Tag: Power

Rise! Dear Heart…

March 30, 2022 / Tom

The floodgates have opened. The writer is back, his heart in tune, his soul awakened, and his growl nestled firmly against her breast. He has survived for this moment, and in honor of his survival a prose is born for those who are fighting for their own. He is in this spot because he willed himself to live, and he will never let those he loves shrink from the battles they have at hand.

For those who are struggling, who are facing battles unparalleled in their existence, he hears their growls as well. Even if they can’t yet hear that sweet sound, he hears it echoing in his own past. He knows and he hears, and soon his heart beckons them onward.

“Rise, dear heart, for you are loved and you are needed.”

The rains pour on the battlefields of our existence, making slick, muddy work for warriors climbing to the summits of their lives. Yet they must climb. They can never quit. They may rest and they may crumble, but they will rise to meet the challenge.

We must be vigilant, for each other, and not fail to reach our destination for a lack of effort. We must find our tribe, those pure hearts in tune with our own, who will push us forward. Those beautiful souls who sing our song and give us shelter when we need to rest. Such love is not romance, it is human and such power is not fickle, it is divine.

“Rise, dear heart, for though I cannot walk this path for you, I can walk it with you.”

Push, and walk hard, but know that if you call I will come. If you ask, you will find my hand reaching through the smoke and it will not let you go. I dare not pretend you cannot do this on your own, but know that you need not be alone as you face the storm. No matter the distance, I am here. No matter the reason, I am beside you.

I am no stronger than you. I have no superpower. You are everything I am, maybe even more. Yet in the ebbs and flows of this life I will carry you when I am strong and your are not. As I am able, I will lay with you in your despair and hold your broken pieces until you are able to mend them. Perhaps each act of such love will be returned, and perhaps not. The gift is in the giving, and the gift and the giver are one. Life itself demands nothing less of warriors.

For now know that you are cherished, you are needed, and you are not alone. You will have us at your back and you will not face the demons alone. We are so blessed to watch you rise, dear heart…

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.

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.”

Be Still, My Friend

March 16, 2020 / Tom

I used to say a mantra before getting off the rig for a fire, rescue training or EMS assignment. That mantra, “I will not let you down” was uttered silently before I left the truck and often during the heat of battle. I’ve based this post on that mantra. Perhaps it will mean something to you as we face this global crisis as one community, the community of man.

Be still, my friend, for I will not let you down. I will face the flames beside you and you will not be forgotten in the inferno. You will be guided through the smoke and we shall cut through the haze together. I was born to be your friend even if I know not your name.

Be still, my friend, and know you are not alone. We shall embrace in the chaos that surrounds us and together bear the uncertainty of where we stand. Though strangers we may be, you are my brother and my sister. I love you though we’ve never met, and would give my life for yours as though I’ve known you forever.

Be still, my friend, and know that together we are strong. We shall share our hunger or our feast, our comfort and our suffering. I shall throw down my flag unless you can share in its glory and I will not pick it up until we both can carry it, together. We are friends beyond all things man has created, and brethren despite our differences.

Be still, my friend, and know we are protected. My strengths shall protect you as yours protect me. Together we wield a shield of love far stronger than the bullets of the fearful. Our time is eternal for we are pure of heart, and we have seen Divinity.

Be still, my friend, and know our lives are our only testament. Live them well, in love and togetherness, with honor and the power of truth in your hearts, and together we shall overcome all things.

With love and truth,

Tom

The Love of a Parent

January 16, 2020 / Tom

I get sad sometimes.

I miss my oldest child. Memories flood my mind of her wild curly locks, her diaper swishing in hurried toddler steps. She once fit in the crux of my arm, and now she’s a woman nearly as tall as I am. She’s a powerhouse, and I’m a proud poppa even as I swelter in the wish of wanting her nearby.

I chat with my middle child on the way to school, her life a swirl of priorities I barely remember having. I marvel at her smile and her determination, but mostly I admire her courage in just being who she is. She makes no excuses, offers no apologies, and stands tall as a master of herself.

My youngest spends most of this morning trying to make us laugh. He knows success when his sister smiles. She is stingy with such things, and she makes us work for her reaction. He doesn’t care for her approval, but he does have a need to make the world a happier place. He’s been that way since the day he was born.

Time has been my best friend and my worst enemy.

This sadness is not a typical sadness. It’s a joyful sadness. I am so grateful and happy for what time has given. I’ve held three wonderful children in my arms, watched them grow from seeds to saplings, and marveled as they’ve bloomed in every season. I don’t hold onto their youth as much as I wish it was longer, that I had more time to marvel, to appreciate and to soak it all in. I want more time.

But the sunrise is fleeting and the dawn but a passing moment. I still have the day to enjoy in the appreciation of both.

So my children walk away and I smile, feeling both joy and sadness at the same time. I let them go even as I hold them close and watch them bloom even as I wish they’d stay saplings for just a little while longer. This is the love of a parent.

Love is not a fixer

November 6, 2019 / Tom

One of the hardest things you will ever have to do is tell someone you love that you have no desire to fix them. Whether it is to someone you are romantic with, or friends with, or a parent/sibling/child of, the moment you cease all responsibility for their behavior it becomes the moment you risk losing them forever.

Or at least for the time being.

People want to share their pain, their suffering, their anxiety, and their fear. More often than not, they seek out fixers, those who will take ownership of their mess and step into piles of shit with them. People also want to “fix” other people, often sacrificing their own happiness and joy in the process. We are often so conditioned that love is only real if it includes an abundant willingness to suffer, and we want to so desperately prove how much we love in our relationships that we will forget the truest source of all love — the love we have for ourselves.

During one of the most painful times in my life I was told I was a project, that I needed fixing. I realized in the moments that followed that the pain I felt was derived not only from the constant need to please others, but in the feeling that I would never succeed in that effort. That fixer became like a sponge that I felt the need to constantly fill. In that need I would create situations and instances where I was broken. After all, if I was broken wouldn’t the fixer show love in the repair? If I was Humpty Dumpty, wouldn’t she then ride up on her horse to put me back together again? If I wasn’t in need of fixing, who would I be to her?

And that “her” can be a mother, a father, a friend, a lover. It can be anyone we seek approval from when we have not learned to find that approval within ourselves.

Nothing speaks to self-loathing like constantly breaking yourself to please a fixer. Nothing paints a picture of despair when one day that fixer leaves, and not only were you helplessly broken, but you were also not good enough to be fixed. The hammer you used to break yourself suddenly becomes too heavy to hold, and the fractures you habitually created in your heart bleed real blood. You were broken, just not in the way everyone thought. You were in need of repair, but not by any person other than the one looking at you in the mirror.

That first “goddamned motherfucking shit” you utter is the first moment of real healing. That first string of profanity you growl as you try to stand again is your first moment of awakening. It’s not the thunderclap you hear from beside your Bodhi tree that shakes you out of your sleep; it’s the sound of your reconciliation as it pours from your heart The tears run down your face in a flash flood of reality, and they cleanse you of your inequity and purge you of all sense of sin.

Then, finally, you can breath with little strain. You realize that the truest sense of love comes not in fixing someone, but in not taking ownership of their repair. Your truest love emanates from your sense of self, and you have no desire to fix others or have them fix you. You can walk, run, or sit based on needs the meet your purpose and, in turn, help those around you meet theirs in your way, in your time.

When you stop being the fixer you can truly love someone with all of you, and not just the part of you carrying the toolbox. When you no longer see yourself in need of repair, you can then love yourself and others beyond that cracked area of you that once needed to be filled. When the bandages are no longer the only part that can be seen, the healthy parts of you will flourish and unite with the healthy parts of others. You will not see others in how broken they are, but in how powerful they are. You will stand on your own next to others standing on their own, and you can then walk together freely in liberation and in healthy love.

Love is not the fixer, or the broken, or the wounded. Love is the selfless act that makes nothing broken, or wounded, or in need of repair. Love is the soul that rises from the ashes and the spirit that growls in the moonless night. Love is not the hand but the sword it carries. Love is not the rope but the blade that shreds it. When all seems lost you can count on love not to heal anything, but to stand by the one healing. When the twilight comes and the Sun takes forever to rise, love is not the one pushing the Sun above the horizon but rather the one shivering next to you in the cold. Love is not the one sewing your wounds closed, but the one holding your hand as the needle pierces your flesh. Love is not the healer. Love is the one who stands by you while you heal yourself.

So when the one who loves you dearly says to you, “I cannot help you,” he is in pain right next to you. He is writhing and wincing in the agony he shares by your side. Yet, his love for you has him remain idle for he knows in his heart that real love is found in the allowing space for the strength you are realizing, the truth you are discovering and the power you are finding not in him, but in your own self. What greater love is there to offer than such a truth?