Tag: Family

Finding My Brother

September 16, 2021 / Tom

He lived but a day, but a day he lived.

Largely forgotten by his clan, the only memories of him became a weapon. Countless lies became his story, although he had never uttered a single word. His only misdeed seemed to have been his birth, and his memory became fuel to a burning torch. It was a torch used quite painfully.

In his single day of life, he became something he would have never wanted to be. Despite all of the potential blessed to him upon his conception, his day was to be used in ways likely unthinkable to his soul. He deserved so much better.

Despite all of this, he existed as innocently as a human can exist. He was my brother. His name was Steven Paul Evans. I bet even most of my closest family have never heard his name and those who have haven’t spoken it in decades. I wonder if this is a blessing or a curse.

A disclaimer. The purpose of this writing is not to vilify anyone, living or dead. I am writing this to heal, to mend a wound caused by deceit and weaponized love.

On September 12, after my sister’s memorial service, I decided to go on a bit of a cathartic journey, first stopping by my mother’s grave to tell her, and remind myself, that all was forgiven. I spoke words of absolute truth to her memory, and left a piece of regret behind. No, we would not mend our brokenness in this lifetime. I will mend my own, hers would be left to eternity.

I stopped by several family members who have left us, speaking similar silent words of regret and forgiveness when warranted, a “hello” and “I miss you” to all. Memories flooded my soul, and I accepted them in equal measure. I offered my love even if they were not so deserving. My love is mine to give, and I decide who gets it. Forgiveness, to me, opens to door to a much freer exercise of will. It destroys the basket hiding the light. It liberates all things.

Not all catharsis is so painful.

There were moments of levity in this walkabout. I remembered my paternal grandmother-by-marriage (who I considered my grandmother regardless) and her laugh. I stopped by to say hello to her as well, touching her place in my soul with the warmness and kindness she always seemed to offer. The memory of her driving, of her cooking, and of so many other things blessed me with a smile.

There were many moments that were similar reminders that for all the pain of my life, there were great moments of joy, laughter and love. I want to honor each equally as I live my remaining days. My life has had wonderful moments as well as dark ones, and each must be honored with the same attention. In fact, I use the light to heal the darkness and the darkness to bring the light to life.

Finding my brother.

Part of what was on my “need to do” list was find my brother’s grave. It has bothered me for a long time that he was always utterly alone, forgotten by his people and his memory contorted and disfigured. It was important to me that he was no longer forgotten or alone. The narrative needed to change.

I am not one who believes in the afterlife. It’s not that I don’t believe in it, or think it nonsense. I just have no idea if it exists, cannot prove its existence, so I focus on what I can prove. This life must be lived, and if I want to live it to the fullest I cannot be distracted by what may, or may not, exist once it is over.

So in my vision of life, my brother must not be forgotten. He may never know the love of his older sibling but I know it, and I plan to let it roam free.

I scoured the internet often looking for any record of him. Finally, on the “Find a Grave” page, I was able to not only find what cemetery where he was buried but also a location and a picture of his tombstone. It seemed like finding him would be easy, but the cemetery had no map. It turned out not be be as easy as I thought.

Fortunately a dear soul, Bonnie, lived nearby. I can’t overstate how much her kindness and support have meant. Some things are priceless, and she is one of those things. She came over to help, and I admit if felt wonderful not to have to do this alone.

Tommy, I found him!

It took us some time to find him, but when she called out that she had my heart skipped a beat. Soon I was standing beside him, wondering what he looked like in his Day of Life. I stood there just feeling whatever it was that I was there to feel. I mourned him as well as myself, detesting the lies I once believed and promising that he would never again be forgotten or used, and that he would never again be without a brother to remember him.

After a bit, we walked away. I could not help thinking about all the life I’ve wasted and all the potential he would never get to realize. Still, a large part of me felt healed and committed to honoring the brother I never knew. He will be seen each chance I have to see him. He will be remembered each day I think of him.

Part of me wonders if I should be buried next to him; two largely forgotten members of two distinctly different (but the same) clans. I just can’t get there in my mind yet. I still have some living to do.

The Struggle Afterward

The one common feeling that I’ve been struggling with since this past weekend is the feeling of being forgotten. My family has, for the most part, forgotten me. They have no idea who I am or what I’ve done. I am just like my brother but without the tombstone. It saddens me.

My kids are getting older and forgetting me, too. My closest friends, most of whom are back East, haven’t seen me in years. I review the list, and believe most of those I’ve loved in my life have forgotten me. Perhaps it’s just the echo of sadness and depression in all of the loss I’ve felt over the last 30 days, but it is a worthy feeling to contemplate, at least in the short term.

The amazing part about finding my brother is that I was able to discover so much more than just a lost sibling. The death of my sister brought back so many good memories and helped me see those who I have so much love for. The search for my brother allowed me to express who I am in this life, and to be who I choose to be. I cleared away some weeds from tombstones in both the literal and figurative sense, and as a result was able to love in ways I haven’t in some time.

So I shall walk with those lessons for my remaining days, however many of those there are left.

Struggling

September 15, 2021 / Tom

The struggle is real.

I’m struggling to breathe, to find the wide open spaces I once enjoyed.

I’m struggling to understand, to make sense of what is happening around me. Mostly, I’m struggling to grasp what is happening within me.

I’m struggling to deal with selfishness, with greed, with the lack of care we show to one another.

I’m struggling with sadness, with an immeasurable feeling of loneliness and emptiness. I adore my solitude, but struggle with the absence of another within it.

I’m struggling with the lies I’ve been told, with the unending disappointment the destruction of trust brings.

I’m struggling with the absence of meaning. I have to be more than this job, this home, this spot in my life.

I’m struggling with age. My eyes are weakening, my joints ache, my children have all but forgotten me.

I’m struggling with the unending pain.

And now I’m struggling with how to end this story.

An Ode to My Sister (The Line in the Sand)

September 14, 2021 / Tom

I am going to rant here – spill my thoughts as they come and leave them uncensored. Sorry if this rambles, but I don’t think it will.

In the two weeks since my sister’s passing, two quotes have been inundating my mediations. Two quotes that fail to sum up my feelings but come as close as any.

The first is from one of my favorite poets, Rumi. It is derived from the middle verse of his poem, A Great Wagon

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there. ~Rumi

My sister, how I wish I could have met you there! How I wish we could have smelled the fragrance of our happy times, mended broken stems of flowers crushed by our ideas, and tended to the fertile soil of what could have been. How I wish whatever nonsense that kept you there and me here mattered less than the fields were we once played. Sometimes, I guess, when two warriors from the same clan draw lines in the sand, the fields of truth become battlefields. In that battle, some things are just never meant to be.

The poem goes on.

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase “each other”
doesn’t make any sense.

Thus, we remain forever parted even as we remain forever bound. I guess we had too many words, too many ideas, to surrender to a place where “each other” cannot exist. You and I are at fault for our eternal parting. You and I are at fault for not tending to our field.

The second quote is from Jack Kornfield’s Buddha’s Little Instruction Book.

The trouble is, you think you have time.

This one is always the kicker, always the one we seem to ignore when we need its wisdom the most. I may think I have time, but I also know better. Time is the one commodity I cannot replenish, and all of those things we should have paid attention to can never gain our attention again. The seeds we failed to sow will remain unplanted. The water we neglected to drink will remain in the well. Regret, it seems, will be our legacy. Nancy, we should have known better.

Great wisdom, though, can spring from great tragedy. Where I cannot mend a flower torn apart by a storm, I can plant a new one. I still have breath in me, so I will till the fields where I will both meet the living and the dead. While I have no idea when my end shall come, I still have life in me, so I plan to use that life and the regret I carry in your name to be a good steward of this space.

Perhaps that is the best I can do for you. I can remember our laughter and I can remember our tears. I can see you trying not to laugh at my jokes and I can see the wounds we inflicted on one another. Perhaps the memory of who we were as brother and sister is the field where we will finally meet. Let’s make something good of it. Let’s laugh again.

So it is goodbye, for I don’t give any credence to the “we’ll see each other again” stuff. We had that chance and we blew it. Instead, I will move on, doing my best to not make that mistake again. I will find love and nurture it. I will seek peace and live in it, and when war comes and battles much be waged I will fight hard and then let that shit go.

It just occurred to me that greatest sin we can inflict on those we love is drawing that line in the sand. We will always have battles and battlefields, but when we fail to make peace we fail to be worthy warriors. When we fail to find that field that exists outside of right and wrong we fail to be worthy lovers. We must do better, even if that means erasing the lines we’ve drawn once they begin to do harm. The battle cannot last for eternity.

To Touch the Torch of Freedom (An Immigrant Tale)

December 27, 2019 / Tom

He kept low in the bush, waiting for the Sun to set. Every so often he’d lift his head, checking to his left to see how far the Sun had moved. He had watched the Sun rise from this spot, and now was hoping this was the final sunset he’d see from this side of the line.

On the other side was the torch of freedom. All he wanted to do was carry it and share it with his little girl.

She had been amazing during this journey. Now she snuggled close to him, keeping quiet and low, barely making a sound. She had even urinated in her pants rather than tell her father she had to pee. It seemed she fully understood the gravity of the situation, realizing the hope that lay just a bit further north and a few hours away.

The Decision

Two weeks before his wife had been raped and murdered the local gang. The gang was in control of his neighborhood, having bribed the authorities and intimidated local politicians. Well-armed and well-funded, they were more of a militia than a street gang. They sold drugs and they killed rivals. Police officers who didn’t fall in line where found murdered in their patrol cars. The gang’s response to opposition was swift and deadly.

The villagers were poor and powerless, and often the gang would beat them, rape the woman and children, and murder anyone who stood up to them. The government was useless. The police were either bribed or killed for opposing them. It was a very dark time.

To the north, however, was a light of hope. Symbolized by a strong woman raising a burning torch, many had hoped to find the opportunity and liberation they had heard so much about. They only needed to make the journey. They only needed to risk life and limb to get there.

Legal channels were useless, and they all knew it. They neither had the money nor the understanding to navigate those waters. What they had, though, were two legs and the desire to get there. Few understood laws in their lawless land, but they understood suffering, the intense desire to escape and the value of freedom and opportunity.

The man had no choice but to stay. His wife was too sick, having nearly died giving birth to their 5-year old daughter. One day, his wife went to the market and was attacked by some members of the gang. They held her down, taking turns brutalizing her. When finished, they slit her throat and left her to die in the weeds, where her husband found her that night.

Through his anger, he decided to leave. He knew vengeance would be certain death for him, and he would not intentionally orphan his daughter. Instead, he set his sights on that torch to the north, a light that promised freedom, opportunity, and rest for the huddled masses like them. He threw their few clothes and a picture of his wife in a backpack and began walking north. They had nothing left to lose.

The Journey

The journey to their hiding spot in the desert had been difficult. They’d walked for days and slept little under the rainy nighttime sky. He had blisters on his feet and his lips were cracked with thirst. He gave most of the water he had to his daughter, and had carried her most of the way. The rain at night would wash the caked dirt from their skin, though the cold night air kept him awake. He would cover his daughter the best he could, trying desperately to keep her warm and dry.

A few days into their journey he had been beaten. People like him were targets for local thugs who believed they’d be carrying money for their escape, money he certainly did not have. They only owned the clothes they wore and the meager belongings stuffed into his backpack. They were so meager, in fact, that the thugs who’d beaten him didn’t want them, and they tossed the bag back untouched as he laid bloodied and submissive in the dirt. He had nothing anyone wanted.

He had heart, however, and that would see him through. That, and knowing his daughter was safe. At least for now.

To Touch the Torch of Freedom

The Sun was nearly at the horizon. The man whispered to his daughter that they would be moving soon.

“Papa,” she whispered, “then we cross the river?”

“Yes, mija. Soon we cross the river.”

“Then we touch the torch?”

“Then we touch the torch.”

“What does it look like Papa?”

He had told this story many times as they walked, and he wondered if he’d ever be able to tell it again. It had been a mantra they’d used through the danger and the exhaustion. It had gotten them to this point in their journey.

“First it looks like earth, much like where we are now. Then it looks like a good job in a safe neighborhood. Then it looks like good friends and good schools. It looks like being able to read, and write, and to know things. Good things, like how to help people and make your mother proud. It looks like making the most of the gift of freedom and of the opportunity God has given you.”

“Will we go to jail Papa?”

“Ah, mija,” said her father. “I hope not. We will just do our best, right?”

“Yes Papa.”

She hugged him. He could smell her mother on her and could see her mother smiling at him. This perilous journey was not just for him, but for his daughter as well. He could not let her live, or die, like her mother.

“Now let’s be quiet, mija. We have just a little way to go before we touch the torch for the first time.

She squeezed a bit tighter. She must have sense that the toughest part of this journey was yet to come.

The Destination

This story ends here, at that little line that separates the darkness from the light. It’s a line some wish to become a wall but I hope becomes a bridge.

I want to share the warm light of the torch I was blessed to be born under with those who were not so lucky; those who sacrifice and risk everything just for the chance to place their hand beside mine on its handle.

It would be easy for me to say that others must follow the legal path to enter this land. I just had to be born to be here so that statement would seem to be the purest form of privilege failing to understand its place. I fell from my mother’s womb right smack onto the destination and risked nothing to be here.

I am a human, as are those on the other side of the line. If I can’t reach my hand across that line to pull others over the wall of privilege what kind of human am I? If I can’t help others have the same chance I was born into, what kind of man would I be?

My torch is not just some beacon for others to strive for. It is also a flame that warms the cold places and lights the path I choose to follow. If I can’t share it then perhaps it’s time the torch be extinguished as the meaningless symbol it is. To give it meaning would be to give it breath and to give it breath would mean to share it with whomever seeks it. Otherwise, it’s a waste.

I. Love. Just. Being. Me

June 5, 2013 / Tom

There was once an ideal so great it seemed indestructible to me. It stood tall in the landscape of my life, and dominated my horizons even in those moments when I felt small and cold in its shadow. I measured my worth in its presence, often wondering if I could ever stand as tall as the person who had dominated my life.

Ultimately, I failed her and her me. It is remarkable what one can discover when the velo di amore is lifted from the eyes and replaced with la nebbia di avidità.

That is often where we find ourselves when a great promise becomes a lost ideal. I found myself a rudderless vessel unsure of each footstep and lost in an abyss of yesterdays, tossing and turning in a vast sea of uncertainty often sailing against the winds of my own heart. The very moment when you watch everything you once cherished and idolized become consistent with everything you wanted to remove from your life is the very moment when the ideal is lost, and often the very moment when you realize your life is no longer the dream you once held dear.

I had no idea what I was in for in that holy instant when the rains came and the flood waters descended upon my world. The walls closed in on me, and my heart sank into the black depths of despair. Gone are those who said you were their son. Gone are those who only hours before had said they loved you. Gone are those who called you brother, and gone is the one who promised you an eternity.

Everything goes. Everything vanishes. Everything returns to the dust on which it was built. Your life ends, or so you think.

I felt as if I was helpless, alone, and that I’d been left hanging in a place of which I had never been, in a way in which I had never experienced. I cried tears so salty that they dried my body of its substance, and sobbed so loudly that I had stirred the gods from their deepest slumber. I searched for reasons, and although I was told why from her, I realized that nothing I had ever believed in was real. I soon lost my sense of who I was and what I was doing.

It is, however, a moment of great opportunity. Some of us seek distractions and support from religion, others seek the same in substances. I simply wanted to watch and to learn. I wanted to seek out the illusions I had constructed in my life and end them. I wanted to suffer in order to end my suffering. I wasn’t going to find my joy in a Bible, or in a bottle; no I would have to find my joy in a place few of us journey into deeply in a way I had never tried before.

That is what I had decided to do. Search. Watch. Learn. Most of all I worked hard at not interfering with the process. Soon I began to see patterns that failed to serve me at my highest place. I saw my consistent need to blame myself for the failures. I saw the mistakes I made in not standing up for who I was and what I wanted in my life. I saw the error of not loving myself, and in not simply accepting my fears, my desires, my needs and my loves as wonderful manifestations of who I am. I allowed myself to be suckered into living a lie; her lie, their lie, and my lie. I followed my heart that said “I love you” without testing the waters in her mind to see if they were too shallow, too cold, or simply not aged enough to dive into. I allowed myself to believe her lie, and soon began living it as if I owned it. Worse, I began admitting to it as if it had really happened.

I began seeing the pedestal I had constructed to place her and them on. That pedestal was a dangerous construct, it puts others in a place of being worshipped unjustly while placing me in a place of worshipping others unfairly. I failed to see my worth, my value and my sense of divinity. It was no wonder I couldn’t see them for who they were.

Mere dust. Nothing more.

There came a time, though, when the proverbial flood waters receded and my ark came to rest on a mountaintop. The rainbows appeared and I let my cargo go free to wander those places I had never seen. It is there that the veil itself begins to unravel, and it is there that the pedestals crumble and the dust blows away. I began to see less with my heart and more with my mind all the while beginning to see it all with something I once searched for but had never truly found.

That part I was always seeking was, truly, that part that was always seeking me.

I began to see that there is truly nothing more valuable to a human Being as the relation I have with my Self. I began to see the things I once held so dear as nothing more than illusions. I began to let go of those swirling dust-devils I once held as gods upon a pedestal and they, in turn, began revealing their truth. I was never what I was told I was, and I was never what I wanted to be. Because I wanted to be it so badly I believed it so easily. In the end the lie was revealed, as was the truth. There is only I, and I am beautiful in every way.

They are just people, and not always just people. They are having their own experience as they have every right, and I have no real need to interfere with that which does not interfere with me. I don’t need their love to feel love, and I don’t need their acceptance to feel accepted. That was a losing proposition that I started years ago, and the faux me could never live up to the ideal that the real me had never agreed to.

So, now all I promise is me…in the flesh and in the spirit without pretense and without some false sense of what you want. You will either love me or not, and I don’t pretend to be able to make that choice for you. I love me, sincerely and without hesitation, as a man with perfect faults and incredible potential. I love what I am doing right now; taking a whirlwind of feelings, translating them into words, and sharing them with anyone who has the fortune of reading them. I love exploring parts of me that were once oppressed and hidden living up to ideals not mine and am often ecstatic about what I find in the process. I love jumping out of proverbial airplanes and free-falling, often unsure if the parachute I packed will ever open even while being sure that I was the one who packed it and no one else. I love being alone when I want, in great company when I can, and in exploring the liberation I’ve found in the broken shackles that now lay littering the place where the pedestals once stood. I. Love. Just. Being. Me.

Period.

I love writing about what I want to write about without worrying about being censored by someone who doesn’t accept me and who will never defend what she can’t accept.

I love that I am no longer afraid.

I love that I can experience this life in the way I wish to experience it without caring about the judgment of others.

I love that I no longer see the “old me” as bad because I no longer see the old me at all.

I love that I can now live in the present moment whenever I choose, undaunted by the desires of others to resign me to the box they created years ago.

I love that I can explore my journey while looking in the rearview mirror, unafraid of the judgments some will place on my experience, and without needing their approval.

I love the fact that sometimes I am deeply saddened by missing those I once called “family” even as I am extremely happy in the knowing of the love I have for them.

I love my children and the relationship I am forging with them. I love that they love me, and that I am acutely aware of the awesome miracles that they create in so many moments, in so many ways.

I love the friends I have discovered, both new and old alike. I love seeing the world with them, and in having our experiences together when the present themselves.

I love that I can be alone for days without worry and without despair.

I. Love. Just. Being. Me

Oh yeah, I said that already. Oh well, I hope to say it many more times before my time here is through. After all, there is no better proof that I love myself then in my ability to love you even if I can’t be “with” you. I love the fucking rain. I love the humidity. I love the cool breeze now lightly caressing my back through my open sliding-glass door. I love my cat who is now rubbing her body on my leg. I love the other one who is watching to see if I’ll pet his sister (they are competitive that way).

I love the fact that I am pro-peace and not anti-war. I love the fact that my oldest wants me to teach her meditation. I love the fact that I love.

And, of course, I. Love. Just. Being. Me.

As you can see, the experience of suffering can be a great friend. Losing something you love can also be a wonderful experience. Seeing what others are doing while also seeing who they are can be a wonderful experience. You soon see that they are just like you, having an experience, and even if you don’t like how you feel in what they are doing you can always find love for them because they are just like you. Even if they pretend to be better.

Take care of yourself and let them go. Those who don’t serve your purpose will drop away like rotting fruit from the tree to serve another purpose. Remember, that fruit is only rotting to you, to others that fruit will be a deserved feast, a welcome meal.

In the end what will only be real is the love you have for you. In the end, the only reality you will have is that you are a wonderful part of the Universe designed to manifest Its beauty. Adore yourself, and become your best friend.

Peace.

For My Sister on My Birthday

July 14, 2011 / tomgrasso

I remember the silliness in her voice,
The wonderful innocence in her eyes,
The sweet sound of poetry in her youth,
The pleasant motion in her clumsiness.

I still can see her beautiful imperfections,
Those silent etches that were so a part of me,
Those brilliant moments of sweet unity that arose,
In those trying times of youthful inexperience.

Who could have known then, dear sister,
That today we would hardly know each other,
That after moments of sleeping by a single fan,
Of playing games of fantasy in our lonely desolation,
We would be so close and yet so far?

I remember many of those times,
When you were my partner in crime,
When I was your ringleader, and you were my patsy,
I remember many so many times when we laughed together,
When we cried together,
When we dreamed of what was to be.

I can still see your face when we were still in our single digits,
I can see your face in uncontested joy lit alive by
the beauty you had within.
I close my eyes and you are there, talking to me, being the butt of my jokes,
Of helping me create some moments of pure and tender joy.

I can still remember when you were my “face”,
When we shared punishment that never fit the crime,
When we relied on each other for some relief,
When you sought security behind my back,
When I sought approval in being your protector.

You will always be my sister,
And today on the anniversary of my birth, I will see you singing
“Happy Birthday” to me once again,
As I close my eyes and pray to see it once again,
And though our paths have parted for reasons still not clear to these aging eyes,
I can say that the love I felt in times gone past has never faded
Despite what words have been said and which sides have been chosen,
I will always be your older brother.

I do cry those silent tears of loss and insecurity,
As I am not sure what walls have been built and why.
Yet I am sure as I can see beyond that wall within my heart,
That it is as impermanent as the hands that built it strong,
And can only pray that I survive that final brick’s demise.

Peace and love to you…