Category: Spirituality (Page 17 of 19)

It is not this night I fear, but the dawn that shall break it.From whence such fears arose I cannot be certain, but fears divine they are in such scope as to shake the very foundation of their end.I walk alone, I think alone, I am alone; such things may or may not be true, but such things are surely the tremors that break the stillness of this night.

One can be lost and yet be found, and truly I am such a man.I look around me and smile brightly at the sights of love’s existence in my own, knowing full well that this breath of emotion is born in the darkest recesses of my being.I can feel this joy born of sorrow, and take notice that they are becoming equals in this tired soul.Such a lofty accomplishment I can bear as not my own, but of that of those who would bother to offer me the precious love that finds me even when all seems lost.I fear my single accomplishment without them would be in being lost, in being left to darkness, in grasping at straw figures who seek to keep me lost.No, anything that I may appear to be or do is me at all, but of those who provide the foundation to this shaky ground we call life.

And to them, I meekly offer you my effort, my heart as it can be given, my soul as it can be shown, and my life as it can be lived.

Step One

These feet are heavy as I bear more than the weight of my flesh upon this Earth.I do struggle with the weight at times, full well realizing that I am the stronger for the struggle.A wise man once cracked “That which does not kill me shall only make me stronger” without realizing that it isn’t the death that makes us weak, but the refusal to live with that which could kill us.Perhaps he did realize such things, perhaps he did live with such a weight to bear.

Still, I am left to seek out a stronger version of my self, that which is strength in not being so “strong”, that which finds solace in more than me.It appears to be a big step, likening that to each step on an old, rickety rope bridge stretched across valley to which there is no end.The pulse quickens at the thought of it, and the weight I carry on my back seems to beckon me not to step upon that bridge.Step I will, either toward a new landscape or into the obscurity that comes with the fall.

Greater risks have lesser men taken, but one must surely recognize the challenge of the mind.Leaving such comfort as the Beast finds itself in is an abnormality unto itself.Beasts marks their territory in the attempt to never leave the familiar, and they will fight to the death to remain in such comfort.Yet man must learn to tame his Beast should he seek to reach for that which is beyond him, for as we lift our leg to mark the spot we call our own our eyes always seek that which is beyond it.It is the Beast, our minds, that either ensures our imprisonment to the boundaries we cause or allow us the fortitude to step on that bridge that takes us beyond it.

I choose to step onto the bridge.I would risk the fall in order to seek what I cannot see.My sight has failed me before, many more times than I dare count, so I have learned that I can only trust what I see when what I see feelsright to that which the mind does not control.I simply cannot cling to that which I call “me” when in the eyes of those I love the tears form at the sight of me.Me is not all that great, it is what that me can become that may show the full potential of this life.So onward I step, outward I reach, all the while trust the inward part of me that remains when the voices are silent.

This endless frigid night surely does test the strength of nearly every being who shall pass underneath such a veil of darkness. To search but for the smallest spec of light seems to be my life’s endeavor, so far all for naught save that moment in time that all seemed so bright. To lose such light is to stumble harder than before it shone, for the darkness never seems so dark than after such loss, after all is gone, after that slightest bit of warmth has touched your soul. Nothing seems as cold as the night after the warmth of day. One is left to wonder if the gift of sun is worth the pain of losing it, if such a taste of warmth is worth the bitterness of the cold to follow.

Yet it is quite obvious that it is the human endeavor to search for light in darkness, warmth in cold, love in the face of hate. All that does and all that is is contained in the essence of but the smallest sense of light barely visible to those who savor darkness or have more light than they need. Yet each feeds off the other, for we cannot have the joy of warmth without the dismay of coldness. We must suffer if we are to experience the bliss of enlightenment. We must cry to see a smile, we must hate to feel the love, we must die to seek out life.

The essence of life, its purpose, is to experience it. The purpose of life isn’t just to love it is to hate. The purpose of life is not just to be happy, it is to experience unbridled despair. The absoluteness of life is not in just the good, it is found in the bad. If you are to take every ounce of the negative in life you surely will find the positive born, the joy created out of despair, the love found in the bounds of hate. Without one you do not have the other, and both must be lived if either is to be found and appreciated.

Embrace both as they are, appreciate them, and accept them. Only in the acceptance can you find the peace for which you search, that tiny spec of light that will help guide your way.

Today I struggle more than most. It’s an odd struggle for this day, for there is just something not right, although I will be damned if I know what it is. There is a lot on the proverbial plate, the job, the move, the lack of something, something so tough to pinpoint yet so easy to see.

Have I failed?

I am not sure, perhaps time will tell. The truth is that I am not sure I feel a failure here, but I know that what I what I feel is not success either. I know enough to see that I this is but one step in this journey. A small step indeed no matter how big it looks today, or a huge step indeed no matter how small it looks today. The truth is that I am not sure what to call this moment, or the moments that have got me here, or where I am heading. Have I failed? Have I done something so momentous that our lives will have found great significance because of this moment? All I know is that I do not know what to call what I have done or not done, and perhaps that lack of knowledge is what is creating the struggle itself. Perhaps it is not even really a struggle at all, but rather a lack of acceptance that things just are as they must be.

I walked outside tonight under the bright full moon and starlit sky. I am small, no doubt about it. Those stars above shone such light millions of years ago when greater men than me struggled greater struggles than I have seen. That moon has cast shadows on men with more to bear than my small fate. I feel alive in this presence, yet I feel lost in the weight of such small matters as those my mind must bear. I can see that perhaps what seems like failure today might mean the greatest events to those I love tomorrow. I stand in the glow of knowing that the greatest successes of today can mean the height of suffering tomorrow, and that life is like the changing phases of the moon I am standing under – one moment it is full, the other it is not, and there is nothing I can do to change it. I can see clearly that the weight I bear weighs little and that none of this matters, that time and space and love and lost mean little while meaning everything. Such matters of existence are like a waves on a beach, they only matter at the moment they break and are quickly replaced by yet another moment of undulation.

Who am I?

“Timeless question, ageless thought, all that’s endless, all for naught.” I guess the identity we have in ourselves is the temporary filler to our existence. I have never been able to answer such a question, nor have I been able to answer the sure follow up: “Does it matter?” I honestly don’t know who I am or what I am good at. Perhaps I can answer my insecurities at what I do well by understanding all those many things that I don’t do well. That list would be just too long to offer those who can barely muster up the will to read even the smallest thoughts I share. Yet I list them in my mind in such repetition as to believe that all those things I don’t do well are who I am. In this, is it fair to say that I am all that I do poorly regardless of that which I do well? And if, in fact, this is true, is it the lack of acceptance of who I am that is the cause for my suffering?

Is part of love, life, being and truth the acceptance of who I am regardless of what the judge says is the best or worst of me? Is accepting that which I do that makes you cry as important to happiness as accepting that which puts such a lovely smile on your face? Is accepting those moments of imperfection as important to happiness as embracing those moments of shear and utter perfection? It would seem so, for without the bad there can be no good, and without the pain they can be no contentment. That is not to say that one should be so content in acceptance as to not strive for the best of oneself, it is to say that in dwelling on such matters of imperfection that one cannot see or attest to the perfection. It is in the focusing and dwelling on the armless sight of Aphrodite that one cannot see the perfect beauty that is the rest of her. Perhaps when we focus on such beauty the lack of arms bothers us not at all.

So I am left to wonder, does who I am matter at all to me or to those who wish to know me? Do I submit to the judgments of others whose whims would be so meaningless as to change with the seasons? Or do I just accept that which is and bask in the beauty that this moment provides regardless of the fact there are no arms to embrace me, no lips to caress my own, or no longing in others for that which they see as who I am? It could simply be the armless masterpiece to which I find solace, for the rest of it is shear beauty.

From the internal arises a heat, and from the throes of such heat comes the animal within. Such violent primitive emotions do come from the essence of man without spirit, the meaningless set of values without value, the loss of Being in humanity. Yet come they do, and in the absence of Spirit to subdue the animal within, man simply reverts to the lesser of his self.

In my experience it appears at times as if man can only act in the absence of spirit. Such violent sense of nothingness can be met with much of the same or act in a much different sense of self. Violence is the lesser form of man, a Beast, but it would seem a form sometimes that is unable to hide itself. Such form is the dichotomy of man, turning the industrious willer of good into a destructive force of nature.

In such a thing the Lone Wolf has indulged. In his life he has resolved to pacificism, then violence, and now to the mixture of the two that survives him today. The Beast has shown itself on more than one occasion, surely leaving its mark of lust and misery. Creation had given the Wolf the talents of the beast along with the talents of a peacemaker, and to such ends both had shared success and failure. At times the Wolf, feeling gray in his years, longed for the tinge of control the Beast allowed, but left such thirst to the gods of time passed and challenge wasted. The scars of the Beast remained on his body, while the glimmer of Spirit remained in his eyes. It was such spirit that seemed determined to keep the Beast in slumber, as to not to allow its return regardless of the heat of the day. Today’s heat presents such a challenge.

It seemed to the Lone Wolf that all things must remain as they are despite the idiocy of the world around him. Others in their packs stayed true to the lies of the pack, and dismal paradox of behavior not understandable. They would invent such provocation in others to warrant the attack, while preaching preach and love. To the Lone Wolf is was quite apparent they had lost their way, that they were so blinded by the value they had in the pack that they could not see they were leading it to disaster. It seemed obvious that others were working in sincere diligence to destroy the thing they claimed to love the most, so much so that it also seemed obvious that they hated that which they said they loved. Why else would they be so determined to destroy it? Warfare had never “created” anything, and the endless attacks on the packs around them seemed to create the exact opposite of what they were intended to create. Pack leaders, often left remote by poor leadership and bad decisions, quickly undertook such attacks to keep unity in the ranks. When the lead dogs made the wrong turn and water become scarce, and attack on others materialized, and the attack and the “threat” it was designed to end became the focus, not the mistakes that led to the thirst.

Sad state, these affairs, and as the snow turned red with the blood of hatred and blindness. The Lone Wolf marveled at how much he could see without the blindness of the Beast, he could clearly see the anger others could muster in those who followed without question, he could clearly see the threat that such blind allegiance could create. Patriotism, once the foundation of the pack that ensured its survival, seemed to be the thing that ensured its demise. He with no allegiance could easily see such folly, with no leader to subscribe one could easily see the failures of such subscription. No, the independence of his individual self, the strength that all that is provided his Spirit was enough to get him through the toughest of days. He needed no pack, he needed no leader, he needed to die for no thing or no one save those the voice of his Spirit directed.

That was not to say the Lone Wolf did not love. He loved often and freely, without prejudice and without bias. Still, he knew when to keep his distance, although his love did not. He could love those he would fight, he could love those he did not agree with. Such was the freedom he could enjoy in the unattachment his life had provided. He need not hate any thing or any one, he need not care what they thought despite his pleadings that seemed to be saying the contrary. He could bare his teeth as if to hate but out of love, for the hoping the sight would end the foray before it began. When it did not, he did not hate his adversary, but rather felt sorry for their mistake, that if just to leave him alone would be quite enough.

It seemed amazing that there were others who just could not leave him alone. They needed him to think like them, to assimilate into the pack. He could only surmise that they feared his independence. It was true that the leadership did, for a pack without the need for leaders had no need for them. They, the leaders, were weak without they, the followers. They were nothings, the leaders, without those on whose fear they could prey. If the followers only saw the strength in such independence, the leaders would become nothings. For their part, the pack feared his independence, for there was some comfort in knowing that the sum of the whole was the whole of the some. If they all were alike, in thought, action, need and desire, there would be no need for fear, no need for greater security.

In this, the battles they waged were not about threat of others, but the threat of others to the selfs that the pack had created. Those others did not think like them, smell like them, or howl at the same moon so they had to be a threat. They needed to assimilate or risk the pack’s security. After all, there is no greater loss of security to the pack then the loss of dependence, whether leader on the follower or the follower on the leader. Dependence is security, and the thought of independence raiding such security was insecurity into itself.

It was all so eerily apparent to the Lone Wolf the day he found his independence. He sought higher mountains, thicker forests, clearer streams and air so pure it cleared is mind of thought with each breath. He sought to roam where hisSpirit took him, not where some drone deigned it proper for him to go. He raised his head to the Moon, and howled a yell that told the world around him, every creature that he was free, and that he was alive.

I guess we all wake from our dreams sooner or later.

To some, the awakening results in the understanding that they just are not equipped to make others truly happy in life. They cannot forgo what drives their mind to work, to awaken, in the sake of some semblance of selflessness when that mind drives them to selfishness. To those imprisoned few, it seems obvious that others cannot see the branch they have whittled away for those others can only focus on the twig still being held onto. Forget the branch dropped in selflessness, it is unseen and unacknowledged, for that twig seems to hold much more weight in the eyes of those who need not carry it.

In that way, others cannot see the changes made within such a mind, where they want to be selfless but perhaps not in the way others need them to be. It is difficult for those who so desperately clung to the branch to let go of the twig, for that branch was everything to them – their survival, their selves, the only thing never allowed to see the light of day now awoken and as strong as ever. The others cannot see you chipping away at that branch, slowly ridding the mind of the weight of it all. They can only see the empty soul they wish you had, rather than the great reduction of weight you have worked so hard to offer. The Wolf but wags his tail at the sight of such masters, proud of the whittling away he has done. The Master removes such pride in the reminding that there is so much more wood to go.

But then you awake. You awake to the fact that perhaps the reason the others no longer see the effort is because they don’t care to. There is no love, no understanding, just a cold hearted reality that says “you shall conform or be cast away”. They don’t see you as the laborer working to cast away the branch, they see you as the labor. They are tired, they are angry, and they could care less about what blisters your hands employ in such work, they only care about having it in the time and manner they see fit.

True enough, their vision is fair, the sweat the brow has spent yesterday does not mean it anything but dry today. They, the “loved” ones, are there with you, becoming wet with the perspiration you offer as your go about your work. They share the blisters, blisters not theirs to have, yet they share them nonetheless. They simply tire of the work, care little for the results of the labor, just as they begin to care little for the laborer.

There comes a time when the laborer decides to bear the burden on his own. No, it is not fair for those loved ones to share in the passion of such work that the mind dare fight, and it is not fair for the laborer to bear the brunt of effort not just of the job at hand, but also of curing those who share in the work. At some point, the man must rise above himself, alone and of good will, to better himself through suffering and the anguish of effort. He must turn what he recognizes as in need of repair into repair, not just recognition. At some point he must simply walk away from the crew to aspire to such greatness.

He is therefore resigned, he feels, needing to lose that which he cherishes the most not to hurt them, but to save them. He is nothing in their eyes, part of the Creation of his mind, yet created nonetheless. He simply is not good enough to be in their employ in any aspect of work, for he has not succeeded even in the crafting of the twig he now holds. Perhaps he needs to walk and not return until the twig is left floating in some deep and angry river, gone forever. Perhaps, at this point, the removal of both the twig and the branch is pointless as it is in his world, for they have but left him in the Angry River a while ago. He is irrelevant to their cause, and as so is irrelevant in his own for his cause was so closely tied to theirs. He simply must not walk in a path made for 5, he must find the path made for none.

So there he sits, alone but holding his twig. The realization that the calls for him were not made in need for him at all sets in like a stone on the soul. He sees the world clearly as the Lone Wolf of yesterday stirs within, he is not needed, not wanted, not seen as a way to love but an impediment to it. They will not disagree, they will not argue such a point left true, and if they did he would hear none of it. No, those who demanded the work will just forget he existed, and as the cold wind sets in they will not dare think of his plight. They will bask in their warmth, in the glow of the fire, thankful that the chill will not dare touch them this night. They will smile, they will laugh, they will love without one careless thought of he who tried but failed. If they hear of his demise they will but believe it was his own fault, for he could not whittle fast enough to be one of them. He did not conform fast enough, he did not see his work as necessary enough, he did not but see the burden of life pulling the sled in the honor of those riding in it. It is true enough that the riders cannot fathom the mind of the Dog, cannot see that he just wants to arrive and considers each step as his destination. He cannot be here and there at the same time, he must be here first, either with those who care enough to go along for the ride or without them, but he will be here all the same.

The questions remains as such forks in the road, which direction should be taken. Either way he will walk, but the path either narrows for none or widens for all. Perhaps the choice should not be made by others, those who see the walk as way too strenuous for their own legs to bear. Perhaps it is time to say “I shall go on without you, just wait for soon there will be another sled for you to ride.” Such a sled must surely be much more comfortable than the one he can provide, one that means you need not walk at all. Such happiness is what is deserved, what is desired by him of those who were so worth the effort in the first place.

Perhaps in the lonely walk he must endure such suffering so that he may find his self. Perhaps it is too late for the others he holds on to with so much love in his heart but so little understanding in his mind. Perhaps he will find such love in the self, such love that others can share but that he need not cling to. Perhaps such a treat will be found in the loss of the branch he once clung to so proudly and in its place lies the knowledge that it need not be there at all. Perhaps his riders will enjoy his company for his company, not the company they thought he should offer, company that he could not provide at that moment. Perhaps they will not require a ride at all, but just ask him to sit in his own way in front of the fire to share in its warmth not on their terms, but just in the way things are.

To such an end one can only dream…as the stirrings of slumber’s end wreaks havoc on such memory.

It does seem that in the current of human events that one often loses sight of the truth for need of correctness. Do we entangle our selves so strongly to the subject of thought that we cannot reach for the ideals of truth?

It would seem as if we have lost our way in the myriad of conquests offered to be right, not honest. To such endeavors we persecute the greatest aspect of our Being, the way to Truth, the part of us that seeks not praise or profit for just Being “true”. To share such a breeze of honesty onto the fires of our lives may see the embers burning brighter, blazing a scene of righteousness into the tapestry of our souls. Be such honesty, hold that which is true close to your heart, and offer that which is found there to all who surround you.

Study the things you now value, seek in them that which shall cause suffering and weed them out like ivy in a pumpkin patch. Learn about your self, in that there can be no greater truth, and in the study do not leave a single page unturned. Strive in isolation to know that same self, to seek in it the sturdiness of the individual, the calmness of Being, the wisdom of the ages. Be strong, be brave and be wise my friend, and in this you shall find the end of suffering, the extinction of need, and the foundation for which life itself was created on.

Today we learned of the death of a loved one who lived far away but was not far from out hearts. True, she had lived a relatively long life, and left as as another example to what ends habits like smoking will cause, but still the faint tinge of pain reaps at my soul at the thought of her passing. One must reach out to her husband, a decades-old meeting of two minds and spirits, for no deeper pain can be felt at the knowledge that you shall never again touch the hand of the one you love (in this existence anyway). One must seek out those who pain greatly at such loss, for death does not effect the dead as much as it effects the living.

But such lessons can be learned by the living, those of us who can take such moments for granted and waste them with the pitiful arguments spawned not of love but of the folly of fools. What moments did those two waste with irrelevant spawnings of the temporary suffering self-inflicted by anger, jealousy, or other emotions known to ego? What would they give to have those moments back to share in the love they felt at their final moments of passing?

I am sure the price would be high, just as I am sure they would pay it.

So do us living fools dare take this lesson to heart that shed our selves prone to such waste? Most likely not, as we feel the need to live in such disharmony from time to time. Storms, it can be said, are necessary to clear the air, to wet ground left fertile but dry, to unseal such a surface hardened with time. After such storms, life can spring anew, time can be restarted with the crisp and tortured sound of Thor’s hammer as it springs to life even the most deaf of souls. Nothing, it is said, can dare sleep during such storms.

It would seem to be in our best interest to seek the limit to these storms, for as some things may benefit from their birth, they surely can leave destruction in their wake. The floods of pain and agony can leave many a soul buried under mud so deep that only darkness can survive. The winds of suffering can howl greatly in the ears of the passionate, causing the heartiest among us to snap and splinter in the midst of it all. Yes, some may see life anew once the storm clouds clear, but others may see destruction so great as to never recover.

As the end comes, and we are drawing our last breaths, it seems implausible to believe we will see value in the storms. Nay, we will cling ever so desperately to the last vestiges of sunshine and wish the storm clouds away. We will bargain for the time wasted seeking shelter in the storm, and we will beg for the second chance to live in such harmony as to never need those clouds. We will grasp for the ones we love, pray for those we cannot reach, hope that they remember not the storm but the blue skies. We will wish the storms away, and we will have wasted time better spent in love than in anger.

Remember then dear souls, that when you wish away your love in favor of the darkening clouds above, that this may be your most brutal mistake. It shall not be your last wish, but it will be the wish you cannot change at any price, yet the one you will most desperately seek to change. Touch the one you love this moment, and never let go of the sunshine. Speak but true words of love to those you cherish, never let them forgo the chance to hear such promises. Allow your heart to open, and reach out to those who share so much with you in the time you have this moment.

This moment – it is all you are sure to have, it is all you will ever know. Be true to it in love with those who seek it in return and share it with those who do not know they seek such truth. You shall never regret that moment when the chance of rain is replaced by the surety of the sun.

Such a gorgeous day, and to share it with family on a lovely beach is simply precious. Such a collection of moments shall not be forgotten, and may truly serve as a standard of all such days to come (assuming, of course, that they shall).

To lay on such sand, one can be transported into oneself quite easily. Soft, supple earth pads the body along and allows such root to Creation as to not find evidence to deny it. The mind becomes still, tempered only by the soft ocean breeze, the warm sun, and the sounds of waves crashing innocently into Earth. One can feel such beauty as to not have a need to feel any other, as each moment becomes frozen into the other, still as all activity blurs into the calmness of this moment.

The sounds of the children laughing does not distract from this beauty, but only adds to it. To hear such delight in the voices of those you love can well emotion in even the sturdiest of men. The joy of others can only delight the still soul, as joy radiates around and adds warmth to the already heated air. To feel them experiencing such joy, to notice them seeing things they have never seen before, and to understand them as they feel the utter perfection of this moment is to see the crisp reality of what love can do. Love supplies such joy; the love of Creation offered to each of us, the love we have for such Creation, and the love we can share with each other is what living is all about. This moment assures me of the correctness of this path.

To seek any other would ruin this what I have already been given.

I open my eyes to be elated at the sight I see. Perhaps our loves are like water to us all. We can certainly go thirsty for a few moments, but ultimately shall suffer and perish if not satisfied. It may be true that we need not be attached to others, but it may also be true that in Being we are tied to another as surely as life is to water. The sight I see is my Water, laying motionless in the sun she loves so much, basking in the warmth as surely as in my mind. God, what gift of beauty thou hath given me! My wife, my partner, my teacher and my love completes the scene of perfection in a moment so real it can never be replaced. Like a movie stuck on a scene, this picture of beauty is burned into my Being as surely as my breath supplies It with life.

In essence, if I were to leave this existence at this moment, I would leave it in paradise. I worry not about what this journey may bring me tomorrow, for I have all I need now.

If I beat a dog that bit me 5 years ago each day because of the scar, who is to blame if he bites me again?

I wonder in such matters what is worse, the crime or the punishment? Does the present effect do anything to end the cause? To say that one acts in a way to suffer another from a past error, does the suffering of the present then cause an allowable mistake in the future?

See, one cannot claim that insanity of today caused by insanity of yesterday cannot have any effect on the psyche of tomorrow. To do so would be a high form of hypocrisy, in which the tormented turned tormentor can only expect to become the tormented again. If such a vicious cycle is not interrupted by some understanding of the present, the past has no choice but to become the future, the present has no choice put to live in the past, and the future has no hope of defining itself. We are stuck then in such a cycle, one of misunderstanding completed by misunderstanding, until all semblance of understanding is loss in the abyss. As deep as that pit shall go one will never touch bottom and will cease to find forgiveness in the darkness that has been created by one’s self.

It is nothing but truth that we are only in control of ourselves for this moment. Those who seek to rely on the past for today are destined to have that past repeated over and over again until the present ceases to exist unto itself. Today we have no present it seems, for we relive nothing but the past and identify so clearly with its pain that we choose to not let go lest we lose our identity. I choose to not blame others anymore for my actions, for I cannot be resolved in my complicity and cannot lean on the rock of blame anymore. Regardless of the pain instilled in my heart only I can choose to let that pain rule me instead of me it. I can no longer say “I am this way”, or “I am that way” because of another, I can only live in my present as one in complete control of it.

Take it or leave it, but I choose not to live in the past anymore. You can choose to live in this present with me as you are, or you can remain as you were, but I will not dive into that pit again. I am beginning to love the growth I feel each day, and do hereby choose to not be dragged down by the love you have of the past. If you expect perfection, be prepared by such disappointment. Imagine if the same expectation had been placed on your back to carry unfairly in the heat of the day.

Yes – love is what you have of it. One does not taste the bitter and be repulsed by it only to taste it over and over again. Such blame you may place on my head as a crown of thorns, but please note that I choose not to wear it. I will shrug off such suggestions as clearly as I shrug off a drop of rain that by some chance has found its way on my back; it will be forgotten almost as quickly as it was felt.

I just do not wish to live in that day anymore or at anytime. It is beyond me and me it, never to be relived again except by those who choose to hold on. Blame me if you like, but the fault of such a grip now lies solely on your hand. I can be walking with you or without you, that is your choice, but walking I will be.

I awoke after a restless night, my head pounding as if there were a million feet dancing from within. The sun was aglow having already risen to the brand new day and I had but no chance to welcome it. It was rare that I had not at least seen the break of dawn, either through a window or in person, and had not the opportunity to relish in the crisp silence of a morning pause. Today was different, it had beaten me to the wake, and crisply reminded me that in being human I am so much the lesser to the perfection of nature.

Yet through this morning’s silent scourge I had but to turn my head to see its cure. There she lie, silently in her morning frown, yet the more beautiful then when my eyes shut last. She is admittedly not a “morning person”, yet to me she is the very sight of beauty as she sleeps each morn. Such peace of the natural beauty that emanates from her can only be seen in the innocence of sleep. No worries to pinch her eyebrows, no children to harry her, no husband to aggravate her, she is the essence of beauty, the calmness of peace, the hope I feel each morning as I give thanks to see this dawn once again.

Parting from her is difficult although the bed is not my friend in the morning. Today is different, as the pain in my head beckons me back to the sheets. Yet I still rise, for the day’s pressing adventures must unfold as they are intended. I cannot help but to look once more at the woman who so much gives of herself. I pause to guess at what her day will be like, probably somewhat typical in the challenges of raise children, keeping house, and dealing with the day’s adventures and misadventures. Typical I say, knowing quite well that there is nothing typical about them except in the challenges themselves. I tend to play them off in her presence, yet I admire her honestly and truthfully for how she handles them with such grace that makes me question my own strength. I certainly do not have her fortitude.

I fight the urge to caress her; I dare not disturb this placid pond. Somehow it is moments like this that one can forget his own sufferings. Often when welcoming the morning in its stillness I ask myself “What is better than the dawn.” Well, today I have my answer, for the dawn but promises a day anew, the beauty that lies in bed next to me promises that day has hope, love, and purpose. Those gifts are few, but they are offered each day we awake and take the time to feel the love in the peaceful stillness of the morning, to see that which the light of the dawn does show, and wait to feel a loving hand grace our own with the tenderness such love can provide.

Surely without her the dawn would come each day. Surely without her the birds would sing aloud, the bunnies would bask in the warmth of the sun, and the mountain streams would sparkle such light in return. Yet to me it is clear that without her the light would not have the same purpose that it does this morning. Today, the sun but warms my skin, while she warms my Being, my soul, and my heart completely. Today, the sun but promises a new day, she fills that day with promise. To this end she is my answer to “What is better than the dawn?”