Tag: Peace (Page 1 of 4)

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.

Some things just are, and they are perfect that way.

February 12, 2020 / Tom

I can’t really remember the day I fell in love with her. Not because I’m uncaring or just ignorant. I can’t remember falling in love with her because I can’t remember ever not being in love with her. It’s like I can’t remember my first breath. I know it happened because, well, here’s another, but I don’t remember it. It’s just always been.

Perhaps love is just something that exists like the soul. In my relationship with the Divine, my current soul is not a separate thing but a separated thing. I am one with a vast sea of divinity who has, in this experience, been separated like a droplet of rain from the ocean. Maybe love is like that. I’ve always loved her, in one form or another, and am blessed to know her again in this life. Just as I’ve known her in the eternity of that sea, not as me, not as her, but as we.

It could be, but I see no point in continually questioning it. Sometimes what is, like our breath, just is and questioning it becomes just a waste of time. Instead, I choose just to enjoy it, to bask in its light, for however long it blesses my existence. I see no point in trying to remember, or seek out, my first breath. Instead, I will just inhale and enjoy the life that breath brings. Then I will exhale and enjoy that too.

Truth is that I don’t really remember the origins of a lot of things. I know they’re there though, and I can enjoy them as freely as someone who saw the first sunrise, or the first wave caress the beach, or the first steps I ever took. It’s just a matter of presence, of enjoying what is despite not knowing much about it, and of trusting that I don’t need to know everything. Some things just are, and they are perfect that way.

Healing (A Poem with some prose)

June 2, 2019 / Tom

What if today,

We found ourselves centered in the midst of our own Being?

Could we stroke the hair

Without owning the despair

Of the one we love?

Could we somehow find the balance,

To love without owning?

Without owning the one we love?

Without owning their demons they play with in the night?

Without owning the lies they tell themselves in the moments of their despair?

It’s a challenge, no doubt.

The Savior in me wants to die on the cross for you,

To save you from your sins, to cast the devils the beguiles you into the Sea’s abyss.

And banish your tears,

Exile them well beyond the fabled gates of heaven.

But the lover in me knows there is a much harder choice.

I must let you go to wallow in your misery,

Allow you to wade in that ocean of darkened truth,

I will not let you drown, no….I will die to save you then,

But no person alive has ever become the strongest swimmer they can be

From the security of a lifeboat, of the safety of a sandy beach.

We must all come close to drowning to know the beauty of this life,

The wonders of our own strength,

The truth of who we are indeed.

Knowing love will not allow us to sink beneath the surface.

If we drown, it will be of our own choosing.

We can always push the outstretched hand of love away,

One last breath before we sink, exhaled in the denial of one truth,

For the finality of another.

We are all blessed creators, even in our moments of uncertainty.

For it is we who create even the darkest moments we have wallowed in.

_____________

I have several scars, one of which resides within my left eyebrow. It was the result of a sucker punch, but that’s a story for another day. I remember when I was in the emergency room getting stitched up, the doctor doing the stitching said these poignant words to me.

“It may start to itch as it heals. Don’t scratch it, or it will never heal. Let the healing process do its thing.”

As I’ve gotten older, and a bit wiser, I’ve realized that piece of advice is a great metaphor for all of the wounds, both emotional and physical, I have that needed to be healed. The more attention I gave them, the more I scratched them when they itched, the less likely they were to heal and the more likely they were to get infected. If I could only master leaving them to the natural process of healing they would heal fantastically without any intentional effort of my mind or ego. In fact, the only mindful intention I would give them was in the mastery of not picking at them. Believe me, that isn’t always easy.

That does not mean that we should ignore our wounds. We do, after all, need to get stitches from time to time. There is a time, though, when we need to let go of the focus we place on our wounds and allow the natural process of healing to take place. Sometimes, we need to get the hell out of the way, and focus on other parts of life, if we ever want to be truly healed.

That is a great reminder for me today, and a pretty awesome intention to set as I begin my morning.

The Most Important Agreement I’ve Made.

February 27, 2019 / Tom

Link to this article here.

Mostly, as I see it now, I had agreed to say I had forgiven myself and others when, in fact, I had forgiven no one.

I was paying lip service to the process of healing without ever really doing the healing itself. In other words, I was not being impeccable with my wordin this instance and in so many others. I was not living, nor saying, my truth. Instead, I just wanted to make you happy.

I wrote this article (for Elephant Journal) to highlight one of the greatest tools of transformation I’ve discovered. I hope you find value in these words and find a practice that is both sustainable and life-changing.

Peace and love,

The Truth of Me

March 7, 2015 / Tom

I’ve been quite a few things in the short time I’ve experienced this life. I’ve been a sensitive boy, an abused child, a raging lunatic with a violent streak. I’ve been in trouble with the law, an altar boy drinking wine in the sacristy, a cheater, a liar, and a man afraid of who he was. Mostly, I’ve been an unhappy soul left foundering in a sea of his own despair, blaming everyone else for the suffering in my life.

I have memories of little bits of truth that came out through the bullshit. Like the time I secretly cried after a fight where I had knocked someone out. The time when my daughter was born and I felt love for what seemed like the very first time.

There were many instances of truth, but they scared me into grasping at the lies. I truly loathed who I was, and in that self-immolation I would try to be whomever you wanted me to be. I was, of course, doomed to failure.

A liar isn’t, in my experience, someone who gets off by lying. I just hated who I was when I was telling the truth. There is no moment of peace for the liar. In my case I relieved the voices of my youth always telling me I was not good enough, strong enough, handsome enough, fit enough, or tough enough to exist. I needed to be everything I was taught I wasn’t, so I lied.

One of my best friends reminds me often of my lying self. He tells a story of when we first met, and how much he hated me. I had created a shell of toughness, one that often instilled fear in those around me, one that often created the space I needed to exist in. I put out an energy that said, “fuck with me and I’ll hurt you”, with the size and swagger to back up that energy if you challenged me.

So, this man disliked me. Or rather he disliked the liar. Then, as he puts it, he talked to me. Somehow, some of my truth must have leaked through the cracks in the shell I had created. As a result I gained a friend, someone who’s been a trusted, beautiful person in my life for well over half of it.

Someone who I love dearly.

Someone I will always cherish.

A cheater isn’t always someone who gets off on cheating. In my case it made me sad beyond words. Yet, there was always that horrible fear I had in trusting someone else with my chastity, my faithfulness. I had seen people I trusted, those who were supposed to teach me things like love, chastity, faithfulness, and honesty do some of the most horrific things. I wasn’t going to be anyone’s victim, so I’d act out in ways I thought would give me control. Instead, I became an asshole, not to be trusted, and ruined some of the most beautiful experiences of my life.

And, yes, I played the victim. I was not, I was the victimizer who had grown a false strength through playing the victim. I thought I had an excuse when, in fact, all I really had was a choice.

It’s hard for me to write about these things given my current state of being. My life has changed so dramatically from then until now. I look back on the casual and not-so-casual debris that litters the fields on which I’ve walked and feel a tinge of sadness. Such sadness is only tempered by the realization that nothing in this life is permanent, especially when a man realizes his own power of choice, and the power of his own agreements.

A coward is not always a coward. Sometimes he just needs to find something to fight for. Similarly, misdirected people are not always misdirected. Sometimes we can finally take the compass out of our pocket and find our true direction. At some point and time the voices that send us off on wild goose chases can be replaced by our own strong, steady voice and our choices reflect the power in our purpose, the strength in our hearts, and the truth of our being.

All of us are, after all, liars. We hide feelings that make us vulnerable, or temper our opinions in the fear of offending others. We choose to wear suits when all we want is to put on sweats, or heels when all we want is a good pair of slippers. We stay in relationships that no longer serve us, often catering to voices not our own, trying desperately to make them happy.

Which begs a question. Do we even trust ourselves? Are we so busy wondering if we can trust the other person that we’ve lost sight of the fact that we no longer trust ourselves? Have we become so accustomed to hearing the voices of others in our head that we no longer hear our own?

How many of us have caved to a fear later proven unjustified? How many of us have fallen in love and never told the object of our affection? How many of us never even board a plane to jump out of, even though free-falling through the air is all we can think about? How many of us tell ourselves that we have no choice but to work for the bastard who refuses to pay us what we are worth, or that women deserve less money than men, or that all blacks must be doing something wrong to be harassed by the police?

I know, I am getting off on a tangent. I guess my point in doing so is to show us all that not one of us can truly throw a stone at an accused, and that not one of us lives in a house completely devoid of glass.

That’s not to say we must keep liars and cheaters in our lives, or maintain an abusive relationship with a liar and cheater because we, too, are liars. Instead, we must do what is best for us out of pure love for ourselves and, yes, for the person lying and cheating. They may, like me, have to lose everything in order to gain the truth of who they are. Suffering is a wonderful springboard to great things if we simply choose to focus less on the suffering, and more on the lessons that suffering is there to provide.

There is hope. If I can transform from a lying cheater into a man of principle and honesty anyone can. It’s about self-love. I love myself so much that I see nothing wrong with my truth. In fact, I see each example of fear that predated this transformation as something that was completely necessary, something I needed to experience for some purpose yet to be uncovered. I can’t change anything I’ve ever done. All I can do is understand what purpose the experience brought into my life, and what I should do with the lessons I have learned.

Remember, all of us are transformed from perfect, loving, honest babies into something else. If this is true, we can transform those parts of us that make us unhappy simply by choosing to and then practicing something different.

Today, when I am told I’m an asshole, it’s for a far different reason than in the past. I’m usually too honest, and people often don’t want to hear the truth or the way I offer it. I have not yet learned the subtle art of telling the truth without giving someone a blade to cut themselves, but I am trying. I don’t mean for my words, my thoughts, or my truth to hurt you, and I realize I can’t. All I can do is be me, what you decided to do with that is your business.

I am, yours, in complete honesty and truth. I’m mastering my own voice, not yours, so the process is a bit new to most, especially the easily offended. Still, I trust in the journey, and realize all I ever need do is tell the truth of me in the moment. There is great power there.

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.

My Muse, An Introduction

October 18, 2014 / Tom

Now, it seems, is time to introduce you to my muse.

Rather than do this in what would seem to be easy fashion, I’d like to do it the way my heart tells me to, using the methods by which the Universe speaks through me. Please meet her as my heart speaks in the written word.

See, a picture would be too two-dimensional, a handshake too cordial, a video too incomplete. I’d rather introduce you to this gift in the way most of you were introduced to me. So, here goes.

Imagine for one moment you are thirsty and you are wondering through a scorching desert looking for something to drink. Everywhere you look there are pitted stones, dying trees, and the bones of dead memories strewn about in some chaotic fashion. Some of these you put in your mouth, only to be repulsed by bitterness. Others you don’t even get near, the stench is just too much for you to take. So you continue to search, to imagine what it would be like to find that one drink of water. You never give up hope.

Then, suddenly, you come upon a clear, cool spring in a lush oasis. You bend your knee to drink, that first heavenly gulp saving you as each swallow afterward reminds you not only of the thirst that nearly killed you, but of the wonderfulness of the Universe that brought you here. You take long, mindful drinks from that pond, and relax patiently on the plush grasses provided while enjoying the fruits of that place.

You are sure you will never leave. There is nothing out there for you, and everything you have ever wanted is right here. So, you give thanks, you care for that space, and you rest in a certainty that you are, and always have been, right where you belong.

That’s my muse. I’m glad you have had the opportunity to meet her.

Now walk with me. The Sun is blistering hot, and the sky offers no respite from its assault. You walk onward, the sweat dripping from your skin like tired stories of a slow demise. Each step gets harder than the last, but onward you march until…

..finally…

…. a large tree rises from above the unforgiving sands. You sit under her, enjoying the cool comfort as you are refreshed from your journey. She dries the sweat from your skin, cools the burning rage in your heart, and steels you for the effort that still lay ahead; all while assuring you that you can always return to her, without ever wondering where she’s been.

That’s my muse. Please shake her hand, and give her your utmost respect. She deserves nothing less.

Now sail with me on my Ocean. The seas are rough, the storm mighty as the ship tosses roughly around while the gods argue your very existence. You are battered against the wooden frame, bruised against the solid mast until, finally, you are tossed overboard into the murky mayhem that quickly surrounds you and drags you down…

…down…

…down.

The last thing you remember is your impending demise. The last thing you see is a vast, bottomless cauldron of darkness. You finally surrender to your doom.

You awaken on a soft, sandy shore, the Sun warming you, the light breeze sending chills up your entire being. You gasp as you remember your breath, and you inhale deeply as if you were newly born. You sigh as you embrace the earth around you, and you cry as a testament not only to where you are, but where you have come from.

There, right there, is my muse. I don’t possess her any more than I could possess the air around me, but I certainly utter lovely prayers of gratitude with each passing breath. “I love you,” I say. “Breathe,” she replies. I love you too.

Now that you have met her, love her as you do while I love her as I do. Know her through the air that you breathe, the water than quenches your thirst, the earth that gives you a safe place to stand after nearly drowning in the Sea. Be tender with her as she is tender with you, and give her your full attention. Do not question the Sunrise and Sunset, but give thanks for the experience of her absence by truly appreciating her presence.

She is my muse, and with each word you find value in thank her with all your heart.

Love.

I Long for Winter

September 12, 2014 / Tom

Silence.

What is wrong with basking in the silence?

What is wrong with the aloneness of nothing’s sound? Where is the error within this isolation? Within the miracle of those spaces caught between the notes, within the sweet sound of creation stuck within the cracks of what we see as destruction?

From somewhere comes a sigh. From outward poses of false realities come awkward words of truthful fantasies.

I walk along trying to find the mindless footprints I’ve cast in the hardened bedrock of my life; wondering why some fear the sturdiness of this place, why they search for escape by looking for the invisible tracks they swear they left behind.

I question, they don’t respond.

They react.

Read more here…

What Absolutely Beautiful Ugliness I Am

August 29, 2014 / Tom

How could I feel melancholy?

I lay here, alone in my bed, the sounds of nature coming in through my open bedroom windows, wondering about such things.

My life is so beautiful. I have the love of three children, and the tender smiles and life-altering dramas of my little ones to grace my days. I have physically moved into a great space, with the harmonies of nature singing me to peace, and a cool breeze lightly filling the space where shortly I will fall to sleep.

I have beautiful people in my life. I have friends who mean so much to me even if I never quite find the right ways of expressing that great fortune. It isn’t that I don’t care. It’s just the opposite. I love them with all of my heart, and they are in many thoughts and deeds during my day. No, it’s not a lack of emotional love that keeps me silent.

Sometimes I just feel as if I need the distance. Not physically. Emotionally. I feel that I can love them best by not needing them, by not having them need me. I feel that I can do my thing in a way that allows them to do their thing, and that I best fly when not feeling constrained. See, I tend to crash into walls. And walls hurt.

I know, that the idea that pain is impending is an assumption, and making assumptions violates my own agreement. Yet at some point in life one must wonder where assumption-making ends and experience takes over. No, not every shard of glass is sharp, but experience tells me that if I walk on shards of glass I will end up cut and bleeding. I have the scars to prove it, and frankly I have no great desire to need more stitching.

More analogies and metaphors rush into my head like waves of a stormy sea. So far I’ve crashed into figurative walls and walked on ideological shards of glass while soaking in tsunami after tsunami of frothy, wind-swept ocean water. I’ve

I’ve hurt those I love the most, loved those who have hurt me terribly, and lived in the shadow of death.

heard echoes about my footsteps in the sand, how I was carried by some savior whose name I can’t remember out beyond some horizon I never seem to stand upon. I’ve cursed some saints and loved some sinners while not quite understanding the meaning to even my own questions. I’ve hated and loved, and pushed away some things I certainly should have held on to. I chuckle at the irony of it all.

I’ve choked on the very ocean water I love so much. I’ve become ill listening to my fears, and I’ve honored those fears as the very things that I’ve used as footholds on my trip to the summit of this life. I’ve been burnt by the fires that have warmed me, and I’ve grown blind in the very light I’ve used to light my way. I’ve hurt those I love the most, loved those who have hurt me terribly, and lived in the shadow of death. I’ve grown afraid of not knowing fear, and I’ve discovered that I find my truth when facing the monsters I’ve long held captive in the closets of mind. I’ve argued with others, but no more than I have argued with myself, with the voices implanted in me from birth often arguing with the voices implanted in me before birth. I’ve traveled enough in my own universe to know that there is no such thing as empty space, and I’ve heard the chorus sing through one, unified voice urging me onward even in the most wonderful moments of stillness.

Then there is that one voice I hear. The bastard macho fuck that won’t shut up until he gets his way. I know him well, and I fight him hard.

No, motherfucker, I won’t stop whining and I won’t stop complaining. I won’t “man up”, whatever the fuck that means. I won’t stop, and yes, I’ll let my panties get into a bunch. I’m sick of your rules too, and I plan to break every one of them until I am done here. In our time together you’ve kicked my ass and I’ve kicked yours to equal measure.

I’m not sure either of us has ever truly won anything in the process, although I’m pretty sure we’ve both loss plenty. We’re stupid that way.

Yet, I’ve met some beautiful people along the way. People who accept me even in the distance, people who feel close even when my heart is dancing among those stars neither of us can really see. I walk through the crowded room where I’ve put those memories and I smile broadly when saying “hello” to each of them. I remember the hugs, the kisses, the stories, the conversations. “I love you,” I say to each of them. They respond, “I know you do.”

I’ve seen some beautiful places while playing here. I’ve been fortunate to see so much in this journey, and to find the hidden caves of this place I could always call home if given the chance. I’ve seen flat land, my beloved high peaks, and the sandy ocean waters I now call home. I’ve gotten wet in viscous southern storms, kissed the snows of high altitude, and dove deep in the clearest seas I have ever bathed in. I’ve flown high above the clouds and felt the pressure of the deep, and I’ve floated on the surface of things when the people I love were floating there, too. I’ve had wealth, lost plenty, and felt the most loneliness a man could ever feel. I’ve been blessed with what my mind calls the “good” and the “bad”, and I’ve come through the day to see the night and then lived to see the sun rise again.

Yeah, I’m blessed. I’ve learned how to stand up on my own two feet without the crutches I’ve been told I’d need. I’ve learned that sometimes I have to crawl, even through the mud. I’ve learned that even the tone-deaf can find the right note from time to time. I’ve learned that I can make my kids laugh until their sides hurt. I’ve also learned that sometimes that is all we need; to laugh until our sides hurt. I’ve learned that thinking, acting, and being just like a kid is sometimes the cure for what ails me. I’ve learned that I love being alone because I love the company I keep there, and I’ve also learned that sometimes there is nothing like a great hug, a tender kiss, or that something more that highlights just how wonderful some people can be.

I guess when I look back I realize that the weatherman doesn’t always need to be right, and that sometimes it is just perfect to get soaked to the bone when science says the sun should be shining. Sometimes it is nice to be the only one on the beach because the experts have said it would be raining cats and dogs. Sometimes it is wonderful to just be wrong, to make that one mistake that sets your life on fire. It is especially wonderful when you realize that you already hold the tools necessary to put that fire out, yet you just sit and watch it burn for a while.

One day I will be done here. Then, I’ll be grateful for that one late night I spent writing about the idiosyncrasies of this experience.

I’ll be grateful for those wanderers who find value in these words I’ve thrown together, who seek out their own recipe even in the cookbooks found in other homes, on other shelves, written by other chefs, yet who invariably end up cooking the meal the way they want to with ingredients of their own choosing. I’ll be grateful for the loss that made room for so much gain, for the pain that exposed the pleasure, for the night that showed me the grandeur of each and every day.

After all, what is the good without the bad? It is, frankly, my horns that hold my halo in place. Or, perhaps, it is my halo that makes my horns just so fucking delicious. Hhhhhmmm, I’ll have to ponder that one for a while.

A Moment Cherished

May 21, 2014 / Tom

“Who are you looking for?” came a voice in the night.

“You,” I responded. “This, us, everything.”

This is how it happens for me. In the darkness of night I hear her, and in the throes of my slumber I can feel her. There, I can look into her eyes and feel it, and there I can touch her hand and know a truth that is, and has been, a certain reality.

“I’m happy you were patient,” she says, touching her hand to the place where my heart resides. “I’m happy you were there when I called for you, and I’m happy I was here when you finally arrived. I’m happy your arms were empty when I reached to embrace you. I’m happy we both were tested, and that we have finally reached our place, our time.”

The look in my eyes spoke total agreement as my beating heart sung the praises of a moment fought for, a moment cherished.

My mind first wanted to travel backward, to the scattered remains of lessons learned and of things lost. It screamed for attention to the bandaged places, but when I looked there all I saw was light. It wanted me to revisit old pains and distant agonies, but my heart had set the bridges to those places afire, turning them into impassable piles of ash.

Her lips drew my attention back to the place on where we stood, together. I could feel the sturdy sands of our beach give way slightly to my bare feet as we kissed, the warm surf surrounding us in our moment of pleasure. The sea tugged at us, wanting to pull us away from our place, but our root held firm as our passion grew. There was no other place out there; for us there was only the here, the now. As the Earth held us tightly, the air embraced us gently as the sea issued its sweet song of surrender.

Here is love, and here is where it will be.

My mind then wanted to travel forward, into times not yet created but certainly well-known. In the fear of a moment never seen before, the mind wanted to find security in what it had known, and in the process created tomorrow out of yesterday. For a moment I could not feel the soft sand beneath my feet, but only felt the stony beaches of yesterday. I wondered if those rocky coasts were my future paths, and if the lies uttered by a hundred mouths before would one day be said by the lips I so eagerly tasted now.

Now. Come back, now. Please listen…

Her hand on the back of my head brought me back to our place. It is said that tears are a release of stories kept deep within the soul, and I release mine as my mind surrendered to what the rest of me was screaming. I listened as fear raised a white flag to the moment, surrendering to the passion, to the promise, to the reality of a moment cherished. There were no more footprints in the sand save the ones we were rooted in, and there were no more doubts in the bedrock of water and sand in which we now stood. The miracle was that the sun had risen as though it had never, ever set.

Our lips parted and we looked deeply into each other’s eyes. I could see the trail of tears on her cheeks that framed her beautiful smile, and I smiled in return as she wiped the last vestige of old stories from my face. I knew, then, that she had traveled far as well in our cherished moment, and that we had not only shared a collective peace there, but also an individual journey in the seconds we first felt a new reality. Some connections cannot be explained, or reasoned. They can only be known, and when two hearts know that connection as truth, nothing can stop the dream from becoming real.

“Thank you for waiting, my love,” she whispered.

“I had no choice,” I responded. “You were always speaking to me, always there. Even in the darkest hours I could hear your voice begging me onward, reminding me of things not yet done, and places not yet seen. Thank you…”

She hugged me tight, no other words needed to be said.

We looked down the beach, deciding silently to head in that direction, to everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Our hands embraced as we splashed along the way, laughing and talking the entire way toward each sure footfall, each telling footprint in the sand. Our night was drawing to a close.

I awoke with a smile and a renewed feeling that change was coming. The emptiness in my room became filled with birds singing from beyond walls through cracks the windows would provide. I had never seen it so bright on such a cloudy morning, and even as the humid air stuck mildly to my naked form there was a sense of comfort there. There was always a sense of comfort in surrender, in knowing that control was only possible over the choices I would make. In those moments my anger over the lies of others in their untrue testaments of truth and promise would end. It appears those souls were simply unconscious leaves from the tree of life that the wise wind had taken away. They were malformed to my purpose but certainly valuable to another’s, and the release became a testament to the promise kept to the one who will be waiting.

There is great service in truth, in surrendering to the will of the wind and the great sands where we stand. There is a great love shown in letting go of the pieces that just don’t fit for they, too, deserve a true moment cherished. How many square pegs continually grasp at round holes believing that with great effort will come a perfect fit, all the while finding the work undertaken is destroying both pieces. We deserve to be honored, to be cherished, for who we are by those who need not change to cherish us.

We all deserve our truth. Once we discover what that truth is, I mean. Until then, we all deserve our illusion separate from those who can’t live within it.

As for me, I have vowed to remain true to that which I am seeking, knowing full well that it, too, is seeking me. I cannot return to the human expanse of barren promises and broken dreams that I know all too well. I not only burn bridges that would take me back to those places, but blow them up with an abiding attachment to my own sense of truth. It has taken me a long time to arrive, and I’m not giving up the hard-earned ground I’ve traveled for a sense of human security which is, of course, a human frailty. Each experience teaches me, each dream fulfills me, and each cherished moment reminds me of who I am.

I love even the round holes to my square peg. They are beautiful, which is one reason I don’t seek to change them more to my liking. While I do wish they’d stop trying to change me to theirs, I understand who they are and where they stand. We often seem to fear uniqueness, we seem to fear that which reminds us of what we’ve created as a painful truth. We seem to fear aloneness and become fearful of those who don’t. We fear being different, and work hard to fit into places we truly do not belong. “If I need to change to make them happy, why don’t you need to change to make me happy?” seems to be a mantra of leaves unaware that they, too, are simply blowing in the wise wind. We often don’t seem to learn that the “one” will never arrive if we are busy holding onto the “wrong one”.

So, yes, my lover, I am letting go. One day there will be a light so bright as to blind us both to everything not within it. There I will go, even if only within the confines of my slumber, to let you know that I, too, am waiting for our moment cherished. I know it is coming.