. Yet I said a silent prayer and set a sacred intention that my soul’s voice would be heard and that, one day, I would call this place my home.

As things happened, those roots would not only be disturbed but also completely altered. In less than 5 years I would be divorced, and path would take me to the Jersey shore (the Universe does work in mysterious ways). Then I would have a heart episode that nearly killed me. Then I would have a stroke that nearly ended me too. Yes, in those 5 to 7 years I would learn more about and fall deeply in love with me. 7 years, most notably the last two of them, would do more to change my life for the positive than the previous 40 had. Actually, those last two years were the culmination of the previous 45. Suddenly, the lessons, the experiences and the challenges all started to make sense.

One day the former (ex seems like such a harsh word right now) asked me if I wanted to move to Colorado nearly 3 years after our divorce. There’s a whole story there, but the moral of it was that the Universe had answered my soul’s call and presented me with an opportunity to be where I felt most at home. I replied with an exuberant “yes!” without giving it much thought, and then prepared to move.

I had no idea what I was going to do for employment. I barely had an idea of where I was going to live. I sold over half of my belongings, loaded up a moving truck, sat next to my son and started the trek to my calling. The former was in a different truck heading in the same direction, with my daughter. It seemed like a dream, but it was my dream and I didn’t want to wake from it.

Welcome to Colorado!

Within a couple of weeks of landing in Colorado, a new career presented itself and I took it. Things started to open up professionally and personally. My children were happy, and their new schools were perfect for them. I started to explore, challenging my body and my mind to take me places that would have seemed impossible only a couple of years before. I saw things that inspired me, that created a sense of awe, that opened me up to growth I would never have imagined possible. I always believed growth was possible, but what I once thought was limited seemed boundless, and I still have not seen the ends of this wonderful universe.

I have hiked to great waterfalls, sat in natural hot springs, meditated next to rushing streams and have written while sitting on boulders as old as the earth itself. I’ve seen dinosaur footprints, talked to moose and elk, white-water rafted and climbed a 14er. On the 4 and a half year anniversary of having a stroke, I climbed, crawled and scraped my way to the top of the Manitou Inclines to celebrate recovery and ability. I’ve had interesting conversations with people from all over the world, not to mention mountain goats who have eyed me above the great treelines of high places, and with chipmunks who have followed me back down those places. I have discovered the presence of nature within me, and that expansiveness has allowed for an explosive growth. The physical and mental challenges I’ve faced coupled with the communion I’ve felt with my natural self has provided me with more than I could known without it. My soul knew exactly what it was calling for.

That growth, along with experience, has shown me that my flesh is not a boundary, it’s filter. A filter that works in multiple directions. I can feel things differently, see them more clearly, taste them from a place deeper. I can hear the beauty of a Universe begging to be known in the songbirds, in the rush of a spring runoff, in the falls of a glacial stream. I can smell the fragrance of life in every single breath.

That big move actually happened, but it also a wonderful metaphor. Big moves aren’t always grand gestures. Sometimes,for me, the biggest moves have come in the small footsteps made without falling, in the sight of my children after blindness, or in the embrace of someone who loves me just as I am. Another big move has been in challenging myself to find peace when I don’t get my way, and to find patience when it scares the living hell out of me to wait.

Sometimes the big moves don’t involve moving at all. Recently, I’ve been blessed with dreams and visions that have helped me answer questions, find a path, or discover a new way at looking at something. I’ve experienced the power of Reiki just by laying motionless and allowing what happens to happen. I’ve experienced the truth of meditation, that wonderful stillness that sustained me as a child even before I knew what it was, and reminds me of who I am as a much wiser adult.

There has always been a benefit for me in both recognizing and learning from the those big moves. The largest benefit, however, has come from making them. Nothing actually happens without my participation, even if that participation only involves acceptance ; an acceptance that allows me enjoy the ride regardless of where the wave takes me.

A Conversation With Mom

June 3, 2019 / Tom

Last night, a dream.

It wasn’t just any dream, but that lucid type of dream that somehow feels real yet your eyes open in the spot where you last closed them. It wasn’t just any dream, but the type of dream that left me shaken, stirred, yet completely at peace. It wasn’t just any dream, but a conversation between my heart and the greatest wound I had ever faced.

In this dream, I talked to my mother.

My mother had done horrible things to her son, taught him horrible lessons that would see many monuments of his life reduced to rubble. She had given him the gift of mistrust, of confounding fear that everyone in life was going to hurt him in the various ways they will, and those gifts would ruin so many wonderful moments and distort so many wonderful views along his path. So much pain. So much fear. So much to overcome.

I have long forgiven my mother for those things. After years of allowing proverbial and literal bloodfalls to pour from those open wounds, I came to the realization that she gave me those gifts but it was I who decided to hold onto them. I never did get to have a discussion with my mother about this in life. I never received an apology for the lies, for the pain, for the wounds inflicted on both my mind and my body while she breathed the air we shared. While many in my family continue the lie in denial of all that was, I was haunted by my mother’s ghost long before she died, and I still wince when those wounds are pressed, although the wincing is hardly noticeable by the world outside my own mind.

I don’t forsake that reaction. I face it and master it nearly every time I feel the triggers pulled. I just don’t feel the need to share those gifts with others any longer. I don’t care to write my story with a pen my mother gave me, on a book her husband held open for her, or with the invisible ink others in my family wish I would write it with. I wish to write my own story in a book held open with the hand of immeasurable self-love, with the scarlet ink of truth that cannot be denied, or blurred, because it is etched on parchment that readily accepts it, forgives it, and allows it to be with great honor.

I close my eyes each night with a meditation of remembrance. I remember the lesson, the journey of transformation. I hear the voices, and I tell them I love them too. I close my eyes knowing who I am, and honor the journey that has brought me to that fortunate space I wish all could see. Mostly, I remember who I am and say to the little boy, the young man, and my present heart “I love you.”

That has been my practice for years now. Last night was no different. As I dozed with the words “I love you” still echoing in my Being I could feel the familiar peace settle over my body and mind. I could hear a memory of the rapid flow of a nearby creek spilling from my ears. I felt the warmth of a Spring Colorado sun on my flesh, and the coolness of the northern breeze raising bumps on my skin. A memory of the clean mountain air filling my lungs as my legs turned on my bike followed by a desire to travel great distances in this way. My soul is alive, my body must continue on to meet its mission, my journey is nowhere near complete.

“Tommy…”

I heard her through the memory of the rushing creek.

“Huh?” My soul replied.

“I’m sorry.”

It seemed all sound surrendered to silence with those words. I could still feel all that was, but I could only hear the sound of her voice coming from all places in the landscaped scene around me.

“Mom?”

“Yeah. It’s me. And I’m sorry.”

“Well, you should be. You left and never said a word.”

“You have every right to be angry. I just hope you can forgive me so that you aren’t carrying that weight around with you. It’s not fair to you to be burdened with such a weight.”

“I’ve forgiven you, Mom. I’ve also forgiven myself for the weight I still carry. Perhaps in time I will be able to drop it all, but I no longer beat myself up for carrying it. I do my best, and when those leaves decide its time to fall from this tree, I won’t hold on to them.”

“I hope not. None of this was your fault. I can’t help the way things were. All I can say is that I always loved you, even when I could not show it. I always wanted what was best for you, even when I got in your way. I always wanted to be the best mother for you I could be, even though I failed. I just wasn’t strong enough to turn from my pain, my anguish, and my addictions.”

“I understand. Ending the patterns nearly killed me. I guess that battle can’t be waged by everyone.”

“True. I’ve seen what you went through. My soul has cried real tears for what I’ve done. I know, however, that you will do great things with what you’ve reclaimed from me. What I tried to steal from you…”

Her voice trailed off as if she was remembering. I sighed. She had hit the nail on the head. She had tried to steal everything from me – my identity, my story, my life, and my heart.

“Tommy,” she interrupted her silence.

“Yes?”

“I must tell you this. While I am not proud of what I’ve done, I can now see purpose in it. My pain was strong, very strong. But you needed it to be.”

“How so?”

“Look at your strong body. You know the value of overcoming resistance, how the harder the workout the stronger you become in the process of completing it. My pain challenged me and I was not strong enough to defeat it. I gave it to you, and you were strong enough to not only defeat it, but defeat the pain created in you during that process. My son, I am so proud of you. Death was the only way I could change. You’ve changed in life, with life, with so much more to go.”

“Yeah, I know Mom. I just wish it hadn’t been so hard, and that I hadn’t hurt others in the process of dealing with our pain.”

There it was. Our pain!

“I wish there was more in life that had brought us together than just pain. It overshadows those few, but important memories we could have shared.”

“Perhaps one day we can share them. When the time is right.”

“Oh, we will.”

I smiled, and closed my eyes.

“Mom, I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Good, because I’m not a ghost. I’m not haunting you save the ability you give me to haunt you. I don’t reside ‘out there’. I live inside of you. When you pass you will realize that you live inside your own children and those you love. You will live in their actions, in their memories, in their trials and in their victories. You will be a part of every breath they take, every footprint they leave on the earth. You won’t be a ghost, you will be very real in the ripples you’ve sent with those little pebbles of you you’ve thrown out into the ether.”

“I really wish we could have had these types of talks years ago. Things would have been very different.”

“Exactly, but they weren’t meant to be different. All of those pebbles that you find, those stones you throw out into the ether, have a purpose. They aren’t there by accident. You’ve written about that before, you’ve seen that in your visions. Every moment in your life had and continues to have a purpose. It’s time you started realizing that purpose. It’s time you picked up those pebbles as well, and then toss them into the ether. Don’t hide from them. Don’t cover them. They have great value, and they need to fulfill their purpose.”

“How do I do that?”

“You will see. It’s time you and I write a book. It’s time we stop hiding in shame of what we have done and start lighting torches with that light. It is a light, my son, trust me on that.”

I thought it odd that the woman who had taught me so much about lying, about the abuse of trust, was now asking me to trust her.

“I know, it’s a crazy request,” she replied to my unspoken point. “But it’s important. Your forgiveness has exposed many things to you. It has brought your wisdom into the light. It has brought your strength to the forefront. It has shown you love, it has sung you songs of hope. It has brought me to you right now. So, you can either choose to use it, or not, and see what it brings you next.”

I knew in my entirety that she was right. I wondered where this woman was throughout my life.

“I am, what you feel right now, who I always was. Wise, loving, truthful…it’s who we all are when we rid ourselves of the layers others place on us. The layers we choose to keep swaddling ourselves in. We are all wise when we drop the veil of stupidity others place on us. We are all loving when we rid ourselves of the fear others gift us with. We are all truth when we drop the lies the shadows bring into our hearts. You know this, you’ve seen it. That is the first pebble you need to cast out there. It’s ripple will be felt far and wide.”

“I will. But how?”

“Well, first you need to wake up and process this. You need to be shaken. You need to quake with all your might. That will rid your tree of the weakest leaves, and allow those pebbles, those gems you’ve been holding on to, to fall to a space where you can pick them up and throw them. Then, watch what happens.”

“Ok. Mom?”

“Yes, Tommy,” she replied.

“Thank you. I can’t tell you what this means to me.”

“You don’t have to. I know. Remember, I am not ‘out there’. I am right inside you, so I know. Now, wake up!”

My eyes opened with a startle as the words “wake up” brought me out of my sleep. I looked around, half scared and half crying, shaken to my core. All I could hear as the quaking went on throughout me was “watch what falls. You will see….”

There will, I am sure, be more to come. For now, I’ll just watch what falls.