Tag: lessons

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.

The Twenty Tens, A Decade of Wild Change

December 31, 2019 / Tom

The Twenty Tens were a decade of wild change, wild discovery and wild growth. The old normal turned into the new normal, and what seemed certainty was replaced by a certainty that nothing ever is. I’ve learned a lot over the last ten years and for that I am grateful.

A disclaimer. Although I will post this before year officially ends, be certain that I’m not counting my chickens before they hatch. If the Twenty Tens have taught me anything, it is to never count on what is not yet real and to never believe something has happened before it does.

Although a little faith has never hurt anyone. A valuable lesson learned.

The decade started out normally enough. I was married with children, living in a nice home in Southern New Jersey. I can remember ringing in the New Year with the banging of pots and pans, a few kisses and hugs and the normal amount of forgetting to write “2010” on my checks instead of “2009”.

Everything seemed wonderful. As so it was.

There Must be a Fire for the Phoenix to Rise from the Ashes

As I’ve said, the Twenty Tens were a decade of wild change.

Within a couple of years the company I worked for would declare bankruptcy and I would be getting a divorce. My life crumbled around me and I wanted out. My walk to end it all didn’t end as planned, but that is a story for another day.

I would rise and survive, learning to peel away the layers of shit I’d wrapped around me. I threw away the stench of my childhood and the behaviors that went with them as I created a new code to live by.

A couple of years later I would have two near-death experiences. The first was heart related, the second brain related. That was a remarkable metaphor for what needed to change in my life. My heart needed to heal and to open; my brain needed to stop dwelling in the past and future. There was so much to enjoy right now.

In the moments that culminated in what has been termed a “miraculous recovery” I fell in a deep love affair with me. For the first time in my life I loved myself. It was a gift of love that spawned from loss and a lesson in life born from nearly dying.

There must be a devastating fire if the Phoenix is to rise from the ashes.

Wild Change – A Big Move

Less that a year later I would be fulfilling a deep desire to live in Colorado. Miracles all fell into place to see that happen but the long and short of it is that my ex and my youngest kids moved here too. I was working 4 jobs in New Jersey at the time and had no idea what I would be doing once I moved to Colorado. All I knew was that I needed to be here.

With some sadness, I turned in my firefighting gear and said goodbye to a 25-year passion. With joy, I sold most of my possessions, loaded up a moving truck, and left my home State of over 40 years. I left the beach, friends, family and all I knew to venture into an area I had only visited, where I knew no one and had no history. All I knew for certain was that I heard a voice inside me that told me this had to happen and that it would be all good. I trusted that voice.

Within a couple of weeks I had a job in insurance, obtained the required licensing, and had made a few acquaintances. Mostly, though, I began to challenge my body on the trails and began to really know myself in the mountains. The voice had been right, and I’ve trusted it ever since.

The realization of the desire to live here has given rise to a blossoming I only once dreamed of, and a continuation of the recovery I have seen my entire life.

A Great Love

That blossoming has led me to a great love. I’ve been blessed to watch my children grow to wonderful teenagers. I’ve been blessed to see my oldest find herself in her 20’s. All three are wonderfully powerful presents who teach me daily about life. Their smiles raise me, their challenges pain me, but mostly their individuality inspires me.

I am truly a blessed man even in my imperfections. Check that. Especially in my imperfections.

The blossoming also led me to my heart’s mate who, ironically, lived back where I moved from. I believe I was destined to move here and I believe she was too, for we as kindred souls move well among the wildflowers and the breathtaking views. The words we translate from our souls speak the same language, and we compliment each other quite well.

What a great space we now share.

I’ve seen the power of a wild moose, walked paths with elk, hiked alongside chipmunks, told stories to mountain goats above the treeline and felt the energy of native peoples course through my soul. I’ve share an embrace where I once walked alone and shared visions with the unseen that walk beside me. In those rare moments when I pause to look behind me I cannot fathom from where it was I came.

A lost child is a securely found adult and a wounded heart beats strongly. This once-tired soul has found its second wind. What once seemed impossible is now a daily experience, and what once bore wounds into my heart are now-forgiven memories.

What a great love it is.

Beyond Today – More Wild Change?

I honestly have no idea what is to come but I am excited to find out. The Twenty Tens certainly proved to be a decade of wild change. I can’t wait to see what this new decade brings.

I know what I hope to accomplish and I know what I’d like to see. Yet, for all my wants I realize that

The Roles We Play

December 12, 2019 / Tom

The jester says,

You cannot survive this. It’s too much for you to handle. You must surrender, give up, leave the field of battle. Give up the ghost, bend knee to the wicked wind, find shelter from this storm. You are nothing but a shadow meant to hide in the dark corners of the cave. The pain is too much, the risk too great, the mountain too high. Save yourself. Run and hide.

The beast says,

What life is there in running from the rain? I cannot, I must not surrender, for enslavement to the fear is a lifetime spent in death. I will set my feet, tighten my grip upon the sword of my own power and fight until my dying breath. I shall light the torch of my own ferocity and banish the shadows in this cavern. I bear the pain as a symbol of my victory, reap the reward from this refusal to surrender, and climb until the view promised my upon that summit is, at last, seen. I have saved myself in standing firm, and in pressing on beyond my mind’s limitations.

The warrior says,

I may retreat, but just to find more stable footing. I may drop my sword, but only to remove the shackles I have placed upon my soul. I may hide, but only to attack at the time of my own choosing. I may surrender, but only to free the parts of me enslaved. I am the fire that lights the torch that all shadows fear, and the storm that sets the trees to dancing in my wake. I am the hawk who sees and knows when to set upon the voices within, and the wind that carries angels up to heaven. Attack me at your peril, for if I so choose I shall crush your head under my heel and leave your carcass to the whims of the Sun.

Some moments I play the jester. Others, the beast comes out. Yet, I always try to summon the warrior, that wise part of me that always keeps me going. After all, life seems to be one successive act of survival after another, one role followed by another, multiple lessons followed by multiple tests followed by even more lessons. The essence of life seems to be in the way it flows; sometimes fast, sometimes slow but rarely stagnant for long.

The Fragility of My Mortality

November 4, 2019 / Tom

It was bedtime and, as often the case, I went in to sit with my 13-year old son to end the day. Being a parent can be hard and sometimes the lessons we need to teach our children can be tough, but at the end of the day I like to reinforce to my kids the truth that I love them and that I am their Dad. That means that I am not just a teacher, but a role model and a man who will always do the best I can. For me, being a Dad isn’t just about teaching hard life lessons and preaching a certain kind of virtue. It is also about being vulnerable and exhibiting strength in that vulnerability.

After our talk, I ended with a “Good night, my son. I love you. You are my favorite boy in the entire Universe.” That had been my agreement with my son since he was born, and I’ve stated it so many times I could not hope to count the recitations. Despite our familiarity with that mantra, it never seems old to me. Each time I say it brings a certain amount of truth, newness and commitment into the space we share. I know soon, if he still allows me, the word boy will change to “man”. The one thing that won’t change is that he is my favorite man ever born.

The conversation used to go like this:

“I love you, bud. You are my favorite boy in the entire Universe.”

“And you are my favorite Daddy in the entire Universe.”

“I’m your only Daddy.”

“And I’m your only son.”

He has an advantage over his sisters. My middle child is currently my favorite 15-year old in the Universe, and my oldest is currently my favorite 25-year old. My son is simply my favorite boy, young man, male, whatever. He need share that favoritism with no other in his gender. He is the only one of his kind, the “man” of the house when I’m not around although his sisters have no need for a “man” of the house. They’re quite easily the strongest, most able and most independent people I know.

“Dad, give me a big hug.”

I certainly don’t say “no” to those opportunities. I assume, with some wisdom gained through the experiences I’ve had with his sisters, that those hug requests will diminish in time. This was the first year I wasn’t invited to walk with him on Halloween, that privilege being extended to his friends alone. My middle daughter didn’t even dress up this year, deciding to attend a high school haunted house with her friends instead. My oldest gave up doing those things that remind parents that they have children. Now, I have adults, and with them nothing but memories of smiles coming through princess makeup and GI Joe camouflage. I can still see each of my kids in my memory, their bags and plastic pumpkins in hand, running in dresses and scary costumes, enjoying that holiday as only kids can.

I used to be Daddy. Now, I am Dad. I used carry them on my shoulders, now I can barely lift them. They used to rely on me for so much, now I am barely tolerated (even when they rely on me). So I will never say “no” to a hug request, and I will put all my energy into that hug while it lasts.

Last night’s hug filled me with great joy, but also with great sadness. I could feel the fragility of my mortality looking over my shoulder. I could feel the moments fading. I could sense my end, although with that sense came an intense focus on the moment I was in with my favorite boy in the entire Universe.

I realized in that split second that I would not be around to see much of my son’s triumphs, or be there to help him in his tribulations. I would not be there to hug him when he needed one, or talk him through a question that entered his mind. I would not see so much of this young man’s life. I could feel a tear being born in my soul, but he would not see it. For now he would just be hugging his Dad, oblivious to the fragility of mortality that plagues us all. I could give him the gift of presence, knowing full well that one day he would fully understand the burden that mortality brings all of us who love someone deeply. The way I love my son, and my daughters, who will one day need me only to find I am gone.

That is where my “fuck” comes from. That fuck I give in this life, that fuck that says I want to be there for them, see their lives unfold, experience their joys and help shoulder their sadness. Mostly though, I know the sadness they will feel in my passing and I want to spare them from that burden. I know, however, that is a wish that will never be granted.

I woke up this morning understanding what this experience means. It means that I can’t be wasting time on the mundane, the meaningless drivel that often permeates our lives. Instead, I need to focus on the remarkable, and sharing that remarkable with those I share a love with. I need to leave a legacy of love, of words, of lessons and of memories because one day those things are all that will be left of me. I have spent a lot of my life focused on nonsense and I’ve wasted my energy on plenty of endeavors that have little meaning to those parts of me I will leave behind. I cannot build my memorial on fiction, I must build it in truth.

Perhaps that is what being a parent teaches us. Perhaps it need not be so much about “raising” our children but more about leaving them a legacy. Not a legacy of wealth and comfort, but a legacy that they can lean on when times get tough. Perhaps our role is not just to warm them, but teach them how to warm themselves and not leaving them to wander on their own, but to share with them a compass of morality, of character, and of love. That way, when they call for me and I can’t come they can still hear my voice, feel my hug, and know that I have never, ever, left them.

And I will always be their Dad.