Tag: strength

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.

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 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 Risen Man

October 18, 2019 / Tom

When the Phoenix rises above the ash, he has no desire to return. That’s how the Phoenix knows he has risen, when the cocoon of ash and ember no longer hold any appeal. He may tell the story of destruction, of death, of rebirth and of resurrection but only the living part of that tale is his. What came before his rebirth fails to matter. What matters is he lives and rises to the Sun, and surrenders not to any darkness.

Until that moment when the piles of blowing ash no longer stain his mind, he is a slave to it. Until that moment when the pulsing-orange embers cease to burn his soul, he can only focus on the pain. Until that moment when his fisted hand rises into the mountain air, he will be buried beneath the surface of his agony. He will say words like “healing” and “growth” but he will mean none of it. A seedling may seek the sapling, but until he pushes through the soil his is but a hope, an egg in which no bird can fly.

The seedling cannot bloom to share its fragrance with the wind, and the egg cannot sour among the breezes of this life. Born in the nest of ash and ember he is but a promise, a dot of potential to which no truth can be assigned. Yet, with some battles and some defeats he finds his true victory. He stirs to crack the surface of his ashen shell, punches through the shell that once imprisoned him, and feels the clean air for the first time. Once risen, he cannot fall even when he falters before his god. He can only fly. He can only soar. He can only live his truth.

Once that breath of life fills his chest there is no death in which to surrender. The body may surrender but the soul that burst him through the ash will live eternal. He will leave his footprints in the mud and, sometimes, drops of blood upon the soil that guides him in his travels, but he will not die. Those who knew him will hear his song ring out from within the forest veils. They will feel him in the drops of dew that wash their tired feet. They will know him in their own rising, and they will find him as their shackles fall to the ground. Their name will be his, and his will be theirs, and they will forever be bound in the life that births their quest, and the quest that births their life.

Return to the hell that burned him is impossible. He never gives that thought a moment of attention. It becomes like a subtle whisper in the woods, one you know is there but cannot be truly heard. He is healed, truly, remarkably, and with that wisdom in his heart he turns to face the wind, smiles, and takes to the flight he was born to take.