Tag: truth (Page 1 of 5)

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.

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…

The Frightening Beginning

March 29, 2022 / Tom

Often the hardest part of a story is the beginning. There is an awkwardness in the uncertainty that makes the first words hard to come by. The writer sits and stares at the page, the pen quivering in his hand, hoping for something miraculous to be born. A breath, a pause, and then a sudden dive into an unknown sometimes more frightening than anything he has ever experienced. He leaps into the realm of his soul. It is there he must come to terms with who he is.

He must jump, however. Sometimes the ledge, though appearing secure, is a much more frightening place to be. That very thing that inspires him scares him, yet it is the very thing that gives him life. That inspiration is the air he breathes and the fire that gives him warmth. It can also strangle his faith and turn all he longs for to ash.

In that uncertainty lays a truth, a truth much stronger than the reality found in the security of the ledge. Through weathered skin he feels the tingles of warmth that bely his deepest desires. In eyes made both clear and blind by time rests a cynic and a poet, and though the words ring true in the sight of her beauty the quakes shake him to his core. It is time.

The Poet

What is a poet without his pain? What is wisdom without the cynicism that flows between each lesson shelved within his heart? It is in all that he is that he gives all that he has. It is the inspiration that drives him onward and the sight of her that awakens the truth within him, and the touch of her hand that causes an oath to be reborn within his heart. He has no choice save to recoil or to jump. He trusts his instincts as he takes the leap forward this time.

It is the poetry that gives him wings and carries him as he plummets toward whatever is his fate. He could have stayed safely perched “up there” but something demanded he just…fall. She smiles and the words come to him. She speaks and the letters all make sense. Perhaps this is the moment where it all rhymes and suddenly he will find her in the clouds, his prose never more beautiful and his soul never more rewarded. Time will tell if those words read like Rumi or like Poe, as all inspiration shows us the truth eventually.

He is just the poet but she is the word, the ink, and the spirit that guides his hand.

The Intention

In the flesh, he is but a man and she but a woman. Yet in the essence of all things that mean nothing, they are so much more. Universes are born on their aspirations, worlds are built on their dreams and wonders are created in their desires. It is here he holds back his words, and she her heart, until something finally sets them free.

That is the frightening beginning. It is a space birthed in the hope that something that has been never been can somehow exist this time. Time, the enemy of all mortals and things made to die, is given relevance only through the fear that perhaps this time will be no different than the others. The intention of he that is but man and she that is but woman is that this time all that is hoped for, dreamt about and wanted will exist for both. When just a man and just a woman meet in the dark, it is the darkness itself that becomes a mortal memory.

When both the poet and the soul behind his work jump into the abyss together, time transforms from a fruit they feared to pick into one whose sweet nectar cannot be wasted. It is in the trust that they find their harvest, and in the leap that they find their trust.

It is there I find myself, a poet seeking the right words, softly whispering to that sweet intention that she will know that truth through prose written in the clouds. While he is but one side of whatever will come, he is still one side of that promise. It is that side he gives his attention, walking slowly alone with his thoughts until that smile awakens him and that touch tells him all he needs to know. While there is uncertainty in that frightening beginning, there is also so much hope.

Something of a Dream

January 3, 2022 / Tom

She was there. She was right there, and I let her go.

She is something of a dream. Strong. Beautiful. Perfect for me in every way. Yet when it came time to let her in, I let her go. I shrank from all I knew of her into a cocoon of helpless thoughts, and I ran from an embrace that felt so much like home.

I’ve wondered why. In the time since then I’ve had ample opportunity to quell my thoughts and explore my apprehension. I’ve had time to wander around my stupidity and remove the dead parts that clogged my stream of truth. I look at myself from then and cannot believe what I had done.

What is left? An opportunity to learn. I can watch from a distance as others dine at our table. I can understand what quakes inside of me when I hope for just one more chance. Now, I know what I lost and know that I will not soon make that mistake again.

Dreams sometimes can turn into nightmares. My hope is that nightmares can also turn into dreams.

I won’t pressure her. I can’t. Instead I can hold her in my heart and hope for the best for her. Sometime in our moments I grew to love her and in that moment all I wanted was what made her smile.

My hope is that she finds love, ecstasy, and a companionship she deserves. If she doesn’t, I’ll be here understanding that while I am a fool, I’m not the type of fool who fucks up twice.

In that way, perhaps I can be something of a dream to her, too.

Today, I admit I love you.

December 26, 2021 / Tom

Today, I admit I love you. In that love I feel sadness, and in that sadness I feel love.

No bullshit. I love you with all my heart and I always will.

I can feel it most in my aloneness, when there is nothing left to distract me. Perhaps that is why I seek out distractions. Distractions allow me an escape from the ache of missing you.

I’ve accepted my place in your life as I’ve accepted your place in mine. I will always strive to grow and become a better man in honor of the times I’ve failed you.

Now, I bend my knee in thanks that I will forever be a man better than I was but never as good as I will be. That’s what love does, and that is what Being in love can create.

Transformation.

I may never kiss your lips again. Your shoulder may never again find its way on my chest. Yet I will rise knowing I love you, and vow today to further rid myself of the demons that drove us apart. My body will get stronger and my mind more resolved to its mission as my heart opens further to accept the gifts that life has offered. If I seek to change I must do so in love even if the beast growls its song of survival.

You may not be beside me in my final moments but be sure of this. I will etch your name on that last heart beat, and your name will be echoing in my eternity.I admit I love you in every ray of love that shines from within me.

Today I wander in love not to be lost in the sadness of your absence, but to be found in the truth of what will always be.

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.

The Awareness of Pain

September 22, 2021 / Tom

“I do not need fixing,” she said as she handing me the keys to a toolbox.
“I do not need help,” she said as she heaped her burdens in my barrow.
“Please trust me,” she said as spoke words of deceit.
“Please love me,” she said as she pushed me away.

There are many ways we lose touch with our truest self. We often surrender our honor to the ghosts of pain past and in the truest sense of the word “loss”, we turn the past loss of trust and love into a future act of horrid retribution. We hurt those who have nothing to do with the wounds we want to share with them.

What if we took a different path?

Let’s just remember times when we’ve reacted to something our lover has done not because of who they are, but because of what we’ve experienced in the past? Remember those angry words that came flowing from our mouths like polluted waters over a dam? Do you remember how you could not stop them?

I am sure we all do, and can pinpoint that moment when we wished we could put those worms back in the can. Let’s then imagine if we had the discipline and the awareness not to open the can to begin with.

Pain Points

We all have pain points floating around our systems. We all have asteroids flying around our space ready to destroy even the most beautiful creations. There is one difference between the metaphor I’ve used and the natural world. We are in control of our asteroids. We can protect those creations we hold most dear.

It’s hard work at times and we can’t always be successful. Yet we can strive to always be well above the Mendoza line in our efforts. We can’t always bat 1000, but we can certainly come close with practice. Best yet, the more we practice the closer we can come to perfection and when we do fail we’ll find we rarely strike out.

Take, for instance, the last relationship I tried. I knew my partner was lying and it made me angry. Rather than spew my anger right at her I contained it and sat with it a while. That did not mean I acted like everything was fine (I’m a really bad actor), but it meant that while I processed my emotions I wanted to focus solely on those emotions. I got quiet and focused.

She kept pressing me, and I kept responding that I would talk to her about it in a few minutes. There was so much there in the lie, it was not just about the lie itself. While I won’t get into the details surrounding the bullshit, the bullshit was there and I needed to address it.

(Disclaimer. When I say I know she was lying, I honestly knew she was. There was no guesswork here.)

Not Fixing the Lie

After a breath, I told her that I did not believe her story and the reasons why. She sat there dumbfounded, not because I thought she was lying, but because she thought she did such a great job of packaging the bullshit.

“Just come clean,” I said.

“I’m not discussing this. In fact, I’m going home.”

“Me too. I’m sorry I drove here for this nonsense.”

We parted ways, and that was that. I was not about to invest any time in “fixing” the lie or the cause behind it. No part of me wanted to carry that burden, and no part of me wanted to be with someone I could not trust. She was free to walk her path and me, mine.

Five days later the official breakup came. I’m pretty sure she’s making peace with her demons insomuch as allowing them to rule the roost. That is no longer my concern.

It truly is not my job to fix you. In words I’ve used often after being told once I was someone’s pet project, “I’m not a pipe and you’re no plumber.”

Support, But Follow the Prime Directive

Those of us who use to watch Star Trek will know the Prime Directive. That General Order One stated that no Star Fleet personnel could interfere with the natural development of a species or civilization. They could protect and support said species, but they could not interfere with the natural development of that species.

I’ve learned to approach relationships in the same way. I will offer unbridaled support to my partner, friend and loved one, but I will not interfere with their natural development. They can be influenced by me naturally, and me them, but direct interference is not offered.

Of course both Captains Kirk and Pircard had to make weighty decisions on appropriate violations of the Prime Directive. That usually meant the protection of life, and that is a meaningful exception. I will not stand by and watch you die and I may remove myself from your orbit to protect myself from your behavior, but I will always try as hard as I can to support you without interfering in your development.

That part isn’t always easy. After all, we as humans know it all, and we want the world to know we know it all. Sometimes playing dumb, however, is the smartest part about us.

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.

The Winter is Coming (A Poem)

September 25, 2020 / Tom

Winds announce the coming freeze,
There is a rustling among the trees,
Their leaves now old, about to fall,
Will always answer nature’s call.

Man now grown, forgot the sound,
Tone deaf to life around,
Nothing more than a fearful child,
Ignoring calls to walk the wild.

Yet he who came to Nature’s breast,
Would love the fierce, ignore the rest,
When Winter comes his footprints know,
He was born to leave them in the snow.

The Autumn seeks to end his youth,
Turn what was young to aged truth,
Still he rises to walk some more,
And forget the path he’s walked before.

Alone he’ll sleep under the stars,
Dream of love that’s healed his scars,
He’ll love the places still in pain,
And know his Soul in Autumn rain.

It was in the Autumn he saw the end,
As Winter waited around the bend,
But now he smiles at what he sees,
For he’s just a leaf among the trees.

~Tom Grasso (25 Sept 2020)

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.”