Tag: Warrior

My Little Girl

August 25, 2022 / Tom

There she was, my little girl, getting set to leave me.

Yeah, I know. As the cliche goes, she wasn’t really leaving me. But she was. It was her time, and she was grasping it. It was a moment she had worked hard for, and she was taking it. I was the nest and she was flying away. All I could do is watch.

Was it really, though, all I could do? Of course not. As a man in love with a woman, in this case a Dad in love with his Daughter, I could do quite a bit. I could encourage her. I could help her. When she looked back, I could be there. I could offer a whisper, or a shout, or I could just be silent. This wasn’t about me, so whatever decibel level she needed ,she would have. Otherwise, I’d keep my mouth closed and my heart open.

Her older sister had left too. That was different, though. Her sister stayed close to home, so was within a short drive should she need me. My Little Girl, in the truest form of her being her, decided to go out of State, a not-so-short 7 hour drive from home. This was her toughness showing itself, her badassness claiming ownership of her life, and her independence shouting “I will let you know when I need you.” It was all the things I loved about My Little Girl, and all the things the Dad in me wanted to change even as the heart in me refused to try.

I always just wanted her to be her. Nothing more, nothing less.

The Day Had Come

So now it was the day. The day I had both loathed and looked so forward to. This was the day when I could no longer protect her easily or be there quickly if she called. The day when all of my admiration of this warrior woman would mix with all my regrets as a Dad, when all of my hopes for My Little Girl meshed with all my fears of her departure. The day when she was to give birth to herself, and her parents would become more of passive spectators than of active participants.

I stood in amazement as she was born, first crowning and then flying out of the womb. I watched her fight for life her first 10 days of it, and stood in awe of this baby who was somehow strong, independent and never willing to give up. Memories sprouted of when she would push her older sister around on a Playskool trike even before she could walk on her own. Yeah, this was a badass.

I can remember those moments when she’d hide behind her mom or me, afraid of new parts of the world showing themselves. Then one day she took off, facing the world fearlessly with a field hockey stick in hand. She transformed from the shy girl who would never talk to anyone into a kick-ass champion almost overnight. This had been her way since the day of her birth, and this would be her way on the day she gave birth to herself.

I know this was not really the day she had given birth to herself. It was, however, the day I saw her as a woman, and as someone I knew would do well as long as the world did not try to fuck with her. She had birthed herself long before I saw it and in the gradual stages that led to this day. In this moment, though, my eyes were fully opened even if shrouded by tears.

The Lesson Learned

Like any good lesson, this one keep evolving and showing itself. She’s gone, but still here. She calls and texts and send pictures in her time, in her way, just like always. I am not there to protect her, but perhaps she doesn’t need my protection as much as she once did. I’m not there to help her when she calls, but I’ve realized she rarely called for help. She has always helped herself, and figured it out, and proved to us all that she is capable of being…her.

I’ve come to realize that my fear was not of her leaving the nest, but of my failing to be there should she need me. I feared not being needed, not that she wasn’t capable. My fears had little to do with her, they were all about what I saw as my own shortcomings.

Just as she has since the moment I knew she existed, she continues to teach me lessons. Her older sister started the process and her younger brother keeps it going, each of them teaching me in unique ways. Just like her sister, neither is my little girl anymore but both will always be My Little Girl. My son will always be My Boy, no matter how big and strong he gets. That’s the thing about being a Dad. As we get older we had better get wiser, or we will simply cease to exist. It’s also true of being a human. Sometimes we’re frail. Sometimes we’re even pathetic. Yet we are blessed with the power to learn lessons, to effect change in ourselves, and to change the world in our newness. We are fucking powerful that way, and sometimes…well usually…all we need is something to love to show us the way to greatness.

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 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.

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 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.

One Pane of Glass

November 26, 2019 / Tom

Outside, a blizzard rages. Inside, I am comfortable, nestled nicely on a sofa beside her warm body, watching the driven flakes of snow head to meet others that have fallen before them. There is but one pane of glass that separates me from the wilds out there. Just one pane of glass between the me found in this comfortable place and the me begging to be in the place that calls me.

The slow drum and dribbles of the washing machine fills this space, a rhythmic, modern tune hummed inside while the wild, ancient song of winter whips outside. Still, in this comfort and safety my mind wonders out there, to the place where deep snow has buried the earth, where the winter winds blow hard in autumn, where the parts of me that existed well before my flesh was formed once played. I can feel the discomfort of the cold air on my skin. I can feel the challenge of moving in deep snow. I can feel the desire for survival well up inside me. It is a fire I’ve known well, built in the moments of darkness where no light was assured, kindled in those times when I was frozen to the bone.

The wild part of me wants to be challenged. The hunter in me wants to stalk his prey. The hunted in me wants to dare the hunter out from behind his tree. The beast in me wants to prove I can survive. The coward in me wants to push the beast out of his cave. Nothing brings me to life like answering the call of the wild, and nothing says home to me like the wilds themselves.

I once believed I had surrendered to fear. That was a lie told by fear itself. I had but given myself pause to regroup so that I could move forward a little bit more. Sometimes victories are not measured in miles but in inches, and sometimes victory looks like defeat. Defeat cannot, however, stain the soul that moves past the fear within him. Defeat cannot pierce the heart of the warrior who stands firm against the onslaught of the demonic hoards born inside his mind.

I fear heights, so I’ve climbed tall ladders to protect my brothers facing fire below. I’ve feared death, so life brought me to its doorstep to show me a truth. I feared sharing myself with others, so I tore off my veils and became a naked warrior ready to just be me. More fear comes, and I challenge it, often discovering what I will do and won’t do now has little to do with fear, but more with desire. While I fear skydiving, I answer less to that fear and more to the fact that I simply have little desire to jump out of an airplane.

If that desire grows, I will jump with a wild yell. That truth I learned, the one I mentioned before, was that a fear of death is a fear of life. I choose life, living as fully as I can in any moment even in those times when victory looks exactly like defeat. I will not let panes of glass get in my way, instead honoring the oath sworn on my lifebed. I will splinter any walls that get in my way, and step over the shards of windows shattered in answering the calls within.

I wonder if there are others, those intrepid souls who hear the calls of life lived before this one, and answer with all the might their hearts can muster. I wonder if there are souls out there now trudging through the deepest snow just for the challenge of it. I wonder if there are warriors out there who hear the call of hunter and prey, beast and coward, sinner and saint simultaneously and who, like me, feel at home in the forests that echo those calls. I wonder if we speak one voice, hear one song, and peer at hope through the same, lonely pane of glass.

Life is what we are given as a promise of our birth. Love helps us overcome the obstacles to life we are blessed to have fallen across our path. Truth is what binds life and love to a single, simple calling. Find life, discover love. Discover love, know truth. Love life in truth and never die again. Even as your final breath is drawn, it is the one who has discovered life who can never truly die.

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?

The Face of Love

March 26, 2019 / Tom

Painful was the voice of childhood as it screamed from his entrails.

Commitment is like a knife whose blade is sharp and whose point cuts deeply. Treat it with care, avoid it when necessary. When unavoidable, keep the blade at a distance, and never run with the knife unsheathed.

Afraid was the voice of manhood as it echoed in the caverns of his mind.

Fear has shredded you like a hungry bear seeking food after a winter’s slumber. Approach it knowing its nature is never to injure, but in its hunger the frenzy devours whatever it must to survive.

Hopeful is the voice of love cascading through the waterfalls of his soul.

Remember that hand tightly, yet tenderly, holding your own? Remember her eyes as they lovingly turned your walls of stone to dust? Forget what you’ve seen before her. Forget what has hurt you. Discard those weapons you’ve used to keep the heart of love at a distance. Invite that divine serenity into your encampment, and see what words will spring from that union.

A man without his voices can feel lost for the moment. A man ignoring all that he once believed kept him safe trembles in the face of the vanishing-yet-false security. He simply seeks to dive into those eyes and feel that hand again. He feels lost yet not forgotten, afraid yet filled with courage, needy yet secure in his own space. Confusion tells the tale of some wondrous, pending transformation. It is now, in this light, that his shell can become a most dangerous place. He just wants to be warmed in her arms, yet he feels bitter cold at the height of a beautiful Spring morn.

The onslaught continues.

Loud is the voice of memory, shaking both the flesh and the heart of a warrior who’s left his sword and shield out beyond the gates of his Thermopylae. He feels naked, unarmed and unprotected as he faces the hoards of his despair, the very beasts who are sure to trample him in the mud beneath his feet.

His dreams pierce like a spear pressed firmly against his chest, a crimson teardrop runs freely down his skin. The ground is fertile with such tears, and there he has found a willow tree whose branches caress his heart as the winds shred the last veil adorning his tired soul. Love is the sweetest refreshment, yet his chalice has been blown to where the Sun shall kiss the Sea, that place where the sand cleanses his feet and the waves are poisonous to his lips. Still, he would gulp the ocean dry to have both her cup and his wine on the same table, in the same place they both call home.

The demons advance, and he reaches for his sword. He’s left it back there, beyond the gates. He reaches for his shield, and remembers his sword leans up against it. In their absence he will face the hoards with no means of offense or defense. Fists clenched and with a will wavering yet strong, he braces for battle. In a moment of insecurity he closes his eyes to die with a vision of his choosing. There, in the darkness of his final fear, glimmers a beaming image imprinted somewhere beyond his grasp. On the clouds of heaven he sees her, the image of his beloved smiling with eyes that changed everything. He is ready to surrender and meet her there, somewhere beyond the walls of eternity where all angels go to rest.

Suddenly, the ground once shaking calms. The sound of the hoards pouring from unmoored ships just beyond the breaking waves goes silent. The air once choked with dust from the hooves and feet of suffering, settles. All that is left standing is a man, alone in the sand, tears spilling down his face cleansing the dirt from his skin. Naked, alone, yet clothed in the truest togetherness he has ever known, the man has seen something he was certain few have ever seen before.

He has seen the Face of Love.

Though others would torment him in his smile, smile he would. Though others would not understand the depth of his soul, he would bathe in the deepest parts he could find. Though others would not seek the wounds that led him toward the smile saw during his moment of surrender, he has blessed every scar. The willow tree that had sprouted despite the salts of his despair knew something even he did not. The willow knew his depth, his healing, and the blessing of his smile. In return he just wanted her near, a blessed reflection of the truth he had spent a lifetime uncovering; the embodiment of the promise made through him at the moment of his conception.

“Please, come back,” he said to the image flying East as it rose to greet him.

“I will,” came the reply.

“Now…” his voice trailing off in the absence of a will to demand anything of her.

Silence.

He closed his eyes tightly again, praying for a return to the beauty that saw the weaponless man victorious in battle. There she was, as if she was standing before him, teasing him in the darkness with a light he wanted to be eternal. His tears flowed when she smiled and the thirst returned as he bent to kiss her. He was there, wherever she was, home. They were there, wherever they stood together, safe at last.

She Shall See Again (A Poem)

November 9, 2017 / Tom

Through twisted tales of Neverland,
A soul that’s born as thee,
Was told a lie that many tell,
That blind girls cannot see.

In misty dreams and darkened caves,
Her heart was bent and torn,
Yet through the dust and crimson grime,
A warrior was born.

One day to never doubt again,
One day to never bend,
A warrior’s snarl shall crest her lips,
When she shall see again.

She heard an honest poem once,
A man who loved her so,
She could not drop her sword and run,
Her shield would not let go.

Through words and whimsies she told those lies,
She thought that she was blind,
One day she’ll come to realize,
The blindness was in her mind.

One day she’ll rise to claim her throne,
She’ll decide just where and when,
In that moment a Sun shall rise,
And she shall see again.

~TG

Her Eyes (Love’s Warrior Series)

August 30, 2012 / Tom

♥

He could smell the moment he had waited so patiently for. It seemed like a lifetime ago he first had looked into her eyes. Those ivory-circled pools of beauty had captured him, and as he dove deep into their magic he found something he had not expected. He found Love. He found clarity. He found Himself.

His life was not one that suggested these things were possible. He could feel the scars inflicted in his time, and they reminded him of moments when those eyes would not have stopped him. His mind would wander in the moments that had led up to this, to the very moment when he knew who he was. Those wounds would sometimes cause him to scream out in pain. Other times they would cause him to recoil in anticipation. Still others the reaction was a simple reminder that each rose has a thorn and that each pool of beauty had a depth that could drown even the heartiest of swimmers. There was nothing simple about that reminders in actuality, they created the reaction he could not control. Much like the swimmer drowning he would lash out uncontrollably, often attacking his rescuer in the most horrible of ways. He could not control himself in those moments of fear. He was drowning, and he was unconscious of his actions beyond survival.

She had hung on. She would subdue him in these moments. Sometimes her rescue would come in the form of letting him struggle until he was too tired to struggle anymore. In others she would turn her back on him and head to her shore. He would reach out to her in those moments and she would always take his hand. In other times she would fight him and they would find themselves bloodied and bruised but in each other’s arms, safe and secure. It must have been a sight to behold for her as her Warrior struggled with unseen demons and irrelevant wounds in what would be an otherwise serene place to bathe. Yet, she had her own demons and her own wounds, and they often showed themselves in ways he would respond to. He would fight them with her. He would cradle her in his arms in the darkness. He would stand by her regardless of which demon suggested the knife she carried was meant for him. Another moment in her arms would be worth the wound and much, much more.

He looked up from his memory into those eyes. The familiar surge ran up his spine. He had long stopped trying to describe this surge to her. It felt something like a mixture of immense strength and complete weakness. His body would stand firm and his knees buckled. His heart would find a clarity even as his mind became a cloudy mess. His Soul would settle into a calmness even as his heartbeat and breathing quickened. He had resigned himself to a complete inability to describe this moment until he settled on the simple word that seemed indescribable Itself:

“Love.”

Yes, this was Love for him. It was the Kingdom of God he might never have seen if not for those eyes. It was the Garden of Eden he was cast out of when he became ashamed of his nakedness. It was the realization that of the million lifetimes he had felt course through his moments this one exposed the Truth of truths. Love is beautiful. Love is peaceful. Love is the moment you realize you are not the sum of your experiences, you are the realization of the moment. As the surge invaded his Being there were no scars. There were no memories. There was only here and there was only now. Here and now had him lost in her eyes unable to remember that time or this space.

As their hands grasped for each other all ideas of separation vanished as the heat rose within them. He could feel her Soul speak to him and guide him to those places he simply had to go. There were no barriers, no walls, just two Souls merging into One complete understanding. There were no words needed, no guidance required as they explored their desire in perfect harmony with one another. It was here they knew the perfection of the Universe.

They kissed passionately and breathed in each other’s essence as their bodies betrayed the rising desire building within them. The room faded from their awareness as only they mattered in the moment. Clothing disappeared as did any inhibitions their pasts had taught them. They teased each other’s bodies, they played a tune unique to their own set symphony. She would taste him and he her in sheer delightful ecstasy. His mouth became her tool, her’s his as they took each other to places never seen by either. Her wetness surrounded him as she took his hardness in. They would dance a dozen dances to a hundred beats climaxing too many times to count along the way. Finally he would explode as he gazed into her eyes, knowing she had exploded as well.

They would collapse in each other’s arms having given all of themselves to one another. This is where God’s home truly could be found – in the arms of a lover who had given so freely of herself that nothing else existed but that Gift. Her moans were the Angels singing, their movement the perfection of the Universe. This moment was the Big Bang. It was a moment when everything was created and a new Universe showed Itself. As he searched for her eyes she looked into his. Tears disguised as beads of sweat flowed freely from his eyes as his hand found hers. He stared into beautiful ivory-rimmed pools of eternity knowing where he was. He felt renewed, and could feel the surge begin again in his spine. Actually, it had never gone. It was like a constant glow that became more intense as her eyes looked deep into him and pulled out the once-forgotten beauty that resided there. He wasn’t drowning, he was saved, and as he leaned in to touch her lips with his he could sense he had found a place he never wanted to leave.

He was home.

The Day Had Come

The Lesson Learned

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

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

♥

“Love.”

∞