demons – The Writings of Tom Grasso

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.

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.

Tag: demons

The Face of Love

The Compass