Tag: Loss (Page 1 of 2)

A Summer’s Dream

July 8, 2022 / Tom

I’ve found you.

I’ve found you in the sounds of rushing water returning to the sea. Ages spent playing on her banks, feet frozen in the current, now have me longing to bathe in her rapids. Come, hold me there and wash me pure, touch me and I will die hearing the power of our truth set free in Spring’s release.

I have found you, and you shall know me as no other.

I’ve seen you.

Up on the summit, looking out beyond trees, my soul has seen you. Hiding among the flowers you are, dancing when no one is looking as carefree as one could be. I’ve seen you, though, and you have not known it. I’ve loved your dance and found my rhythm in your steps. There are no dreams but this dream, and there are no answers but you.

“They thought her insane, those who watched her dance yet could not hear her music.” I can hear it, and I am dancing with you.

Despite the moments where no answers came to the questions I have asked, I now sit and gaze at this vast horizon. Somewhere, out there, you are dancing and singing and wondering and doubting while I sit here, longing for the moment when I can touch the horizon and feel it touch me in return. I wonder if in the breeze that now dries my skin there is your whisper, reminding me that this road still has some miles and you are waiting upon a shore somewhere. I cannot help but to whisper back, hoping you can hear my prayer.

When we kiss will you feel that wave of truth wash over you as that river in which I’ve bathed? When we search for each other in the night, will our hands find flesh where a dream once slept? I do so wish for those things but only if your lips are the “amen” at the end of the prayer and the note that starts each day’s song.

I shall see you there, one day, of that I am sure.

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 Hand of Love

January 2, 2022 / Tom

I thought I heard her in my ear,
“My love, relax for I am here,”
But alas I woke and knew it wrong,
For there was nothing but the Siren’s song.

The minute my feet found the floor,
I turned to where she was before,
The devil laughed and then he spoke,
“She was gone before your heart awoke.”

Lost once where oceans know,
The mountains, that’s where I must go,
Her notes I find where Sirens dwell,
The valleys can bring pain as well.

Do not trust what Siren’s sing,
Or the feeling that their song shall bring,
Steer your ship away from shore,
Or find her death as those before.

Instead head up and touch the sky,
Watch the birds as they fly by,
Hold the one that wants you near,
Forget the rest who disappear.

Then when the final curtain’s drawn,
And your sands of time are nearly gone,
The hand you hold you’re worthy of,
The hand you hold is that of love.

The Sounds of Everything

October 4, 2021 / Tom

A sigh, a gasp, a rush of something wonderful. It could be all that we live for and all that we die for. Or it could be nothing at all. Only time will tell, so just sit with me a minute as I tell you this story.

In the modern age of love, we are all jaded and duped just as we are hopeful and persistent. A man seeking her is on a vision quest of sorts. It is a quest desiring a truth in a love so potent that he puts the neck of all he fears into the noose of total strangers. He risks all he desires on the whims of those who know so little of truth or love just to find the one who has mastered a bit of both. He is willing to cut his way through the high briers of discontent in order to find the sweet oasis he has only seen in his heart.

The grunts of his efforts are among the sounds of everything.

Amidst the toils of his labor he finds the scent of something wonderful. He cannot describe its sweetness nor can he attest to its reality. What he does is promise to follow it, to honor it, and kneel down to its source . Among the stench of refuse he sets his intention to bear. He is seeking that one sweet fragrance in the hopes that she, too, has been seeking him.

The flesh of his hands are torn away by his labor, and his feet are bloodied by the thorns he’s left discarded in his wake. Yet still he is undeterred, needing to prove to himself that the journey is worth the price. He sings a song of hope that radiates his truth throughout the field in which he labors. He dances to music only he can hear, and in the notes there resides a prayer that she may hear it to.

The song he sings is among his sounds of everything.

He nears the realization of his truth. Suddenly there is a clearing and the sigh escapes his chest. He sheaths his sword and walks toward a lone flower standing stoically along a river. He bows in reverence and kneels in her honor. She has touched him beyond his flesh and has reached into places few have ever seen.

His voice remains silent but in his heart a steadfast oath. He shall not pluck this flower from her roots. Instead, he will honor her and protect her, keeping her safe from storms and drought alike. He would suffer in her suffering, grow old as she aged, laugh in her laughter and find peace in her embrace. The scars on his hands and feet were just the price he paid to get to her, and he willingly paid the price to never leave.

His oath was among his sounds of everything.

The warrior who walks the path of truth to uncover the story of his heart bears the wounds and joys of a great journey. He stumbles and falls and drags himself through shit-filled mud just to lay with her on the banks of some great river. She may honor him in return or send him to the his field of labor, but either is a risk worth taking. Saddened though he may be, defeated though he may seem, quitting is a word left to weaker men. This man growls, curses and then sets himself to work.

His growl is among his sounds of everything. His everything is a flower remaining to be found.

A Notion of Twin Flames (Elephant Journal)

October 4, 2021 / Tom

The Notion of Twin Flames Uniting

Recently, I was asked by Elephant Journal to revisit an article I’d written for them a few years ago. The article was about Twin Flames meeting, and was based on an actual event in my life. EJ had asked me to revise it to fit a tighter word count, and I was happy to oblige.

As I read the article a few times and tried to edit, I became acutely aware that it was impossible to shorten. There was only one way to accurately tell that story and it demanded much more attention. The rewrite must be less about that story and more about the lessons learned from the experience.

Each experience I’ve had in my life has brought me to a point of understanding. Such experiences have brought me a strength and resilience I’ve needed as I’ve aged, and an understanding of my own capacity to love and, if necessary, to lose. I have learned to value the light of good relationships, to not run from companionship, and to appreciate every moment of joy brought into this life. They have also taught me the value of bringing the Four Agreements into my relationships. I am real with others and expect others to be real with me.

“This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell, my blessing season this in thee!” ~Polonius in Hamlet

I must be true to myself so that I may be true to all others. It’s a lesson learned hard over the decades of my life and one I have learned well.

I hope you ready the article, share it, and comment on how a similar experience has permeated your life.

The Problem of Time

July 3, 2021 / Tom

I knelt beside him, issuing minute prayers in each thrust I forced onto his chest. My partner had placed a device we call a bag-valve-mask onto the man’s mouth, forcing air into his lungs. It was all I could do not to look at the man’s face. I hated the death stare, and this guy certainly had it.

“Keep going, no pulse,” my partner said matter-of-factly.

“Got it,” I replied, trying not to let on how tired I was getting and not trying to let anyone else in the room know what I knew. This man was not coming back. He had breathed his last and lost all chance of saying his “I love you’s” and “hello’s”. He had said all he would ever be able to say and I could only hope he had said it all.

He lived in a nice house, and the pictures on the wall suggested he had been blessed with a nice family. His wife, who moments before had been preparing a meal with her husband, now had the look of a broken heart that would never be fully healed. Everything had changed in an instant.

One thing that always seems to change in a moment of tragedy, and the same thing that is always taken for granted, is finally given its due as the finality of the end becomes known. See, that’s the problem with time. You never really understand its value until you have no more of it to spend. You take it all for granted until not a grain of sand remains in your hourglass. It is then far too late and, like this man, no one will ever know a thought, feeling, or desire that is uniquely yours to share.

Still, I prayed, and my prayers working to keep his blood flowing now included drops of sweat dripping onto his crudely opened shirt. I wanted to keep going, but one look at my partner’s face said it all. It was time to stop, it was time to let go and let the grieving process begin. Grief can be described as what happens when all hope is lost and the reality of loss takes its ugly hold.

Sometimes you just have to know when it is time to let go. The problem always seems to be knowing just when that time has come. For us, we knew it was time and we let go of what we hoped would be the outcome. Things don’t often go how we wished they would.

I stopped CPR, and we called the time of death. I never liked the time of death. It always seemed to be a lie, the reality being this man had died a while before we said he had. Time is not always accurate, but it always unforgiving. It cares little for what we have left to do, or what we have yet to say, or even how much of it we believe we should have. Time lives by its own rules, and in our arrogance, we often forget that we have no control over time. We only can control what we do with it.

His wife screamed, and I knew she would need help. My partner dropped the bag and went to her while I cleaned up and got ready for others to take over. My job was done and I had failed. The man’s life was over, and I only could hope he fared better in his life than I had in trying to save it.

That story has replayed itself many times in the years I spent in service. Each time a bit of my heart broke and I’d let the pieces flow out through the secret tears I’d cry. Each time I discovered my own mortality, and each time I swore an oath not to waste time. Each time, I failed.

That’s another problem with time. It makes liars out of all of us. For all the vows I’d utter about time there’d be vows I’ve broken. Here’s I am, decades later, having not done much of what I’ve wanted and not having seen much of what I’d like to see. One day, when the sirens come for me, I hope I’d given time as much attention and it has given me opportunities. I doubt I will have.

We shall see. I do wonder what time has in store for me, but I guess only time will tell.

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.”

Much More Than #24

January 28, 2020 / Tom

Kobe Bryant. A star athlete. A hero to many. A legend.

I don’t want to get into the minutia of hero worship or the frailties of a boy made rich and famous before manhood. There are many challenges we all face as we mature, but few of us have to do so under the spotlight. Even fewer of us have to do so under the intense pressure of performing for wealth and adoration. We make our mistakes and, hopefully, learn from them without much in the way of fanfare or notoriety.

Today, I just want to focus on a Dad and his daughter, a man with a girl he surely loved more than life. That is, after all, what truly matters.

I won’t pretend I can’t imagine what they went through. I believe I can. It makes me sad that such a loss had to happen in such a way. Yet, as I see grief on the faces of fans and athletes, this tragedy allows me to realize that great love exists. It exists even among the famous, the wealthy, the legends.

Because at the core of all the accolades, he was just a Dad with his little girl, a man with his legacy.

Tears

I have often felt waves of sadness roll over me as I contemplate my end. There is no fear of death in me but there is a sense of sadness. I want to experience all of life with those I love, and the thought of missing some of those things saddens me. I don’t want to miss a thing.

My children, if all goes according to plan, will carry on without me. Sometimes, as it so happened with #24, our plans as parents vanish in an instant. That’s the part I can’t, or won’t, imagine. It’s a horror needs to quickly vanish from my mind. I need to die before my children.

That is when the tears come. I think about Kobe, sitting next to his little girl on that helicopter, experiencing the horrible realization that nothing was going according to his plan. Not only was he going to die but so was his child. I can feel his impossible fear fighting his need to comfort his daughter. Waves of desperation poor over me as I sense his need for survival mixing with his desire to protect his baby girl. In my mind he fights his desire to tighten his restraints with his need to undo them just to hold her tightly.

I can hear screams mixing with “I love you”, fear mixing with love, and helplessness mixing with the desire to survive. It is quickly overwhelming.

So that’s where I stop. The intensity of pain mixed with the focus of a Dad’s need to protect his children proves too much. I can’t take it any further. It threatens the idea I have of my own plan, and leaves me realizing just how little control I have. I say a mantra, wipe the tears and shatter my shell, determined to live. I still don’t want to miss a thing and I know, deep inside, that fear does nothing but cause me to miss things.

The Legacy

I’m not a die hard basketball fan. I knew of Kobe because I grew up not far from where he grew up. I knew of him because of his childhood basketball exploits and the controversy he created locally by deciding to jump right from high school into the NBA.

It turns out he knew what he was doing and he trusted his instincts in doing it. Good man.

The death of Kobe Bryant and his daughter, as well as everyone on board that helicopter, comes with a legacy outside of sports legend. It offers us a moment where great numbers of people can reflect on who they are at the same time while mourning the loss of someone they cared about. Hopefully, it also gives us all a chance to reflect on the things we haven’t lost and the opportunities we still have to embrace those things in gratitude.

Kobe Bryant’s death is not just about the loss of a legend. It’s an opportunity for parents to contemplate their own mortality and their own relationship they have with their loved ones, particularly their children. We often miss those opportunities as we swirl in our life’s distractions, but they are vital to experiencing life fully in our moment. Our moment that is so unexpectedly fleeting.

The Door to Eternity

December 5, 2019 / Tom

I felt she was ready. For all the clinging of those who loved her, she needed to leave. It was her time, and when the door opened she looked back, smiled, and passed through the threshold.

Behind her was the anguish of her humanity, in front was something more. Before the door had closed she paused to glimpse one last time as the path that was. She saw the joys of her life planted neatly along the way, and relived the laughter and the smiles and the intimate moments where love had swaddled her soul. She also saw the pains, the suffering, the anguish and the rush of fear that being human had created. In joy she was so mindless yet in fear the mind was all she had.

The look back, it seems, is something all souls do. When they look back at their lives most know it is time to move on. Those who are not ready, though few they be, they return to their humanity to be celebrated for their unpreparedness. Yet that door is something we shall all see, and it is something we shall all pass through. She was ready to pass through before she had actually seen it. She had felt it before she saw it, and it’s pull began to build as her pain increased.

As she reached the end of her humanity she recognized something. While her body was wracked with pain, her heart had jumped for joy. As she neared that door she ceased being completely human and became a part of her divinity. At the end she was ready to let go of being human and open the door. It was time.

She felt the tears of those she loved and the pain of those who wished she’d stay. This was, finally, her journey alone and she could no longer submit to the whims of others. Her soul called for home, her heart begged for love, her humanity desperately wanted to know its divinity. And so, with a final view of the forest she had planted, he closed the door and walked into eternity.

There would be sadness left behind, but joy would return. That’s the thing about both, the return in our human experience with equal vigor. Yet, what lies on the other side of that door leaves one of those behind.

52 Years (A Warrior’s Lament)

November 8, 2019 / Tom

I met a man recently. He was a strong-looking older man, a Vietnam Veteran, a warrior, a man who’s had his own sense of loss and of struggle yet somehow survived. He had cancer twice, an illness he says was due to Agent Orange exposure during the war. He lost friends in battle, a lost even more in the years since. Yet I could sense in his struggle he had something that got him through it, something that prompted a man who had been beaten to rise, who had been nearly defeated to turn his chest to the demons and beat them into submission.

It didn’t take long before I found out what that something was.

“My wife died last month. After 52 years of marriage she’s gone.,” he said with a tear in his eye. I could feel the pain ripple across the room. I could see his agony restrained in tired eyes. I could hear his prayer for just one more kiss, for one more word from her whispered in his ear, for just one more minute with the woman he loved.

Nothing, it seems, can make a strong warrior crumble like the loss of half his heart. He seemed completely unwilling to surrender to age or to an enemy. But I could sense this old and wise man was completely ready to surrender to the loss of his great love. I could sense that no battle he’s ever waged was as fierce as the one he was in now. It seemed he knew that he had no part in this outcome, and that a broken heart could do what no bullet, no struggle, could.

He had married her before he was sent into combat, something not unique to the time. He loved her right away, and when faced with the likelihood of his death they decided to commit to the love they felt. If he died in combat he would die her husband, and she his wife.

He survived the war and the effects it had on his mind and his health. In their life she had often said that she had been married to two men, once to the man she knew before the war, and again to the same man after the war. He shared that she had been the reason he fought hard to survive many battles, but fought even harder to survive the long one that came when he got home. She had been there, always, his partner and his love, and he honored her as his wife each day of their life together. It was an honor that gave him life, even after he was certain his life would be over.

“She was quite a babe,” he said. “The guys in my platoon were always asking me about her. I think they loved her too. Here, look.”

He pulled out his wallet and showed me a picture of a stunning woman. The picture was black and white, but looked brand new, and I couldn’t help but understand his admiration for her. She looked like a pin-up model, even if the picture was 52 years old.

“She took this so I could take it to Nam with me. I carried it with me every minute of every day, and I have ever since. It has never left me, and I’ll be buried with it.”

“She is beautiful,” I replied. “Let’s be honest though, you had to be quite the catch to have her marry you.”

“I wasn’t bad, but I was better with her. That’s the thing about us men. We know we are good on our own, but we also know we are great with the right woman by our side. Even if she’s not there, she’s there. You know?”

I agreed with him, thinking of my partner who was over a thousand miles away doing her thing. I thought about how much I missed her and wished she was near. I hate distance, and I hate weeks of separation, but I realize that there is a good reason for the displeasure I feel in the separation.

I offered him my condolences, and though the words were heartfelt they seemed hollow in the space between us. He accepted with the graciousness of a man who was searching for any comfort he could find, even if it came from a stranger. The weeks since her passing may have helped him restrain the streams of his tears, but they seemed to do little to lessen the lake of emotion that gave them breath. I shook his hand and he thanked me while I issued a prayer that this would not be the last time I got to see this man.

“Namaskar,” I whispered to the ether. A part of me recognized this man and I believe a part of him recognized me. Though strangers until this moment, we were brought together to share a bit of wisdom, he to show me something and me to offer my gratitude in return. Perhaps I offered him some comfort but I know he offered me some perspective. In this brief interlude I remembered my grandfather and grandmother as well as the love I have inside me.

What a gift, and one I’m happy to share.