Tag: Forgiveness (Page 1 of 5)

A Lifetime Ago

April 19, 2022 / Tom

Lost in the fray of my own frazzled mind, I bow.

I was not good enough, or I was too good. There was no hope in you for me even as you hoped for all you never had. You walked and I watched, you ran and I agreed. You forgot and I let you remember.

I scared you, or so you said. I was a force, or so you suggested. There you were, set free upon the altar of great love, blaming the very key that unlocked your chains and left them piled on the floor. You blamed them for your fear, for your consequence, and then you hid behind the creature you feared the most.

Time. We just need time. Time to remember the moments of quivering ecstasy as we laid gasping for air, our sweat mixing into pools upon the ground.

More. We want more. I want more of your body taking mine into agreement. You want more of me owning all that you wish to give. Yet here we are. Me being too good or not good enough, hopeful in this hopelessness, a spectator in a sport that sees you run in some other direction. There is no sense to this senselessness. We will just have to walk our paths alone.

Memories. They curse at me as they bring me to my fullest arousal. I will move on. I always have, but I shall not forget. Memories that both tease me and lift me to the sky will ensure I remember. The pulsing throb in my manhood matching time with the echo in my chest will drive me toward dreams long since left behind. I shall let go as I hold on, my prayer being shouted the same as always as the eruptions remind me of what has been gained, then lost, then gained again.

You will whisper my name again someday. Perhaps such music will be played in your aloneness as your mind and your fingers wander to those hidden places. Maybe the song will be shouted as your hips buck and your flesh shakes. Certainly there will be a moment when your heart beats and your mind hears my name. You will then reach for me, find nothing but the space you asked to be created, and wish I was there to remind you of the kingdom we could have created.

I wrote this a lifetime ago.

Yet it could have been written at any time. Fuck those who take their concept of time so literal as to make it part of my existence. To hell with those who seek to make me old, or young, or tired, or plagued by their insanity. They cannot hear their roar for the sounds of the chattering in their heads, and they cannot see their promise as the fog of fear gathers before their eyes. Who am I to tell them any different? Who I am to stifle my own howl because they cannot stand the sound of their own warrior voice?

Talk all you’d like. Walk all you can stand. You will still be a puppy unable to see the moonlight. You are blinded by your mother’s tit, eyes closed as you take the nipple, being fed all that you can stand of all that she can offer.

Yet I will still love you as I have a lifetime ago. I feel no bitterness toward either of our limitations. I have forgiven you much in the way I have forgiven myself.

Time will always try to get the better of me. I may die never again hearing your voice, but I will have heard it once. Your music may be silent in my ears, but I have known its rhythm. Perhaps even the moments of great losses I have found great wins, even if in my final moments I exist in an empty space with only the memories to hold my hand.

The Awareness of Pain

September 22, 2021 / Tom

“I do not need fixing,” she said as she handing me the keys to a toolbox.
“I do not need help,” she said as she heaped her burdens in my barrow.
“Please trust me,” she said as spoke words of deceit.
“Please love me,” she said as she pushed me away.

There are many ways we lose touch with our truest self. We often surrender our honor to the ghosts of pain past and in the truest sense of the word “loss”, we turn the past loss of trust and love into a future act of horrid retribution. We hurt those who have nothing to do with the wounds we want to share with them.

What if we took a different path?

Let’s just remember times when we’ve reacted to something our lover has done not because of who they are, but because of what we’ve experienced in the past? Remember those angry words that came flowing from our mouths like polluted waters over a dam? Do you remember how you could not stop them?

I am sure we all do, and can pinpoint that moment when we wished we could put those worms back in the can. Let’s then imagine if we had the discipline and the awareness not to open the can to begin with.

Pain Points

We all have pain points floating around our systems. We all have asteroids flying around our space ready to destroy even the most beautiful creations. There is one difference between the metaphor I’ve used and the natural world. We are in control of our asteroids. We can protect those creations we hold most dear.

It’s hard work at times and we can’t always be successful. Yet we can strive to always be well above the Mendoza line in our efforts. We can’t always bat 1000, but we can certainly come close with practice. Best yet, the more we practice the closer we can come to perfection and when we do fail we’ll find we rarely strike out.

Take, for instance, the last relationship I tried. I knew my partner was lying and it made me angry. Rather than spew my anger right at her I contained it and sat with it a while. That did not mean I acted like everything was fine (I’m a really bad actor), but it meant that while I processed my emotions I wanted to focus solely on those emotions. I got quiet and focused.

She kept pressing me, and I kept responding that I would talk to her about it in a few minutes. There was so much there in the lie, it was not just about the lie itself. While I won’t get into the details surrounding the bullshit, the bullshit was there and I needed to address it.

(Disclaimer. When I say I know she was lying, I honestly knew she was. There was no guesswork here.)

Not Fixing the Lie

After a breath, I told her that I did not believe her story and the reasons why. She sat there dumbfounded, not because I thought she was lying, but because she thought she did such a great job of packaging the bullshit.

“Just come clean,” I said.

“I’m not discussing this. In fact, I’m going home.”

“Me too. I’m sorry I drove here for this nonsense.”

We parted ways, and that was that. I was not about to invest any time in “fixing” the lie or the cause behind it. No part of me wanted to carry that burden, and no part of me wanted to be with someone I could not trust. She was free to walk her path and me, mine.

Five days later the official breakup came. I’m pretty sure she’s making peace with her demons insomuch as allowing them to rule the roost. That is no longer my concern.

It truly is not my job to fix you. In words I’ve used often after being told once I was someone’s pet project, “I’m not a pipe and you’re no plumber.”

Support, But Follow the Prime Directive

Those of us who use to watch Star Trek will know the Prime Directive. That General Order One stated that no Star Fleet personnel could interfere with the natural development of a species or civilization. They could protect and support said species, but they could not interfere with the natural development of that species.

I’ve learned to approach relationships in the same way. I will offer unbridaled support to my partner, friend and loved one, but I will not interfere with their natural development. They can be influenced by me naturally, and me them, but direct interference is not offered.

Of course both Captains Kirk and Pircard had to make weighty decisions on appropriate violations of the Prime Directive. That usually meant the protection of life, and that is a meaningful exception. I will not stand by and watch you die and I may remove myself from your orbit to protect myself from your behavior, but I will always try as hard as I can to support you without interfering in your development.

That part isn’t always easy. After all, we as humans know it all, and we want the world to know we know it all. Sometimes playing dumb, however, is the smartest part about us.

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.

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.

Are You Okay?

September 2, 2020 / Tom

He had heard something once in the darkness of his mind. A simple question with meaning beyond his comprehension. It would echo through the entirety of his life.

“Are you okay?”

A boy sitting alone, waiting for the beating to come. He used to turn off the lights in his room, thinking he could find some security in the darkness, but the lights would always come back on. The lights signaled the beginning of hellfire, the darkness a place where he could find some strength in his solitude. Eventually, when the beasts weakened and had their fill, the lights would turn off again. That’s when he’d hear the question of one beast to the other.

“Are you okay?”

A young man laying in a drunken stupor wishing the woman next to him would go away. His flesh was so weak but yet he indulged; his mind so wounded he’d need numbness in attempts to not to feel the pain. His drunkenness was not an addiction, but he thought it would be a nice distraction. Something would drive the demons from his mind. Something would heal the wounds the lighttime had inflicted. There had to be something that would show him love. He would turn to the woman and ask, “are you okay?” She’d smile, always wanting more.

There was little more he had to give. Still, the flesh would be willing even if the mind had withdrawn to someplace safer. There, in the darkness of his mind…

“Are you okay?”

It wasn’t the question he sought numbness from. It was the answer. The young man ran from the answer with all the speed he could muster. Still the question dogged him. He would run into burning buildings always asking the question. He would hold the hand of the injured and always want to know. There were people he’d find in various places of need and the words would tumble from his lips.

“Are you okay?”

One day he decided it had to end. He was tired of being chased but mostly he was tired of running. Through tears and anguish he finally knelt in the snow, looked within and asked the question he had never asked himself.

“Are you okay?”

Each tear that ran down his cheek was an answer, each sob a reply. Suddenly, the numbness that had been his friend vanished and, in the darkness, a light had appeared. For the first time in his life the light didn’t scare him; it led him. He was never afraid of the dark and, in that moment, he would no longer fear the light. He had made friends with both.

Finally the experiences of his life in darkness were not a source of weakness, but of strength. He could walk the path of light holding hands with the darkness and find both had taught him well. There was no need for sadness, for the spirit had arisen in him. He could walk confidently even if others did not understand his gait. He had found his home and he would never leave.

An old man laid in the stillness of the night, gazing at stars in the darkness. He marveled at their beauty and their power, wondering how such beasts of the sky could look so small when surrounded by the darkness. A smile crested his lips as he realized that it’s not the size of the light or the darkness that defined them. They existed for one another. They cannot fear each other for the breath of life is breathed into one by the existence of the other. They are, if nothing else, partners in the truth.

And he realized that he was one of them, a star in the darkness of night.

His interlude was interrupted by the heart that beat beside him. He could feel her breath on his naked skin as her fingers touched his back. The Lioness to his Lion, the sheath to his sword, she kissed his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He smiled, and turned to her. “Yes, I am okay.”

Thoughts of my Dad

January 10, 2020 / Tom

My Dad and I had a complicated relationship. However, we did little to complicated it. Others, it seemed, sought to make it as complicated as they could..

Despite their best effort, he and I enjoyed a very good relationship. It was one that was all-too-brief.

My mother, a woman with many struggles and problems, kept me from my father after their divorce. I won’t get into details save to say her lies and betrayals caused me to hate him from the time I was around five through much of my adult life. He was, in her delusional description, a horrible man. I thought of him in the most terrible terms for the better part of 30 years.

She’d often tell me how much I was like my father, again in the most terrible terms. I thought I was doomed to a life of suffering all caused by a heredity I could not escape.

It was, however, all a lie. When I was finally told the truth about my father, I couldn’t tell if the lie or the unveiling of that truth was more devastating. It took a some time for me to reconcile the suddenness of the discovering that not only was my father a great guy, but he also suffered greatly in the loss of his children. I had to untangle decades of anger and the hurt of the lie that created it.

Finding Some Truth

Ten years ago I decided to find him. I searched in California first, where I was born. Nothing panned out. Then I learned that he was originally from Philadelphia, and my attention turned more local. Within a couple of days I had found him, and shortly after he came to my home in New Jersey.

It was a glorious meeting and something inside me changed. I suddenly hoped I could be more like him, that I wasn’t cursed by my father’s gene pool. There was so much to learn about my ancestry. We talked about my family medical history. He described the trials and pain he endured in losing his first marriage and his children. I discovered he had fought for us over the course of years but in 1970’s family court he stood little chance.

He also confirmed for me that memories I had of him, memories my mother had dispelled as delusions of a hopeful child, were true. The happy times I remembered spending with him and his parents were confirmed. I found myself saddened deeply that this wonderful and meaningful relationship had been ruined for no reason.

I discovered I had two younger brothers and that my Dad had been married to the same woman for decades. They’d lived in Philadelphia all that time. They were all so very close yet so very far away.

We decided that we would keep in touch, and we did. He helped me in some dark moments of my life, challenged me to rise above my thoughts, and taught me that I was so much like him even as I lived as my own man. I was so much different, yet so much alike, the father I barely knew.

This meeting, plus my work in finding my father, further estranged me from my family. My sister, and it seems the rest of them, were angry that I would want to find him. Apparently, such an effort was insulting to my stepfather and offensive to my sister regardless of why the man who was my father had not been permitted in our lives.

I had no desire to estrange myself from my father to comfort those who had never done much in love, honesty or compassion to comfort anyone but themselves. It seemed to be more than a fair trade.

Final Words

There would be no pursuit of a relationship with my brothers, or their mother. I was happy just getting to know my father on our terms in our time. I didn’t feel that I needed a father, but I loved him. We actually enjoyed being around each other despite our political differences and our long period of estrangement. We clicked, and we could talk for hours.

I have had, to date, no conversations with my brothers.

The last time I saw my father was on his birthday in January, 2019. We met at a diner in Philadelphia and talked over coffee that got cold. He seemed to know many people there, and they all sat and talked with us. It was an enjoyable time.

He told me that he had been to Colorado before on a hunting trip and would really try to get out to visit. I told him he could stay with me, and we could take our time on the trails. He said “What makes you think you’ll need to wait for me?” I replied, “What makes you think I not sensing that I’ll have to run to keep up?”

He had turned 81, still walked for miles every day and went to the gym several times a week. My Dad reminded me that I was “big like my Grandfather but tall like me.” It was hard to believe he was in his eighties. “Movement is key,” he told me. “Stagnation is the death of us all.”

“Don’t worry, Tom,” he continued. “You have good genes on my side of the family. We have longevity.”

I reminded him I had had a stroke a few years before.

“That’s something else you got from me and your Grandfather. Staying power. It takes more than some bad health to keep us down for long.”

I laughed, but I got it.

A Final Call

The last time I spoke to my father was in the Summer of 2019. He called to tell me he had read what I wrote about my Grandfather, and to wish me a happy birthday.

“You nailed your Grandpop to a “tee”,” he said. “That’s the man I knew.”

“Thanks. I didn’t know you read my stuff.”

“All the time. You are a great writer. I enjoy it.”

We talked for a bit, and he told me something I don’t remember ever hearing from a parent.

“I’m proud of you Tom. You’re a good man. I love you, son.”

Today that memory brings me tears. Then, I could only muster a feeble “Thank you. I love you too.” I wasn’t used to hearing that from parents.

His 82nd birthday came on January 4, 2020. I texted him “Happy birthday young man!” He rarely texted back immediately, so I didn’t stress when I didn’t hear back from him that day. He had an old flip phone, and texting wasn’t easy for him. Calling wasn’t easy either for reasons private between the two of us. I expected he would text back or call as soon as he could.

A couple of days went by I had heard nothing. He was an early riser, so I went to bed believing I would hear from him by the time I woke up the next morning.

A Dream Goodbye

That night I had a dream. I don’t remember all of it, but I remember that he and I were walking by a stream in the woods somewhere. I think he was going to teach me how to fly fish, as I remember now we had waders on and were carrying poles with hooks dangling from our silly-looking hats. We shared a love of the outdoors, and we talked as we slowly walked along the trail. I don’t remember anything that was said but one word. One word that woke me from my sleep.

“Tommy.” He said it so clearly. It wasn’t loud. Rather it was like a crystal-clear whisper right into my ear.

I looked around in the darkness, half expecting to see him. That’s how clear his voice was to me. It was 5:14 am.

I grabbed my phone to check my texts. Still nothing. I went straight to Google and typed in my father’s name.

There, I found his obituary.

Sadness hit me like a truck. In the fractured way we lived our lives as father and son I was not there to say goodbye.

He did, though, say goodbye to me. I felt the dream I had was his way of saying “Goodbye, but not really.” We’d still walk the trails together and maybe even fly fish together someday. He no longer had anything holding him back and, for some reason, he knew I’d understand that.

Thoughts

I have daily thoughts about my Dad since our reunion. Happy thoughts. There were limitations to honor, yet I consider meeting him and our brief time together as some of the best moments of my life. I got to honor him, know him, and see him for the man he truly was. In turn, I was able to understand myself and know me through the eyes of someone more like me than not. Years of pain were erased from my life.

We were imperfect men who met each other on unusual terms and made the most of our remaining time. Men who understood each other as two closely related human beings who were together not because we had to be but because we wanted to be. We finally had a choice, and we made it, together respecting each other’s boundaries.

I understood that those who had hidden the truth were angry with me for pursuing it. They can go fuck themselves.

I know that those who cannot understand the importance of a son knowing his father don’t understand my need to know my own. They seem to have been hurt in my undertaking. I don’t apologize, not even for a second. Their not understanding me is none of my concern.

I am grateful that before my father passed I got a few years with him. Those years uncovered a truth and burned the box of lies I was given to ash. I got to see my smile in his, hear stories about his childhood and get to know our ancestry through his eyes. When we sat together I grew to understand that we sat as two men hurt by the delusion and poor character of others but who had decided that would not be enough to defeat us.

Mostly what I got from my Dad was an understanding of our potential. Despite all that had forced us apart we were there, talking and sharing. There was something wonderful between us, and there always would be. It is something I will carry with me for the rest of my days.

I didn’t get to enjoy a lifetime of memories with my father. What I did get was a lifetime of healing. In him I had found a man who understood me and who would not lie to me to make life prettier than it was. I trusted him to tell me the truth even if that truth did not paint him with the prettiest colors. He never violated that trust.

Today, I am proud to say I am my Dad’s son and to say “Goodbye, but not really.”

The Shack (the Need for Forgiveness)

December 26, 2019 / Tom

I want to be happy, and share my gifts with the world. So, I must be willing to forgive. A lesson well learned in my time.

My love and I watched The Shack last night. It was the first time for her, the second for me.

I will be honest, the first time I saw it I was left numb, with tears streaming down my face (I don’t fear admitting that even masculine energy sheds tears). I wasn’t sure what to make of how I felt, or the fog that I was in as I rose from my seat. All I knew was that I was wiping remnants of tears from my face wondering what the fuck had just happened.

Art can, it seems, expose the deepest parts of our souls. It can expose the cracks in our armor and show us the places where water seeps from the stone.

Despite what appears to be poor ratings in Rotten Tomatoes, I highly suggest you read the book or watch the movie. I won’t spoil the movie for anyone who hasn’t seen it, but I will describe what wept from my heart as it unfolded.

While pain seems to be the focus of the story, it really isn’t. Forgiveness is the plot line, with pain being the catalyst for the plot to unfold. The story beautifully describes how I see the process of experience. Experience, for me, has always been a series of things known and discovered through contrasts. We know joy from sadness, light from darkness.

And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light.. God saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness. ~Book of Genesis

(Contrast. What good would one be without the other?)

Forgiveness can be one tough cookie, and it is meant to be. We all experience varying levels of emotional trauma in our lives. It seems to me that that more cutting that trauma is the tougher the act of forgiveness. Emotional trauma is like lifting a very heavy weight that we just never seem ready to let go of. Our proverbial limbs quiver, our bodies shake yet we just don’t drop the weight.

Forgiveness is, in its beauty, the act of dropping the weight. Usually, though, it’s not as simple as letting go. We all have a need to share the pain inflicted on us and soon those closest to us begin look like our tormentors in the Id. In the absence of the abuser in our midst, others bear the fury of our pain, of our hopelessness, and of our fear.

Until we forgive our tormentor. Then a miracle happens, and there is no more pain or fear to share. It vanishes like a twilight when the Sun rises, and evaporates like the dew at high noon.

Anger is like drinking poison expecting the other person to die.~Buddha.

During the movie, I felt my mother’s presence. I couldn’t tell if it was around me or in me, but it was there. I could feel the pain in her that caused her behaviors in my childhood.

I uttered for at least the millionth time, “I forgive you.”

I felt my loving hand touching her childhood cheek, telling her it would be alright.

I felt my young hand holding hers. “You will be fine.”

I felt my teenage heart whispering to hers, “I will forgive you one day.”

Then I felt my soul touch hers and say, “I do forgive you. I truly, honestly, with all my heart forgive you.”

More weight fell, and as it did I realized I still am carrying some childhood stones in my pocket. It’s fine, I forgive myself for carrying them.

Our abusers, it seems, can stare at us back in the mirror most times. Until we forgive, we are usually the worst abusers we will ever know in our lives. We abuse others but, mostly, we abuse ourselves.

Something strange then happened as the tears again streamed down my cheek. I thought I heard her say, “Thank you, Tommy. I am sorry, and I am waiting. You are my son, and I am proud of who you have become. I’ve taught you well, although I wish I could have taught you in another way, a way I just did not know.”

Sometimes our paths are the only ones we know, the only ones we can see, the only ones we can find. Especially when we are unable to drop the weight and forgive.

More stones fell. The sound they made as they hit the earth sounded like a symphony. Good music is created by good energy. Sometimes so are tears.

(The book the movie was based on is by Wm Paul Young. Enjoy it!)

A Conversation With Mom

June 3, 2019 / Tom

Last night, a dream.

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

In this dream, I talked to my mother.

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

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

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

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

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

“Tommy…”

I heard her through the memory of the rushing creek.

“Huh?” My soul replied.

“I’m sorry.”

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

“Mom?”

“Yeah. It’s me. And I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tommy,” she interrupted her silence.

“Yes?”

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

“How so?”

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

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

There it was. Our pain!

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

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

“Oh, we will.”

I smiled, and closed my eyes.

“Mom, I don’t believe in ghosts.”

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

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

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

“How do I do that?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I will. But how?”

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

“Ok. Mom?”

“Yes, Tommy,” she replied.

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

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

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

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

And I Don’t Know Why

March 11, 2019 / Tom

Sometimes I am sad, and I don’t know why. Sometimes I see things coming that aren’t really there. Sometimes I see threats in the shadows where none exist. Sometimes I fear falling even when I am on stable ground.

And I don’t know why.

Sometimes I am sad and I know exactly why. Sometimes I see things coming that are really there, even when I deny their existence. Sometimes things in the shadows reach out and bite me. Sometimes even the most stable of ground crumbles beneath my feet.

And I don’t know why.

Sometimes I don’t know or understand why life has been so challenging. Sometimes I falter, and I hit the ground hard. Sometimes I sin, and don’t know who to ask for forgiveness. Sometimes I can hear angels crashing into the windows just outside my bedroom door.

And I don’t know why.

Sometimes life shows me why I have been so challenged. Sometimes I rise after the hardest fall. Sometimes I forgive myself and seek penance in mending my open wounds. Sometimes I care for angels with broken wings so that they may fly away.

And I don’t know why.

Sometimes the echoes in my life become too great to bear. Sometimes tears soak me to the bone and the chill of the air around me steals my breath away. Sometimes I feel utterly alone.

And I don’t know why.

Sometimes I welcome the silence and seek the emptiness. Sometimes tears wash away my fear and gift me a blessed renewal. Sometimes I find warmth in a heartfelt embrace. Sometimes I need to be alone.

And I don’t know why.

I don’t know why about a lot of things. But I will wipe away the tears and brush the dust off my wounded self just to seek a smile in the wilderness. I will find a way to climb the stones and love the mud just to view the gates of heaven. I will seek the answers and know the truths if just to gain one more breath. I will survive because I have found no other choice.

And I don’t know why.

A Solid Truth

November 4, 2014 / Tom

Through the numbness gaze I see

Cloudy, murky, beholden to the current

Leaning, listing, the stormy sky emblazoned

Calmly, the whitecaps form.

Through the blinded folds of skin I feel

Nothing, lost moments, surrounded by light everywhere

Laying still yet falling into the whirlpool

Rising, the foamy surf left evidence to the dying.

Lovely, I’m lost to the bliss of my own ignorance

Awakened in a moment, I cannot stand to shout

Aware in a flash, I cannot look to see that spark

Forever changed, the light enters me where I am wounded.

But such is the way of great fortune

To be wounded but alive

To be silenced but not forgotten, then heard again

She reaches for the coldness and brings a warmth renewed.

One wobbles, but does not fall

One stumbles, but finds sure footing

Somewhere, beyond the certainty of the next step

Comes the power of where the feet now stand.

One regrets, but accepts what cannot be changed

One worries, but gives himself to the great Ocean on which he lives

There, in the horizon that we call our home

Come the Sunrises and Sunsets that define our days.

Goodnight, dear, see me in your dreams

Goodbye, friend, hear me in your laughter

Feel me as the waves caress your feet, as the Sun warms your face

Know me when the light appears as a new day comes.

There is nothing to fear there, in the waves

Dance like you’ve never danced before

And know me there, everywhere

No surrender, no retreat, just calm acceptance of the Warrior.

Now, let’s go, to that healing place

Let’s bask in the warm water

Play in the lush fields where the color is blinding

And hold this moment dear.

Let’s leave the worry to others

Go crazy in the surf, find ecstasy in the sand

Together, as lovers sitting on an Earthen altar

Together in every breeze, in every wave, in every squawking seagull.

There is heaven.

There is hell.

There is everything in between

And it is there that we will find ourselves in a solid truth.