All posts by Gyandeva

Gyandeva is a seeker, pathological meditator, a veteran firefighter and rescue tech, a poet, a blogger (new site) & writer. More importantly, he is a father of three—meaning he is also a lecturer, teacher, chef, order taker, taxi driver, coach, mentor and aspirin addict—and has found applying spiritual practices to all aspects of life provides a vast amount of possibility and abundance. While not adhering to any one religion, his practice of spiritual expression has shown that there is a unity in all things (even religions) and that in that unity we can find that Oneness in ourselves even as we enjoy the individual expression of that unity we are. You can also connect with Gyandeva on Twitter and on Facebook. Give his blog a Facebook hug at Tom Grasso, Writer.

The Fledgling

I know how a fledgling feels, bound to the nest yet knowing it can fly. Uncertainty at what lies beyond the safety of that space counters the natural desire to leave, and I will never know the safety of the skies until I jump from my earthen prison.
How I wish to taste that which I have never tasted, to see that which I have never seen. How I wish to hear you whisper in the cover of darkness, and awaken me as the Sun crests though our unveiled window! How I peak over the edge, wondering what life breathes out there! JUMP! I hear the echoes shout. If only I was brave enough to listen.
How I wish to feel your sweat on my flesh, hear your moans in the dance, and taste your nectar each and every night. There, the wind will take me by my wings, and I will soar high above the mountaintops! I shall land upon you, my perch, and nestle nicely in your arms once the flight is through.
I have known the nest for so long, I now want to know the wind. I have been in this tree my entire life, and now I wish to see the horizon as it is. I have seen the Sun from a distance, and now I wish to touch the face of Light herself. Then I want to kiss her, and then I want to feel her enter me.
The somber life is not for me. I want to risk my life and limb to fly. I want to cherish the times I land face first upon the ground, and honor the moments I rise, dust myself off, and take to flight again. I want to hear her say my name with loving admiration, with a singular devotion to truth of what we share within. I want our hands searching for each other’s in the night, discovering the sacred space that does not divide us, but binds us in our sacred oath.
Thus, the fledgling in me waits for you, my wind, my sky. The heavens abound and surround me, opening those moments when you will show me what I’m made of. There will be a song of praise as unused wings accept your grace and our union takes us to places we may have never known apart.
Such an intention surely cannot go unnoticed by the moment that is no longer forgotten in a litany of moments, but known intensely for its holy purpose. Surely such a bond between that which flies and the wind cannot be ignored by those who wish to soar. Surely it takes but a single act of courage and devotion to the voice that lives within us. I will meet you there.

Mostly Grateful

There are moments when I wish you were within reach…tempting me to hold you…causing my restraint.
Imagine swimming against the tide, searching for some jetsam on which to rest, wondering if my desire is the flotsam that clogs this path.
Imagine straining against the fiercest wind, shielding life and limb from the debris while summoning the strength to continue on.
That is me, searching for you. That is me, mostly grateful for knowing who you are, mostly grateful for knowing you exist. Despite the disappointment in your absence, I feel you there when I least expect it. Despite the realization that you may not know the power of this truth, I know there is a space within you that feels it too.
Such is the way things are in a Universe that spans depths few of us have seen. You remain there as I am planted here. Connected are we who know the greatest love of all, who feel the flow between us regardless of the length of the stream. Blessed are we who sail beyond our horizons toward unfamiliar shores, some of which demand our aloneness, others who bring us closer to our home.
“Trust,” I remind myself, “in this process of living. It knows where you must go. Just unfurl your sails and head where the winds will take you.”
So, I will. Perhaps we shall find our shoreline one day, perhaps we will put our feet in the same sand. Maybe we’ll climb a mountain and rest on the same boulder, drink from the same spring, and seek shade under the same tree.
I will be waiting.

The Tale of a Life Well Lived

The world so viewed,
Through eyes unseen,
A trinity before your god was born,
Beholden to nothing, but owed so much,
Just a babe, a basket, in a stream.
The love so held,
In longing, empty arms,
Absent all their melancholy,
Yet full of such despair,
Youth begotten in the prongs of Satan’s fork.
A darkness so strong,
Dismissed by the faintest light,
A love with rage so nullified,
A rage with love so forgotten,
A torch that guides the way.
A shadow speaks through remembered whim,
Forgotten as it plays outside the lines,
Life born, birthed by a single flame,
So living has passed by this aged shell,
Old age, a flame dimmed but still burning strong.
A light diminished, a lamp now turned to ash,
Still burns in the embers left behind,
Footsteps carved in well-hewn sand,
Once-kissed lips left to sing the song,
Abandoned memories too alive to be forgotten.
Thus the tale of life well-lived,
Death sure to come in the living prose,
The pages worn but given life eternal,
The bindings frail but the story bound forever,
The climax of a song that truly has no end.
For there was a time when you imagined me,
And I imagined you,
Where love was not made save on the fabric of our minds,
Woven tapestry left crumpled on the floor,
The truth set free by a lover’s courage.
Then we danced together in the snow,
Sharing pictures as we twirled,
Gazing into love’s own eyes,
As I entered, as you let me in,
Never leaving, even when the aged light when dim.
In that final breath, in the sincerity of our eternity,
I see those footprints in the sand,
A traveler once wandered aimlessly,
A Bedouin with ancient sand between his toes,
Now sees those footprints led to you.
Thus the tale of a life well-lived,
Love sure to cradle life in his arms,
Life sure to taste love on her lips,
A man discovered life in a woman,
A woman discovered love in a man.
Thus, the story told…

In A Dream

There is a place where I can fly,
Where my voice remains in tune,
Where my thoughts are pure and my mind intact,
Asleep under the Harvest Moon.

Here I can do anything,
There is nothing I cannot withstand,
I can face the end of all that is,
I can even hold your hand.

The heart-shaped clouds of yesterday,
Now seen by a mountain stream,
The visions of all that ever was,
Are found living in a dream.

There is a place where we can roam,
We dance among the stars,
The mission of our greatest love,
Was born within our scars.

Here we bask in love’s sweet glow,
Destiny, our only guide,
For what we found in each other’s eyes,
Is the truth we found inside.

The urban sounds of yesterday,
Replaced by nature’s sacred screams,
For the song we now sing as one,
We first discovered in a dream.


photo by: Tatiana_0000

The Morning After

There she is, walking past me in our room, her beautiful eyes smiling with her lips in tow, my heart beating for her touch.

A slight breeze makes its way through our slightly open window, carrying with it the smell of jasmine emanating from the incense stick burning in the corner of the room. I hear you humming to the song playing softly in the background, and I just sit embracing every morsel of this moment.

You need to know where I’m standin’ now
That I’m right on the edge of givin’ in to ya
Baby it’s a long way down…

I reach for you, grabbing your hand as you pass. I stand to face you, with a tear streaming down my face I’ll surely blame on the ragweed. Yet, you know better, and you lean in to kiss me, taking with me every bit of fear created in the moments I spent waiting for you. You have been so worth the wait.

My mind drifts to the moments when I’d dream of times like this, of scenes played out like the night before. I’d think about those kisses, of feeling your skin against mine. I’d imagine what it would feel like to have you leaning on my shoulder, sometimes holding me up and at others being held up yourself. I’d see the images of our foreplay, of our friendship never-ending, of our moments a testament to the resurrection of romance eternal.

“You will never need to search for love again,” I vow silently, you somehow getting the message in my eyes. Another kiss, deep and passionate, as I take you to the bed we had left disheveled the night before. Another moment realized, another promise fulfilled.

In each morning after I give thanks to the stars for you, as I had the many mornings before you finally fell for me. In each morning after I touch you in honor of the mornings before I could only hope for such a thing. In each morning after I kiss you tenderly, knowing this great blessing absent the mornings before.  There is no question in this love. There never was.

The thing about life is that it is a rhythm of moderation sandwiched between a series of extremes. Those moments without give life to those moments with, with a truth established through the myriad of experience. A man who’s nearly died of thirst will always remain grateful for a drink, and as I look into your eyes I will be reminded of the moments without you and be born within a glow of gratitude.

Just like the Sun rising on the morning after.

photo by: JohnnyLCY

I love her. I can’t help myself, and in the whimsical way I see her I dance and twirl in this love I have discovered. I’m like a lost boy, and I frantically search for calmness within the chaos that calls her name. Try as I might to escape her gravity, I feel like a wayward star that cannot help but orbit her entirely.

I’m not a boy. I’m not a sapling cowering in a pinewood forest, hiding from the storm among the giants. I stand tall within the winds, and hold my own against the ravages of a wild, wild world. I growl harshly at the malcontents, while purring softly in the arms of the truest love. I fight fiercely the demons that once wreaked havoc on my mind, and smile a radiance unfiltered when I hear her softly call my name. I am a warrior in this world, and surrender only to the notion that one day, soon, my lips will be what she searches for in the darkness.

I am not lonely, even in the deepest silences of my aloneness. I thrive in the miracle of my own sunrise, never lost in the depths of darkness that enshroud my breaking dawn. See, right there, in the darkest part of the horizon lays that single ray of light; the one that breaks the darkness, that slight hum that softly ends the silence. It is there I whisper her name, hoping one day I’ll hear her answer in reply.

We all know the toughest parts of unrequited love. It’s the longing kiss that never comes, the needy moans of desire that never echo in the night. It’s the moments when those lips seem to be calling, yet all we hear is the silence wandering aimlessly in the space between. It’s the moments when her taste overwhelms the senses, yet there is no spring from which to drink. It’s the waiting, the unanswered question, that seems to send shivers through the soul when you realize there is no other choice. You will be patient, even in your tantrums. You will surrender, even as you fight the bravest battle. You will not drink until she bends her cup to your lips, or the thirst takes your life away.

You have found yourself in the softness of her eyes, and discovered something else as you dance in her sweet embrace. Your dreams can see her writhe in pleasure, as your body responds to the illusion of her sweat pooling on your chest. You awaken all your senses as you dive in unconscious revelry, feeling her hips locked within your grip, her flesh taking all that you can give her. You find life in her salty taste, and purpose in the pleasure of her body and her soul. You were born to be her ship, and she was born to be your sea.

The dreams are sure to end, and you curse your open eyes. The Sun rising in the space just outside your window gives you hope. Perhaps today will be the day. Perhaps before the Sun rises again you will awaken from your dreams and plunge into her waiting soul. Maybe, just maybe, today will be the day the question will be answered and you can begin the story you’ve always felt being written in your heart. She will know you in your most vulnerable, and you will honor her in hers.

That is how I dream of her, and how I live to find that truth. Though a mist she may be today, perhaps tonight she’ll be a reality. The fog does not last forever, especially when the Sun decides it has had enough of such folly. Hands unite in their time, lips kiss at the appointed hour, bodies unite when the Moon sings her passion.

If she never comes, I have had her in my dreams. I cannot bend my heart to the whims of minds far beyond my own control. Rather, I trust the wind that unfurls my wrinkled sails, and the stars that guide my trusting rudder. I trust the compass that points me to the place I’m sure to go, and the path I chosen to get me to my destination. What the fog says I leave to the gods, for the footprints are mine, and mine alone, to make. Trust, to me, the process of my living. Just as an artist trusts his brush, though he knows it is his hand alone that guides it.

In that, I say good night.

What If…

What if we both said “fuck it”, and dove in together? What if all of the thoughts, and experiences, and fantasies all led us to a single space, beer in hand, lips ready to touch?
What if the funny, odd jokes we tell are preludes to the moments when lay exhausted and breathless besides each other, waiting to relive the dance again?
What if I just forgot it all and kissed your lips with all of my heart and soul? It’s funny how beautiful a space can look when you clear out the cobwebs, sweep up the dirt, and wash away the dust. It’s wonderful how lush a seeded knoll can be when watered from time-to-time.
What if I just left the blankets on the bed, left crumbled by a story we told each other the night before, certain to be disturbed again by the stories we are writing during the day? What if we promised to let the sweat barely dry, and the water in the tub never get cold?
What if we lived in a perpetual soreness that match our eternal ache? What if a glance is all it took, a whisper was all we needed, to relive the promise we never had to make?
Yeah…what if?
photo by: Stefan Baudy

In My Blindness Once (A Poem)

I remember, in my blindness once,
It’s amazing what you can hear when you are no longer focused on the lust of the eyes,
When you are no longer driven by the thrust of curiosity.
The world shrinks, like a star collapsing upon itself.
I suddenly could hear every sound,
The machines surrounding me, sure to warn of my impending doom,
The footsteps of care making their way, screeching across the tiled floor,
The sounds of a lover sleeping gently somewhere just beyond my reach.
I could hear the moans of suffering from beyond a door I could not see,
And hear the subtle voices of concern from those surely worried about an end.
Pleading for something else,
Searching for just one more chance to say “good morning.”
I could hear the ticking of a clock,
Yet I remained unsure if that clock was hanging dutifully on a wall,
Or somehow lived within me,
Counting, silently in a circle that one day would run out of time.
I could hear the sounds of my own heart beating,
Defying the odds yet again, warning me that I had not finished,
“There is more to do, so much more to do,
Keep hearing, listening to the sounds within you, and you will find your path.”
Too often we are told, that listening means hearing yet another,
And we listen to the point where we can no longer hear ourselves,
Stand! do not fail to hear that voice that beats inside you,
Obey not them, but the magic that lives within you.
I remember, in my blindness once,
It’s amazing what you can hear when you are forced to finally listen.
When you are no longer distracted by the image of the flower,
You can actually hear it sing its song.
photo by: Bea Serendipity

Life is Like the Breath

I had a feeling something would be up during my morning meditation. A wave of joyful dread cascaded throughout the light I allow to enter, and I heard a noisy hum that seemed to emanate from the light around me. Physical life is, if nothing else, a series of contrasts.
I say “joyful dread” because I’ve learned to take such a thing in stride. Loss, grief, misunderstanding…they are all part of the wondrous cycle that allow gain, joy, and connection to thrive. So, when I experience the dread of those things, I am joyful knowing that the opposite is just around the corner.
The lesson of the morning, for me, was that life is like a breath. It sucks sometimes, and it is great others. When we breathe, we have to suck (inhale) in order to release (exhale). Otherwise, we’d have nothing to draw from, and nothing to give back.
My body must expand to contract, and this process is as involuntary to life as the flow is to living.
With this perspective, I am able to do many things in my life. I am able to accept myself for who I am, and seek no change in me for another. I am able to sit alone as the Sun rises and feel the energies within me that give me an understanding of myself within a crowd. I am able to forgive others for the pain I know I inflict upon myself, for their wisdom is sometimes not in line with my own. I am also able to walk away when I know its right, and not look back even if I can feel the heat from the bridge I may be burning to the ground.
Sometimes you don’t need a fallback position. Sometimes you need a cliff. Sometimes there is no reverse selection on your gear shift. Rivers don’t often flow backwards, even if they will often change direction. I realize that I’ve never flowed in reverse either, because contraction is not a reversal, it’s a simple change in direction. We are all always moving forward.
So remember, take a breath. Watch your body change direction. Watch your flow cycle, and appreciate that without that exhalation you will die, and without the inhalation you will cease to be. There is nothing wrong with a change in direction unless you say there is, and you are always free to change your mind.
photo by: +gAbY+

Life is a Participation Trophy

I have learned to not seek for comfort outside of my condition, but to find comfort within it. There is no escaping the things we see as difficult, or challenging, or hard. Those things are there, and the more ready we are to embrace them, the less challenging they appear.
Somewhere, someone once taught me that challenges were “hard”, and that they should be faced with a concern that gave them some sort of special meaning, and therefore should create in me a sense of special purpose. I can say they were wrong, that each experience in life should be faced with the same joy and expectation as every other experience in life, and that a chore can be as joyous as opening a birthday gift, if you see them both as opportunities to receive.
Perspective, I’ve learned, is the key. When you see that life is nothing but a series of contrasting experiences, each born in order for the other to be, you can see the joy that unites them both. Yes, in each tragedy there is love, and in each challenge a triumph. I can prove that if you dare me, it’s all just a matter of perspective.
Despite what I write, I can find equal comfort in aloneness as I do in companionship. Sure, each can be a challenge. Sometimes I want to be alone when in company, and sometimes I want company when alone, but ultimately I am equally happy either way. I’ve learned in my life to carry myself, to stand up on my own, and that nothing can truly beat me but me. Even if I fail some standard, or to meet some goal, I am never beaten. Unless I believe that I am.
Contrary to what some may think, life does give participation trophies. We call them memories. Or experiences. We are not all carved out to meet someone else’s definition of “winner”, but winners we are nonetheless. We live this life, we survive many challenges thrown our way until, one day, we jump through the mist of death into some great unknown.
Death is that moment when we realize that we were never really in control; that no matter how hard we struggled or resisted we always had no choice but to go with the flow. That flow brings us, finally, to the moment of ultimate surrender, that moment when we realize that perhaps we never really existed in the first place, and that all there was the experience, that participation trophy that says, “I was here, I did something.”
No matter what we have done, or not done, we all participate in this thing called life. We all have impacted someone at some point, and done something meaningful for someone even if we’ve never met them. Enjoy that power of you, that power that suggests that no matter what you are doing, you are impactful and necessary to the flow over which we have no control. Sure we can swim, or float, or dive, or fight that tide, but we will have no choice but to ride the flow. We have no choice but to participate in the journey, a journey that will always transform but may never end.
Happy Thursday, and what a Thursday it will be.
photo by: AlicePopkorn