Category: Short Stories (Page 6 of 46)

I Woke Up

April 8, 2019 / Tom

Last night I had a dream. A horrible dream that exposed a sore and pulsing wound, telling me that I am not good enough, and that I will die alone.

I woke up shaken. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a dream like that, one that reminds me of my child self sitting in a room questioning everything and the silent tears of a young man helplessly lost in his own despair.

I woke up sensitive to everything, especially those things that confirmed what those voices were saying. They say to me that I am not important, that I am not worthy, that I am not considered. I hear the voices of my parents in that chorus, as I am forced to sit in my room forgotten, waiting for those footsteps, afraid of every sound the old house settling would tease me with. I endured so much pain as a child and I try as a man to weather the storms that gather in my sleep.

I woke up wondering if dreams are really just fantasy or if they are a realm all of their own. How can such a fine mist tear at the granite of my will with such a ferocity? What ghosts see this man and believe they can tear at his soul without some recompense? What memories, instilled since I left the womb, can rip apart the beauty of what is?

I’m sure the demons wish to see this warrior laying surrendered to them, sobbing in the midst of despair, wondering about my will to live. Surely they have tried before, finding both success and failure in the undertaking. They know, after decades of both victory and defeat, which areas to probe to find the former. Yet I know their games too, and I know that sometimes the weakness they expose is the area I need to focus on the most. That’s the thing about demons, though masters at the attack, they are rarely well-schooled at deception. They attack straightaway, where the weakness is, never feigning to outflank the strongest parts of my will.

So I woke up, sword in hand, quivering in the attack yet strong in the counter. Throw a weak jab and I will hit you with a strong hook. Plunder weakly into range and find a barrage awaiting. Attack me if you must, but find the teeth bared of a mighty lion who has little desire to soften his bite.

That is what such dreams do. They first expose that pulsing wound and then the warrior who is expert at protecting it. I will not succumb to the gnashing teeth that lives in the hellfire of these memories. I will stand, and I will fight, with unmatched ferocity. Then, when I’ve beaten the demons and the battle is over, I will love them and forgive them as the wounds of battle heal and the blood washes from my soul.

Perhaps that is the great lesson of my life. The demons are strong but no match for a will tempered by their fire. Perhaps it is time they learned that lesson, too.

The Window

April 2, 2019 / Tom

There is a window that exists between my dreamscapes and the perceived realities of my mind. Here, the vivid tales of wonder that exist mesh with the certainty of the way things are and I experience both the delight of flight and the disappointment of being stuck on the ground. The transition needs to be complete, and I often find myself wishing to remain kissing the clouds instead of rolling off my bed on to the floor beside me.

On one side of the window, I can hear you tapping on the glass, your voice melodically calling for me. As I sleep I can feel you near, and I move to touch you. The sun within me burns in its brightest hue as I search for your flesh, but on the other side of the window I realize that space is empty. I call out your name, and on one side of the window I can hear your reply while on the other I can only hear the echo of my own pleading. On one side of the window I see the awe in your eyes as the mountains illuminate in an early morning lavender, while on the other I watch the gift alone. On one side of the window I can feel your grip tighten on my hand and your head fall to my shoulder in delight, on the other side my hand remains empty and I can only feel your presence in my heart.

If given a choice between which side of the window to remain I would always choose the side that you are on. I would break the glass and tear away the walls that surround it just to get to you. I would ask the gods to banish any wall between us. I would see the fear of truth turned to dust before our eyes, and watch as the divine winds of love swept our landscape clean.

For now, I have little choice. Soon, your tapping will silenced and your voice will fade. My feet will hit the floor and my day of reality will begin. As the darkness in my space gives way to the morning sun I will again whisper your name, awaiting the certain silence that will follow. It is the way of a warrior accustomed to his solitude who is also seeking its end. I will surrender to the moments when I am on this side of the window while hoping for those moments when I can peer through the window and feel your hand again.

Forlorn can be the mind who finds such great love in dreams that he wishes for them in his waking moments. Weakened can be the heart beating to find slumber as its way of dancing in the light of love. Yet strong is the warrior who can live his life to see his dreams born on the other side of the window, who can strive for summits that exist on the other side of the wall. Her voice is so worth it. The promise of his touch will see him through. The desire of a soul reborn to find its other half will not allow obstacles of the mind to stand in its way. He sees that now, and hope she sees it too.

The Face of Love

March 26, 2019 / Tom

Painful was the voice of childhood as it screamed from his entrails.

Commitment is like a knife whose blade is sharp and whose point cuts deeply. Treat it with care, avoid it when necessary. When unavoidable, keep the blade at a distance, and never run with the knife unsheathed.

Afraid was the voice of manhood as it echoed in the caverns of his mind.

Fear has shredded you like a hungry bear seeking food after a winter’s slumber. Approach it knowing its nature is never to injure, but in its hunger the frenzy devours whatever it must to survive.

Hopeful is the voice of love cascading through the waterfalls of his soul.

Remember that hand tightly, yet tenderly, holding your own? Remember her eyes as they lovingly turned your walls of stone to dust? Forget what you’ve seen before her. Forget what has hurt you. Discard those weapons you’ve used to keep the heart of love at a distance. Invite that divine serenity into your encampment, and see what words will spring from that union.

A man without his voices can feel lost for the moment. A man ignoring all that he once believed kept him safe trembles in the face of the vanishing-yet-false security. He simply seeks to dive into those eyes and feel that hand again. He feels lost yet not forgotten, afraid yet filled with courage, needy yet secure in his own space. Confusion tells the tale of some wondrous, pending transformation. It is now, in this light, that his shell can become a most dangerous place. He just wants to be warmed in her arms, yet he feels bitter cold at the height of a beautiful Spring morn.

The onslaught continues.

Loud is the voice of memory, shaking both the flesh and the heart of a warrior who’s left his sword and shield out beyond the gates of his Thermopylae. He feels naked, unarmed and unprotected as he faces the hoards of his despair, the very beasts who are sure to trample him in the mud beneath his feet.

His dreams pierce like a spear pressed firmly against his chest, a crimson teardrop runs freely down his skin. The ground is fertile with such tears, and there he has found a willow tree whose branches caress his heart as the winds shred the last veil adorning his tired soul. Love is the sweetest refreshment, yet his chalice has been blown to where the Sun shall kiss the Sea, that place where the sand cleanses his feet and the waves are poisonous to his lips. Still, he would gulp the ocean dry to have both her cup and his wine on the same table, in the same place they both call home.

The demons advance, and he reaches for his sword. He’s left it back there, beyond the gates. He reaches for his shield, and remembers his sword leans up against it. In their absence he will face the hoards with no means of offense or defense. Fists clenched and with a will wavering yet strong, he braces for battle. In a moment of insecurity he closes his eyes to die with a vision of his choosing. There, in the darkness of his final fear, glimmers a beaming image imprinted somewhere beyond his grasp. On the clouds of heaven he sees her, the image of his beloved smiling with eyes that changed everything. He is ready to surrender and meet her there, somewhere beyond the walls of eternity where all angels go to rest.

Suddenly, the ground once shaking calms. The sound of the hoards pouring from unmoored ships just beyond the breaking waves goes silent. The air once choked with dust from the hooves and feet of suffering, settles. All that is left standing is a man, alone in the sand, tears spilling down his face cleansing the dirt from his skin. Naked, alone, yet clothed in the truest togetherness he has ever known, the man has seen something he was certain few have ever seen before.

He has seen the Face of Love.

Though others would torment him in his smile, smile he would. Though others would not understand the depth of his soul, he would bathe in the deepest parts he could find. Though others would not seek the wounds that led him toward the smile saw during his moment of surrender, he has blessed every scar. The willow tree that had sprouted despite the salts of his despair knew something even he did not. The willow knew his depth, his healing, and the blessing of his smile. In return he just wanted her near, a blessed reflection of the truth he had spent a lifetime uncovering; the embodiment of the promise made through him at the moment of his conception.

“Please, come back,” he said to the image flying East as it rose to greet him.

“I will,” came the reply.

“Now…” his voice trailing off in the absence of a will to demand anything of her.

Silence.

He closed his eyes tightly again, praying for a return to the beauty that saw the weaponless man victorious in battle. There she was, as if she was standing before him, teasing him in the darkness with a light he wanted to be eternal. His tears flowed when she smiled and the thirst returned as he bent to kiss her. He was there, wherever she was, home. They were there, wherever they stood together, safe at last.

Ask and you shall receive…

March 15, 2019 / Tom

There are moments for writers when words escape them. For this writer, those moments are often tied to feelings of disconnect when the soul and mind just need a break from the mundane side of life. When those moments come, I dive into solitude and seek aloneness like it is my long-lost friend. That dive into solitude takes me into the depths of my inner self, and what I find there often shakes me to the core of my being. It’s just the way it is, and has been, for this pilgrim in the pilgrimage of his lifetime.

And thus it’s been. The disconnect from the outer world serves to reconnect me to my inner world. It’s a time when the student and master unite into one voice and I find I am often talking to myself in the abyss, responding to echoes and creating more as I float in between stillness and chaos. Finally, the stillness comes and I venture into it until that moment when I wish to leave it again.

It’s been that way for me the last few days. I’ve written a bit. I’m working on a novel called “Because, Love” as well as a few other projects that fit my mind’s need for abstraction and bend in the creative road I walk. That writing, however, has not come as easily as it usually does, and I’ve had to take the unusual step of forcing myself to create instead of simply translating the flow I can easily tap. It bothers me, to some extent, because I find few things as rewarding as writing and even fewer things as awesome as that connection I have with the creative source. When I am in it, the world looks very different for me.

This morning I awoke early as usual, and my focus instantly went to the empty space where the creative energy usually is. I sighed a bit, and decided I’d just spend a little more time meditating by using up the space I use for writing. In meditation, I felt myself asking for connection to the creative source that I’ve been missing. There seemed nothing in response, just stillness, so I moved on by exploring the connection I feel to my beloved and her family, to those mountains shielding my western flank, to the sea way out east, and to my children. I could feel the mountains kissing my feet, the sea spraying my skin with bliss, the smiles of my children and the touch of my beloved. It’s an overwhelming feeling if I am honest, and sometimes that feeling pushes me deeper into stillness.

Meditation over, I did the fatherly duties that requirement my attention in the weekday mornings and took a look at Facebook to pass some time. A friend had responded to a post with the song Rocky Mountain High by John Denver. I love that song (he knows that), and given the depth of connection I was coming from it resounded incredibly.

I hopped in the shower with a John Denver playlist ready to boom through my speaker. It started with Take Me Home, Country Roads and then went to Annie’s Song.

Having come off an intense meditation filled with loving connection that fed both my mind and my heart, Annie’s Song hit the mark. Soon tears mixed with the droplets of my man-made waterfall. I leaned against the wall with my hand, allowing the warm water to flow down my nakedness as I released whatever it was blocking me from creative flow. I never sobbed, never sighed as it wasn’t that type of release. Instead, my body stood upright as I turned my face into the spray, symbolically washing myself of restraint.

Then, the words just began to flow. They were unstoppable forces of nature that came at me like a flash flood. I immediately felt that oft-present flow of creativity return, reminding me of the omnipresence of love and the deep connection I feel in it. I am a lover, after all, and even though I’ve never sold my sword I don’t brandish it much anymore. I feel so much stronger in love than I do in battle.

The Universe obviously works on a schedule not always in line with mine. The Universe will always conspire to help me achieve my goal, but not always on my time frame or in the way I expect it to. Instead, it comes in its own time in its own way, always having my best interest at heart. I guess the lesson is that if one just gets out of the way and stops trying to speed things up or slow them down, the conspiracy of Universe and heart will provide a long-lasting and enjoyable moment.

Today, for me, the Universe used a friend, my loved ones, and a song to give me what I wanted. It certainly didn’t come in the way I expected, but it did come. It certainly didn’t meet my schedule, but it did arrive. All I had to do was get out of the way.

Peace.

The Compass

March 6, 2019 / Tom

In the whirlwind of things that seem to be, a man can get lost in happenstance. He can look at his condition and let the winds of his mind blow without control, often decimating things he’s built with care in his life. He often looks at what is going on around him and asks “why?” without ever really knowing the answer. The question may often be rhetorical but the answer is always there, ready to be explored.

It’s easy to get lost in the wilderness of mind when you’ve either forgotten, or failed to obtain, your heart’s compass. It’s an easy thing to get lost to the fear or ambivalence that life has gifted us. It’s even easier to ignore the compass we’ve been blessed with, since we often cede our power to someone or something else in our journey without realizing that they can only guide us with a compass uniquely theirs. We leave ourselves to the mercy of our minds often devoid of a compass that points true North, and to the sextants of others who can only point to their charted path. We then take their instrument as our own.

To the demons of fear I always ask, “Where would I be without you?” They laugh and come up with some nonsensical answer that may make sense to some gurus, but not to my heart. I value my journey, even the times when I’ve become helplessly lost, but I also understand that I would value my journey even if I had made it with a lot less fear. After all, if things are as they were meant to be wouldn’t they be the same even if I had been navigated more by my heart compass and less by demons who only serve their own purpose? Would I not have gotten to the mountains and to the sea anyway but with a lot less baggage and quite a few less scars? Maybe. It’s best not to add that question to the whirlwind of things that seem to be since I can already feel overburdened by the weight of that satchel.

To the angels of love I’ve asked, “Where were you in my times of need?” Flashbacks of affirmations I once left strewn about my space come to me in that instance. Pictures and words and sticky notes blowing about in the room as I went about my day not living a single one of them. It seemed an agreement I had with life was to collect the affirmations and ideas of others but never actually use them. I was too busy listening to demons of fear and playing in their domain to actually try. I would collect things like “Follow your heart” and “life is best lived outside your comfort zone” while never actually following my heart nor stepping foot outside my comfortable box. Rumi would instruct me to “be notorious” but all I could do is worry about my reputation. It seemed then, though I know better now, that the demons were simply overpowering the angels. Demons can sing and laugh so loudly that little else can be heard, and the echoes of their song can stretch for an eternity if you allow it.

That was not, however, meant to be my story. My story was meant to be one of a hand rising above the ashes, of a man climbing out of a pit to dust himself off and head toward the sunset. It was to be a story of resilience, of hope, and of love. A man who once listened to demons and thought the angels had forsaken him now stands tall in the light of love, and I only look back to remind myself of what an incredible journey it has been. Through the valleys to the mountains I’ve walked, crawled and ran sometimes without any direction and sometimes in the folly of those pointing the way. One day I would find my compass and I would follow a path I had chosen.

That is not to say fear has not been present. Fear is always present. In fact, I can find very few moments of note in my life where fear was not there doing its best to influence the outcome. Fear is a horrible compass though. It often spins frantically with no rhyme or reason, and one can get desperately lost trying to make sense of its way points. So much attention must be paid to the spinning dial that we miss so much around us, including those things we trip on and those walls we run into. In my story, I’ve discovered my heart and that has proven to be a reliable, stable and complete compass. Even in those times when fear is shouting in the caverns of my mind, I’ve learned to pause and look at my heart’s compass. So far, it has always pointed me in the right direction. Where fear has often gotten me lost, I’ve discovered a true path in love. Best of all, I never lose sight of the things around me in love. Love simply does not demand that type of attention. It does get my attention, but rarely in a way that doesn’t highlight the beauty of everything around me.

Perhaps that is one of the major differences between fear and love? Perhaps it is the level of attention we must devote to the former while the latter is busy highlighting what we really should focus on? It would seem to make sense in my experience. The demons demanded so much attention that I could not hear the angels. The angels who seemed to have forsaken me in their silence could have been just less demanding of my attention. Perhaps they knew I would eventually find them. It just could be that they just accepted the fact I hadn’t, and may never introduce myself.

There must be a reason the main word in compassion is compass. I’d suggest that it is there because when love is our guiding instrument we not only offer compassion to the demons and to others, but to ourselves. My angels offered my demons compassion until the moment when I could find them in the midst of my suffering. At the moment when I traded in one set of guides for another, when I began to focus on the love within me rather than the fear instilled in me, everything changed. I found my truth North. I hope we all get that chance.

What Unfolds

February 22, 2019 / Tom

Today began as a snowy one here in Boulder, Colorado. The breeze has scattered the fine white droplets before they find a resting place below, and I’ve awakened before my normal time. I’m usually awake by 5 or 5:30 am and finished my meditation and morning rituals by 6. Today, I was up before 4:30, and out of bed by 5:30.

The dreams. Those fucking fullish-moon dreams. They rattle me sometimes, even when I can’t remember them. My eyes open as if something bad has just happened yet I can’t remember for the life of me what it was. It’s like finding a bruise on your inner thigh and not being able to explain it. I just know there is a black and blue mark somewhere and it isn’t very comfortable.

That’s how I woke up this morning. Uncomfortable. Unsettled. Imagine waking up and finding your entire living space disheveled and having no idea why. You trip over fallen books and shards of broken things until you can find a light switch that may, or may not, work. I’m standing there, in the middle of this disarray, hoping that I don’t do myself any injury while hoping everyone else has survived. Now, where is that light switch?

For me, that switch is meditation. Today, I found some cool vibes on my phone and tried to settle into the frequency. Soon, the sound vanished and I’d become melted into everything. Whatever comes from there is not truly up to me. It just comes.

This morning I just felt the cold. I felt naked in the winter, my skin dampened by the snow as the air chilled me past discomfort. I had chosen to be outside in this condition, but the weather had changed and now I was cold. I looked for shelter and found none. I hoped for a fire, and saw none. I was at the mercy of the weather, and I don’t like being at the mercy of things I’m unable to change.

I called out only to get an echo in reply. I tried to find my footprints in the snow but the wind had erased them. I knew in my soul the only thing I could do was keep walking. Something would show up; either a fire or shelter or death itself. Whatever it was, the answer didn’t reside where I was standing, but where I was going.

So I walked. And walked. Then I walked some more. In the darkness the snow was getting deeper and it was becoming harder to walk. My body was aching from the cold, and I was getting tired. In my Being I heard a voice telling me that I could just give up and lay down or I could keep walking. One was to die, the other was to live.

I came out of my meditation just as I had come out of sleep. This meditation was disorienting, and seemed to be suggesting to me that I was soon to be tested. I know I am under some amounts of stress, but that didn’t seem to be it. It felt as if something was coming, the weather was shifting, and I was going to have a choice to make.

True to form, I will wait to see what unfolds while trying to remain an active participant.

A Valentine’s Realization

February 14, 2019 / Tom

I had intended this post to start as a testament to the over-commercialized day of love that is Valentine’s Day. In that version of this day, we are guilted, pressured and prodded into expressing our love. I was going to write about how the day once reserved for people in romantic relationships (or expressing their desire to be) had blown up into a day when cards and gifts had to be bought for everyone we know who may get offended at not being considered “important enough” to be our Valentine.

Then my youngest daughter did something that changed my mind. I took her to a store so she could buy gifts for her best friend.

“You know Valentines Day used to be for people in love. Now, it seems we have to get parents, friends, children, and even coworkers at least a card. It’s crazy,” I said to her.

She explained to me that her friend felt lonely on this day because she didn’t have a boyfriend. “Ah, the needs of youth,” I thought to myself, fully realizing that many of us never grow out of it.

She continued to explain that the gifts and card she was getting her best friend was to cheer her up and to brighten up her day. My daughter was, in fact, reminding me of why this day mattered.

I do, as I believe we all do to some level, sometimes get so caught up in my day that I forget to express the care and love I have for those around me. Sometimes my mind so absorbs my attention that I have little to offer those who deserve it. Sometimes I just am so human that my frailties keep me from that pulsing light within me dying to get out.

Perhaps, then, having one day whose soul purpose is to set an intention of doing all those things that may get lost on “normal” days isn’t such a bad idea. While I am not a big fan of the commercialization of such a day, I do see its value in our finding ways to express this love and care to those we feel it for. That doesn’t necessarily mean taking the easy way out and getting a card. Sometimes it means doing something special. A kiss. A note. Or just being together and sharing an intimacy that unites the soul and heart in one, awesome purpose.

I had gotten my daughter a stuff animal. I fell in love with its eyes. They were big and round and soft, and I knew she’d like it. I walked into her bedroom this morning and gave it to her.

“Hey. I saw this and thought of you. I thought you’d like it. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Her smile was enough for me. Truly, she never had to say thank you or give me anything in return. Her smile was the gift, and the words she said afterward (that are between her and me) were just icing on the cake.

I have spent many Valentine’s Days alone. I’ve spent many with someone while feeling very alone. This year, and perhaps it is time, I don’t plan on doing either. In fact, I can’t remember feeling so “not alone” in my life. It doesn’t have as much to do with who is in my life as it does with how I not only feel about those in my life, but how I express how I feel toward those in my life. What’s truly different about this Valentine’s Day and all the others I’ve experienced is what is within me. It is also what I am allowing out of me.

So, Happy Valentine’s Day. <3

The Night Sky

February 8, 2019 / Tom

I can sit in my moments of darkened glory, wishing it all away. I can wish for the absolute erasure of pain bodies collected over the years. I can hope for a clean slate where the moments of yesterday all dissolve into the glorious daylight of today. I can wish to never, ever, hear those demons laughing in my direction again.

But why would I? Why would I wish to forget those beatings that made me an idiot and a wise man all at the same time? Why would I wish to forget the darkness of my suffering? Why would I hope to lose the lessons learned as I fell blind and uncertain of survival in a bed far from my children, my home, my precious island sands? Why would I dishonor the death and destruction I have witnessed and the finality those things have shown me? These things have been gifts and rather than see them as weapons I can use against myself and others I now see them as tools I can use to till vast fields. I can create fertile soil and plant beautiful flowers knowing full well that those seeds will need to survive their own night before their glorious blooming.

They are a part of me. They represent insane setbacks and painful falls but they also prove glorious victories and wondrous risings. Those moments, both the falling and the rising, represent the worst and best of life and the worst and best of me. In the worst these moments attest to the darkness of humanity. In the best these moments represent that remarkable persistence and greatness of a heart that just wanted to live.

I truly doubt that my desire to live could have been expressed without the threats to my life that enlightened it. I believe that the great love I have flowing inside of me would not have been as seen had it not been for the enormity of fear and desolation that caused me to pull it out of my dormant heart. I see both as two sides of life’s powerful pendulum, and as that pendulum swung uninhibited from the extreme darkness it could only return to an extreme light. As is true with any pendulum it drags with it bits of one experience into the other as it moves, often bringing bits of darkness into my light and bits of light into my darkness.

Those bits of light often provide me focus when my soulful night arrives. I often feel cold and alone in that darkness until my heart’s eyes adjust to my surroundings and the stars, those little bits of light dragged into my night, come into view. Then my proverbial ship rights itself and the loving navigator within me can set his sights on a destination truer to my heart.

Isn’t it the master sailor who has experienced the roughest seas? I may carry with me the trauma of harsh storms even onto the calm waters but I will appreciate that calmness. I’ve learned valuable lessons in cyclones caused by lies and fear and although I can still feel the now subtle rocking of my soul’s hull in the calmest seas, it is the calmness that I see. It is her hand on my chest that I feel despite the shaking of my mindquakes. It is love’s caress I know even when the demons begin their laughter. It is the sight of a smile from those I love that emboldens me even in the memory of my blindness. It is walking in life’s domain that enriches me even as the memory of my body being frozen to a hospital bed reminds me of its frailty.

Perhaps I am fortunate to have darkness serve as the canvas on which I allow love to paint its masterpiece. There is nothing like that blackened space to allow the colors of love to jump right out of the scene. I was a child who could not decide for himself what experiences were gifted him. Today, however, I am a man who has lived with scars on his heart and healed with a passion flowing through his veins. I cannot run from darkness when it creeps into my daylight. I face it, embrace it and let the experience flow as the pendulum of life swings. I then accept that darkness and ask it what it must teach me. Being the teacher that it is the darkness stays with me until I have learned the lesson. Then it fades as the pendulum swings toward daylight. I’ve found the darkness simply cannot stay long in the face of a rising Sun.

I cannot apologize, in good conscience, for the passion and the strength that have provided me with not only survival but the awareness of the lessons that have blessed my life. I cannot be honest and apologize for the feelings that course within me as the pendulum swings, nor can I love purely if not accepted fully as it swings in either direction. However, as the master of my ship I can change my focus from the dark skies to the divine suns that dot that canvas. My work is in allowing the dark sky to do its thing while I never, ever, forget the stars that are a gift as well.

“Got a mind full of questions and a teacher in my soul, and so it goes.“

A Man With Hands in His Pockets

February 5, 2019 / Tom

To wit, a man who sees his future before him yet stands idly, hands in his pockets feeling he owes an explanation. He wants to scream to the night sky but knows the futility of such an attempt. He wants to beg for something not yet made real but understands that nothing he can say will raise the flower from its seed. He meanders about the paved circles of his mind looking for some hard dirt on which to run.

Nothing.

Perhaps he offers too much, lays too much of his heart on the altar of hope to deserve a just reply from those gods. Perhaps his words have become stale to the ears with whom he speaks. Perhaps the futility is his only because he offers a future he alone can see. He cannot turn the water in his cup to wine, and he cannot wish away the seconds until the promised land touches his feet. Perhaps then silence should be his answer. Even the most loving eyes miss the light only in the throes of darkness, and the sweet non-taste of air is missed most in the sunken depth of nothingness.

To the soul wearer of my heart, an empty stare is offered in return for my glances. To the stars that hide behind time and space, I beg you don’t burn out before you twinkle in this sky. The dawn is coming and then nothing of this will matter. The dreams will end and the day will begin while the ears starve for your voice and the heart bleeds a name uninterested in its story. It’s the way of things until the spring flows soak the driest earth and the white-capped mountains transform into the greenish hue of renewal. Even then no songs from the sky are promised and the man with his hands in his pockets will be standing where he always has, hoping for a miracle to arrive.

It is the nature of things that the winter’s snows will arrive despite the prayers of souls seeking love in the sunshine. The gods do not heed the desires of such souls. They only know the singularity of their whims, desires, and fears. The frosty touch of Winter fears the sweet caress of Spring and no prayers, no honorable gestures shadowed in the light of love will change a thing. Winter will tremble at the sight of Her thawing, and Spring will quake in the thought of Summer’s arrival. The man will stand to look at this thing and that thing with fears of his own. Fears of an unrealized season in the unrelenting onslaught of time. A man who has a relationship with his mortality will watch the days fly by, powerless to stop them and helpless in begging others not to waste them. The dumpsters of our lives are filled with days wasted and dreams broken in the finality of breath and in the never-ending quest for just one more.

In the end, the man will just stuff his hands in his pockets, caressing sweet notes of love and hope left tucked neatly within. The tear that falls will land helplessly on the dust of his boots, stained with miles of trails walked in solitude yet dotted with what-could-have-beens and promises he always kept sacred. Perhaps in this version of the end, the man will know his age mirrored in the hopelessness of his solitude and he will just lay down somewhere and breathe his last. Some will read the notes left in his pockets and wonder how he could have possibly ended up here. Others will know the instant they read them.

He says goodnight to no one in particular and the echo replies mockingly in his mind. He knows that he needs nothing more at this moment. There is no one left to hear his blessings, so he departs the day with a dream in hand, hand in his pockets, and love flowing freely from his heart.

The Orb

February 1, 2019 / Tom

The Orb

There was a familiar tug on my arm as I stood, stuck in awe. You were standing under the willow tree near where I live, holding a bouquet of yellow, burnt-orange and purple flowers. You were, as always, radiantly beautiful, in a blue dress that hugs your form, smiling in the way you do, your eyes lighting up my entire universe.

I am led to you by an unseen force, tugging at my arm and taking me gently to where you stand. I could feel the grass beneath my feet and it feels warm, as if the Sun had taken her time sharing gifts with the ground beneath me. When I arrived next to you, you looked into my eyes like you did when we first met. I could remember the warmth that I had once only imagined become real, and suddenly everything around me became real as I knew nothing would ever be the same again. I was reliving that moment again.

“Don’t be nervous,” you whispered, just as you had back then.

“Are you sure you are ready?” I asked, almost as afraid of the question as I was the answer.

You laughed, and then put your hand on my chest. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are.”

It seemed in that moment as if the blossoms from a million cherry trees suddenly rained from heaven. I watched as the pinkish flowers landed in your hair like snowflakes, dotting your blue dress and adding beautiful to a moment that was already exceedingly beautiful.

I could feel every fear I’d ever felt, every apprehension, every doubt, every insecurity welling up inside of me. You must have felt it too, because you closed your eyes and bowed your head, pressing your hand harder into my chest. I could feel my knees weakening, but it was as if your hand was holding me up. Breath was hard to come by in that moment, but I stood there waiting for it to return as I knew it would. My heart seemed as if it could not beat any faster.

I let out a loud sigh, one that seemed to echo all around us. A breeze blew through the willow tree, and took some of the blossoms with it. I felt a calm come over me, and in that moment you looked up at me with a smile. You removed your hand, and in it was a greenish-white orb.

“You can now say goodbye to this story,” said a voice from the unseen. “This orb contains all of what your mind has taken and converted to fear. Each and every belief created by events outside of your understanding is there. Each and every story of your demise rests nicely in that ball. Now, do with it as you choose.”

I quickly took it from you.

“This is not yours to carry,” I said. “Thank you for holding it for the time you have. This is my burden, I am sorry if I have shared it with you for too long.”

You bowed your head and took my free hand in your own. You gently kissed it and then hugged it to your face.

“My love, give me a moment,” I said. “I will be right back. Promise you won’t go anywhere.”

You laughed again, and I was reminded how much I love the way your lips look when you are smiling.

“I’ll be here.”

I took a short walk as the breeze picked up. The space around me was filled with cherry blossoms and the sound of wind rushing through the trees. I looked at the orb.

“You’ve been a part of me for so long. I’m not sure if I will miss you, but to be honest I feel a little sad to let you go. It feels like I am losing a piece of me, or even a crutch I’ve used along this journey. I never believed I’d be afraid to let go of my story, of my fears, but here I am trembling at the thought.”

My heart wanted desperately to return to you, to take your hand, and write our own unique story. I knew I could not do that holding on to this orb. What it held was filling up too many pages of our book, leaving very little room for us to write a story of our own.

“Goodbye,” I said as I let the orb go. It was half a prayer and half a statement of intention.

At the moment I let go of the orb, I felt free. I felt weightless. I felt renewed, strong, and certain of my direction. I could see you in the distance, and knew that was where I was always meant to be. It was there I would return. I walked back to your side.

“I’m back, my love. I have given to the ether what I no longer could hold. I’ve made space for you, for us, in the book of our life. I want so much to begin to tell this story, to put our hand to pen to write without fear, without hesitation, and without blurring it with words from my past. I give my life to this story, the one that began in my knowing you existed and one that cannot end in this eternity.”

You looked directly into my eyes.

“I love you, my beautiful man. I need to take a walk of my own. There is more room for us I need to make.”

I looked down and saw an orb of your own held tightly in your hand. Tears welled up in my eyes as I kissed your free hand, knowing what you were about to do.

“I will be here when you return, my beautiful woman. Do what you must. I love you with all of my heart.”

“I love you too. I will be back, I promise.”

You turned and began your walk. My eyes followed you as far as they could, but soon you were enveloped in a sea of cherry blossoms. I sat on the bench, uttered a prayer for your safety, and sent my love to walk with you.

“I will tell you what I told her,” said the unseen. “Of all the healers you have sought, of all the love you have desired, of all the truth you have asked for she is the greatest of them all. It isn’t that she healed you. She led you to only one who could heal you. It isn’t just that she loves you. She led you to the greatest lover you would ever know. It isn’t just that she is the truth. She led you to the greatest truth a heart can find. And you led her to her own salvation. When you find those things within you, you will find them in her touch, in the breeze of Spring, in the glow of a full moon. There will be nowhere they do not exist. That will be the story you both will write in this book that we have given you. The book in which you have cleared the pages for the greatest story of your life.

Now, be patient and be so rewarded.”

A man in love, in real love, will be that patient. Though fidgety at times, I waited. Though uncomfortable, I was as patient as possible. Through the weather and the seasons, I stood steadfastly. It wasn’t the reward I believed I was looking for that gave me such grace. I had already discovered the real reward. It was my love for you, in that great wellspring of truth that flooded my entire life with a new reality. That was the real reward. It was what I learned, what I saw and the expansion of the love that fed that wellspring within me that rewarded and enriched my life with every breath.

Then, a prayer flowed from my heart through the space between us.

“My love, when you release your orb and return to me we will be ready. Pens in hand we will write our names on the first page, and as love flows between us the pages will be filled with prose the Universe provides. Prose we translate. Prose we live to the fullest. Until then, your man awaits your arrival with all he is, and all he will ever be.”

~The end.