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.

Happy Birthday, Baby Girl

Today, my youngest daughter became a teenager.

I don’t post this just to honor that special being who blessed my life 13 years ago today. Instead, I post this to tell a story, as is often my want.

Gianna was born a premie. and as such had what we were told was “retraction”. When she would inhale, her not-quite-fully-developed lungs would contract, making it impossible for her to get a full inhalation. Having been blessed with the instant love a Dad feels for his daughter, my joy went to worry instantly as we could only spend a few short moments with her before she was whisked off to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.

What I got to see from there was the pure glory of a human spirit untouched by human ideas, or human conditioning, or human teachings. I watched my little girl fight like hell for life, and for the way she wanted to live it. She’d tear out the feeding and ventilation tubes the staff had put in her, rid herself of the IV, and fight anyone who dared violate her space to put them back in. My little girl was, and still is, a fighter, and to watch that little being not only survive, but say to the world, “ON MY TERMS”, inspires me to this day.

She would fight the doctors so hard, they finally said, “if you can get her to eat, no more feeding tube.” They were exhausted, and she had exhausted them. Well, she ate, and ate, and then ate some more. Never had I felt so happy watching a child eat.

A few days later that Lioness came home. Needless to say to those of you who know her, she’s always been a sweet and strong girl. She doesn’t suffer fools, but she’s nice to them. She doesn’t like to be told what to do, but she’ll listen to counsel. When she makes up her mind that fierce determination I got to watch for the first 10 days of her life comes out, and she not only stands tall in her conviction but lives with the consequences.

I am not blessed just because this girl, this young woman, is my daughter. I am blessed because of who this girl, this young woman, is. She blesses me with her truth, even when that truth reminds me she’s still very young. She blesses me with her strength which, humbly, reminds me of me. She blesses me with her compassion (she is a devout vegetarian because she could never hurt an animal), her kindness, and her determination. She blesses me with her fierce adherence to who she is, and her unwavering passion for living the life she, and no one else, wants to live.

She blesses me with the world “Dad.”

Gianna doesn’t like words, despite her sometimes rambling, never-ending sentences (as her brother and I call them, sometimes telling her, “breathe, Gianna, breathe!”). When I tell her I love her, she replies with “thank you”. She doesn’t say words like “I love you” often, but she doesn’t have to. I know she loves me when she lays with me to watch a movie, or sits with me to have a chat, or tells me her stories, or when I come home and she has cleaned up a bit. She tells me she loves me with her smile, or when she tells me my jokes are corny, or my music “old school”, or when she decides to simply tell me that I am old. She’ll hug me, but it is usually that side hug that will let me know she loves me, but that she is going to decide how she expresses it.

I absolutely love my girl. Completely and without question. She never offends me, and I never want her to change. That was a decision I made 13 years ago when she was doing her thing, her way, with the determination I adore. In those days, I swore I would protect her with my life if necessary, and be the best I could be every day I had with her. I would defend her right to live her life, and help foster in her the awareness that could guide her in her way, not in mine.

My Gianna, my sweet, adorable Gianna. One of my proudest moments was when I blessed the world with you, a moment that has never ended.

The Spots

Have you ever felt that there is one spot in this Universe where you simply need to be?
 
That spot can be a location. That happened for me and the Rocky Mountains. I needed to be here, and with patience, I did arrive. Two years ago yesterday.
 
That spot can be a person. We all know that one person we simply need to know, need to hold, need to kiss, need to make love to. We feel that craving, that urge, that irresistible force that drives us into action or, sometimes, relegates us to inaction. Sometimes just watching her is enough.
 
That spot can be a moment. We’ve all had the deep desire to do something that drives us beyond our current conditions. Maybe it’s climbing a 14er, or doing an obstacle course race, or writing some words down that best illustrate our hearts in that moment. I remember when, for me, that moment was breaking free of my blood family. It was willing my eyes to see again, demanding that I walk again, deciding that I needed to play with my kids again, and that I wanted to LIVE in a way that gave honor to the act of LIVING.
 
I guess I’ve come to realize over the years that living is discovering those spots. Like pixels on a great canvas, those spots neatly (or not so neatly) arrange themselves into a portrait whose story must be told. To miss out on any one pixel is to leave a blank space, and to leave a blank space seems to do a dishonor to the artist.
 
I know my spots, that much I am certain.
photo by: Sam-H-A

I Love You (A Poem)

I softly want to remind you,
That I love you.
That to touch you is my desire,
To care for you is my hope,
To kiss you is my mountaintop,
To see you free is my dream.

I’d like to kindly tell you,
That I love you.
That to support you would be my pleasure,
To hear you laugh my joy,
To carry you when tired my strength,
To extend a hand when you have stumbled, my want.

I’d like to show you,
That I love you.
That through the moments when the storm clouds come,
And the rains pour, the hail pummels our surroundings,
You will not ride the storm alone,
We’ll both be soaked to laugh when the Sun returns triumphant.

Because it’s true…all of it.
I love you.
My heart, my soul, the sweat from my aging brow,
Is yours when you come needing my arrival.
My mind, my moments, the remnants of my aging scars,
Bow to your presence, and the empty space you fill.

Beautiful (A Poem)

She is beautiful,
Distracting, from the mountain landscape,
Stopping my breath as I forget I need to breathe.
Stealing the Sun from my view, I absorb her upon the horizon.
 
She is beautiful,
Mixing with the fragrance of flowers that line our trail,
I hear her voice, silencing the songbirds in awe,
To feel her touch is to feel the hand of God Herself.
 
She is beautiful,
The mixture of rain and dirt has birthed such wonderful fruit,
Her tears uniting with the ether to spawn such exquisite virtue,
The stars can only hold her in such high esteem.
 
With her, I am beautiful,
A man whose folly has led him to such repose,
A soul who’s lived in sweet expectation,
A heart shattered to expose the truth beneath.
 
In her, I see the world, beautiful,
The air crisper, the sky more blue,
The waters flow clean, effortlessly down the way,
I bend my lips to drink from her recovery.
 
There, beside me still, beautiful
She lives either in hope or memory,
A whispered promise, a tempered prose,
I spring alive in my aloneness, found.
 
And it is beautiful,
A man not living on their bread alone,
A soul recognized in the heap of his distraction,
In her, that empty space that knows her name.
photo by: James Jordan

My Destination Still (A Poem)

He’d heard something,
On his way to Long Bay,
Something in the tides,
Of the summer breeze,
Had changed.
 
He’d felt something,
On his way to her sandy shores,
A subtle shift, a wave of ecstasy,
A bit of rum left glistening,
Her lips betrayed a pirate’s treasure.
 
Alas, a ship moored to her pier,
Her winds softly poking at my sails,
Her waves gently lapping in my mind,
My compass points to her horizon,
But where the Sun set this bow may never kiss.
 
Gone forever in the raging sea,
A simple star, a sail unfurled within my passion,
Pressed upon by my desire,
Driven onward by a twist of fate unknown,
She remains my destination still.

The Magnificent Goddess

She’s beautiful, like a spring forest,
I am unable to speak in her visage,
Fumbling for words, am I,
My own thoughts betray my stoic form.

Soft, like the snow brushed softly on my winter’s canvas,
She’s there, in my soul written through my hand,
I can taste and touch but I cannot feel,
For close though she is, the distance divides us still.

My heart bleeds upon these pages,
Profuse as am I, inconsolable in their desire,
The Magnificent Goddess I cannot embrace,
Yet cannot seem to let go of.

I Heard That You Loved Me

I heard that you loved me,
It may have come from the whisper in my ear,
As you spread your breath throughout the Universe,
Kept me spellbound with the comma that you used.

I heard that you loved me,
It may have come from a word or two you've written,
As the ink you poured from your soul,
Streaked upon the stained paper of my mind.

I heard that you loved me,
It didn't come from what you've done,
In your absence I only heard your fear,
As you fought one destiny with the sword of another.

Because though I heard you loved me,
My reality is different from that dream.
As I lay my head to rest in the the pasture,
I only share myself with blades of grass that save me from the grave. 

Yes, I heard that you loved me,
Perhaps it was an echo from some oath once spoken in a cave,
Or some twinkle from a star burned out so many years ago,
A man wobbled in his humanity, seeking balance in the shade.

For I lived when I heard that you have loved me,
And died in the moment written by an empty, outstretched hand,
No more to call your name for now I am shouting against the wind,
Deafness comes especially harsh to those who wish to hear.

Now, I heard that you love me,
With every crunching of the stones beneath my feet, 
As I head west, and you stay east, 
The Sun now setting, but it surely will rise again.

I Want to Love You

I want to love you.

I want to take your face in my hands, and breathe life into your soul. There are no options to this desire, my back us up against the raging sea and survival depends upon that single kiss. Hear me, and feel me in the truth you know so well.

I want to hold you steady when the gales rage and the rains beat down hard upon our space. We will leave our footprints in the mud, and laugh as we slide our way forward, tracing those lines only we can see, painted upon the stained flesh our dirty dance has created.

I want to carry you when you simply wish to know you can be carried, when you wish to be certain that the whispers that you hear in our dance are truth against loud voices in your head. We will create a new truth, one built firmly in the stones we lay against the hard backdrop of the life we’ve lived, until those voices become muted in the harmonic chorus of our lives.

These are the things I wish to do, I just ask that you arrive. I ask that the misty visions that you are become real touches in the Sunrise, and that the dreams of sounds I hear become your voice as we play our daily ritual. I ask you for your truth, for your courage, and for the essence of who you are  as you make your way through the miles you must travel.

I want to love you.

I want to walk with you enjoying the silence of the snow, and singing with the sweet music of the flowing spring streams. I want us to watch the winter drip slowly from the green pines that line the earthen paths along our way. I want to lay with you under the Harvest Moon, and make love to you as the spring moon rises.  I want you to announce your arrival with a gasp, and then a moan, and then the sweet call of ecstasy.

I want so much from you, but that is nothing compared to what I am wanting to give to you. I want to love you, and with that I want to give you all I am.

I’ve Been Thinking About You

I’ve been thinking about you.

Good thoughts. Thoughts about the way your words cascade down my spine in little waves of something. Thoughts about the way your eyes can penetrate even the thickest walls I’ve constructed along the pathway of this life. The way the thoughts you share settle in the depths of my heart, filtering down the heavy grime and leaving the waters of my soul crystal clear.

I’ve been thinking about you.

Good thoughts. Thoughts about the way your hair frames your face, and the way your lips curl when you smile. The way you look when you offer that mischievous grin, the one that sets my body in its sacred motion. Thoughts about your thoughts, and dreams about your dreams.

Yes, I’ve been thinking about you.

Good thoughts. Thoughts about how good it would feel to hold your hand, and to hear you sing when you think no one is listening. Thoughts that carry with them little imaginations of something neither of us has found, yet both of us are looking for. Thoughts that tell me who you are, even when my mind is riddled with doubt that you truly exist, that you are something other than a figment of my desire.

In a world that is fraught with danger and the evil that men shall do, I think of you.

Good thoughts, and suddenly the world seems a pretty good place to be. After all, if I have a chance to hold your hand, kiss your lips, and hear you sing nothing could be bad. If, in time, I can look back upon the happy, muddy trail that I have walked and see your footprints there, somewhere next to mine, I will have lived for something special. If not, then I surely must live again to see the dream real, and to have it realized as the summer Sun dawns upon a day of our choosing.

And what a good thought that is. <3

photo by:

Sleeping, Burning Souls No More

To dive deep,
So deep you are dying,
Is to find that you never needed the surface,
Or the shore,
To truly be alive.

We've all been drowning,
Our heads held down in the depths,
Struggling, fighting for the air we think we need,
Lost in unconsciousness,
The dream is dying in our darkness.

Then we can awaken,
Realizing that breath was just a fallacy,
That rebirth was the only way,
Resurrection is not rising from the dead,
Instead, it is life itself that never ends.

Rebirth is the only way,
To realize you were never born at all,
But in your own moment of conception,
You became a dream shared by the countless who came before you,
A shared lie that somehow we are special in our separateness.

The idea of man, that he is but a man,
The ideas of man, that it is all but living,
We flounder in our forgetfulness and accept our mediocrity,
Without ever knowing this is but an agreement we have made,
With those who have accepted these things before us.
Behold, though, the love you feel,
That not-so-subtle reminder,
That you know a soul somehow,
In a moment's wispy spark,
You see what is and what was in a flash.

What you feel, unknowing seer of the unseen,
Is a Universe igniting,
The flash, a beginning of something that has no ending,
The spark, a light of something that knows no darkness,
The emptiness recognizes itself in abundance.

So, be patient with me as I pause in wonder,
As I bend to inhale your fragrance,
Without ever disturbing a petal or your stem, allowing Nature to do Her thing,
I smile in the memory, 
I could not smell a thing as I was drowning.

Acidic is the water as it fills your nostrils,
The sting forever echoing in your mind, as you succumb to the silence,
Only broken by the sound of your heart beating,
Breaking, falling in shards to the bottom of the sea,
Scattered about by the currents all around you.

The flower...I wish to smell the flower...
I wish to dance in the fields once again,
Climb the hills and stand on top once again,
That view, seeing as far as my eyes will see,
If only I could inhale that air once again.

Awakened suddenly, I gasp at abundant air,
The scent of renewal fills my soul,
The fragrance of realization guides me to my stillest place.
My heart races in the endeavor,
My mind quiets at my holy command.

And I see...with my eyes now shut,
I can feel her all around me, 
Her whispers in my ear raising bumps on my skin,
Her soft touches bringing my soul to full attention,
Her presence filling my body as I inhale all that she is.

I realize she is not just the flesh,
But a memory...a reminder of who I am when I am awakened,
Of a soul shared before the moment I conceived of myself,
The moment I felt fractured from who I am,
When I was born, the best of me forgotten in their lessons.

I realize she is also the flesh,
The curves of her body call to me,
The subtle was her lips move when she speaks torture my veiled manhood,
My heartbeat rises in tune with the rest of me,
My nerves on fire as my soul begs for the reunion.

What is one cannot be denied, yet what separates us cannot surrender.
I enter what surrounds me, our breath joins in the ether.
Upon this altar we have gained eternity, yet in this moment of reflection,
We may lose heaven, be cast from the Garden forevermore,
To roam aimlessly through the deserts of our lives.

As the sands scorch my feet, I remember...
The cold chill of my ocean,
And as I struggle for air in my effort, 
I remember when there was no air to be had at all,
And I smile,
For the sweat that flows from my skin will not kill me.

I have already died, some would say,
And been reborn,
Reborn to love her, reborn to love the ocean
And the desert, and everywhere in between.
Yet, I've been picking at the blisters on my feet,
Wondering where the hell I put my shoes.

Through the blistering sands we've walked,
And the crushing depths for which we, the intrepid, have nearly drowned,
We stand tall, and ready for the storm,
Not as fodder for the winds to topple,
But as warriors who have slain the mighty beasts within.

Goodnight, to the dreams we go oft repeated in our slumber,
Awakened souls yet prone to the human need for sleep,
Gone forever to pass the night alone to another,
To discover the wicked, wandering flight we often sail alone,
Yet to never lose a moment's passing thought of our certain crashing. 

A crumbled mess we'll be,
Laughing in our misfortune, gazing at the stars together,
Hearing distant drums beat in the glow of an evening fire,
And we'll turn to each other in surprising synchronicity,
Sleeping, drowning, burning souls no more.