What you feel is life, what you live is another story.

Category: Spirituality (Page 2 of 19)

I Had It All Wrong (But I Can Always Change My Mind)

the-creation-of-adamWhen I first saw this picture, I believed it was a portrayal of man and God trying to connect, of man and God reaching for one another. Beyond my normal sense of humor that suggested man was trying to get some of God’s harem, or that it looked like some women were trying to push the male vestige of God out of their space, etc., I was always taught, and readily agreed, that it portrayed the very basic need of man to connect with the Divine.  Usually that meant believing in the Christian creation of God.

And thus, the need itself was created.

Today I look at it differently even if I do have the same sense of humor.  I see not a grasping and reaching, but a letting go.

I see man letting go of his ideas, or what he perceives are his needs. I see him settling down in peace upon his space, quietly releasing the attachment and, in the process, freeing his mind. I see man forgetting his shame, his fear, as the remembrance of who he is becomes the light of the world.

Random thought: Right now I struggle…do I continue with my thoughts or cater to my own need to be immersed in my own idea of acceptance? Yes, that immersion is a prison of sorts, and I wish to be free.  So, onward I will go.

Religions, in my experience, often create “graspers” out of all of us. We become so busy searching for love, peace, compassion, and guidance out there that we forget we have all we need in here. In that search, we grasp a hold of those things we believe we don’t have, without ever realizing that we have created both the thing and the need. None of it exists beyond our own mind and our own conditioning.

Spirituality, at least for me, is the practice of letting go. It is the practice of releasing, of setting free, and of non-attachment.  It is the absence of conditions, and the freedom of experience. It’s a major departure from the Catholic school upbringing that was thrust upon me, and it is a major advancement in my own life.  By releasing what needs to be released, I am neither burdened into suffering, nor burdened by the suffering of others who have yet to learn their lesson.

“Nothing ever goes away until it has taught us what we need to know.” ~Pema Chodron

Often, letting go is much harder than grasping. At least when we grasp we are fed some feeling of security. Letting go isn’t so easy until it hurts too much to hold on, and the fear of our own power is lessened by the suffering that fear has created. There, in the release, transformation takes place, and we learn lessons of who we are in the moments and times when we are finally ready to listen. Until those moments, we will continue to suffer because we are creating the conditions that makes suffering thrive.

Grasping is an act of fear. Releasing takes courage, at least until you learn that you have nothing to fear.  Then releasing becomes a way of life.  You grasp at nothing, you reach for nothing and, in return, you embrace everything. When you release you create space in your own existence for the things that bring a smile to your lips and bumps to your skin. When you release you till the soil of your life for whatever flowers you wish to sow, and you allow it all to be as you see things through fearless eyes.

Another thing about this picture. Perhaps I have always missed the fact that God may not be the bearded man at all, but the wonderful ladies behind him. Maybe the Divine is much more feminine than I was taught, and that feminine Divinity is what we mortal men are reaching for. Hidden, somewhere, beneath all of this muscle and hair and physical strength is a feminine divinity just begging to be heard.

Guys, if you want to see how brave you are, allow your feminine side to rise above the teachings of your ancestors. If your sense of courage isn’t challenged then, well, you aren’t doing it right.  Or you had awesome ancestors. 🙂

 

 

 

Conscious Men & Romantic Relationships: It Ain’t Easy Being Easy. (An Elephant Journal Article)

We have all uttered vows in our lives that we’ve broken. I’ve promised “till death do us part” and so on only to be parted before death. We have all promised eternity, fidelity, honor and obedience to our partners. We’ve all uttered the words “I’ll never leave” or “You are the only one for me” at some points in our lives to someone who is no longer with us.

So, why utter the vow in the first place?

Read more here.

I Love You

559746_4619719127699_1391819155_n (1)

I Love You ~

My role is not to get “lost in you” but to remain “found in me”, and then to bring those discoveries into the space we share as wonderful gifts of love. There are deep treasures within us all, and the more we realize our own the more we can offer them to each other simply by living them ourselves. A poet writes, a singer sings, a mother nurtures and a lion protects, all wonderful examples of self-discovery and adherence to natures not changed by love, but exposed by it.

Be true not to me, but to you, and if our truths fit to expose a wonderful picture beyond the puzzled pieces of our lives, let’s create heaven on an Earth so desperately in need of it.

~ I love you.

Smile for Me Please

Fastest Rotating Star Found in Neighboring GalaxySmile for me, please. Let me see you in your delight, let me hold you in my mind knowing that you are at peace, in joy, loving the moment as I am loving you in it. Let me see you take from this moment all that it has to offer, and let me know that in your heart you are knowing how truly special you are.

Let me imagine feeling your arms snake around my waist, drawing me into your heart, feeling your strength pull me into your life. Let me imagine your head snuggle tightly to my chest as I breathe you in, my head swirling in your fragrance as my body responds to your touch. Let me know what it is like to get your shivers started, to feel your legs buckle under the pleasure of my caress as I use all of my will to hold mine steady. Let me feel your skin respond when your smiling lips taste mine, as we melt away into a heart-centered abyss of pure pleasure.

Smile for me, please. Let me find unending happiness in your joy and unlimited pleasure in your ecstasy. Let me find what I am seeking and discover what was always there. Let me know, please let me know, that the wave of indescribable power that flows over my being exists somewhere outside of it. Just smile and I’ll know it, just smile and it will be.

In this, the thaw of my life’s great winter, I can now feel something outside the need to survive beyond the basic needs of mortal man. The parts of me once numb and frozen now regain their feeling, warmed by the light of a distant Star smiling upon me. The great thing about a Star like this is that it’s light only ignites what already exists within me. It need do nothing but exist as itself, and I need do nothing but know it is there.

So smile for me, please, and let the chips fall where they may. If one day I slip the surly bounds of this place to touch the face of a Star so bright, so be it. If I am meant to keep my feet on the ground and never fly so high, allow me to just be grateful for the evening sky that allows her light to shine. I may never be graced by her surface, but I will always know where to find her light within the darkness.

At that I smile…

Love is Labor-less

Love is Labor-less

I cannot chase you, or hound you, or wish myself upon you. I cannot search for you, or turn over stones to see you, or break boulders to uncover you. I know this is what you want, how you find value in your existence, how I can prove myself to you over and over again.

Understand that I am busy traveling; walking as I may through the dust and the mud and the perfect fields of endless flowers. Understand that love is not a labor to me, it is labor-less. Understand that my commitment to you is to clear a path where we both can walk, if you choose, to wherever we are going.

So, walk with me if you want. Share with me unbridled passion if you choose. That’s where you’ll find the proof, not from the blood of my blistered hands digging for your treasure, but in the sweat of my brow as you share it.

Come, as you are, and we will walk hand-in-hand for a while.

Peace.

Good Night

Starry Night at Elk IslandThe stuff I do, the thoughts I have, the way I tell my story, all are criticisms of me. I want you to criticize me, to tell me the story of my youth, to condemn me as I have condemned you. I will hold the nails as you drive them into my flesh, and I will fault you for doing exactly as I have asked.

I will leave you in the dust, kick you to the curb, hurl insults at you and maim your heart for the pure sense of my own suffering. I will walk, muddy, all over your clean floor, trample the gardens you have spent your days tilling, and mock the very art you have created from the bottom of your soul. I want you to hate me, to call me names, and to piss all over my sense of well-being if for nothing else than to remind me of from where I came.

I will enter into relationships that only serve a single part of me. I will fuck my way into a frenzy that leaves me wanting something more and, not finding it, will turn you into the bastard who disappointed me. I will find something, anything about you to fall in love with, and then find everything about you to reject. I will hate you for my fears, despise you for my choices, and finally kick you to the curb for simply no longer being able to pretend anymore. I will choose the fantasy, and I will end up hating the reality.

I am a dreamer, and in my dream I create the most horrid of nightmares. I chastise you for sleeping in my dream, for sleepwalking in my space, for snoring loudly in my ears while I am struggling to hear the story I’ve created. I will demand your silence, humiliate your senses, and finally, when I think you are finally where I want you, leave you to the desolation I have so often tried to find. That is me, a dreamer, silently creating noise others may want to hear, while never truly finding the right tune to set my soul ablaze.

Who am I? I am me, and I am you. I’m the one who left the ruts in your neatly manicured lawn.  I’m the one who upset your dreamy tales of sunshine written quickly in the middle of the night. I’m the one who picked your flowers, stripped your tree of fruit, and lit afire the shit-filled bag on your porch before ringing your doorbell.  I’m the one you’ll blame for the horrible colors you painted your room, for the tears you cry when you lay on your half-empty bed, and for the deafening silence you hear when you are alone.

Can you see how much I love you? Can you feel how much I care? If not, what stops you? What keeps you from feeling the rays of warmth I shine between the darkness that is mine? What draws your attention away from the stars in your evening sky and from the lone puddle on the dry, cracking riverbed? What saves you saves me, what is you is me, what you have lost I will truly never find.

Now, off to bed I go. To dream, to try to sleep a full night at last. I’m not the one you want, believe me, so be grateful it is not my breathing that wakes you in the middle of the night. I have blessed you with my absence, ensured no future failure of what could exist only in the minds of romantics and poets alike. Ah, yes, when the sun peeks above our Earthly home, reach out to the void next to you and smile, for there is no one to blame but you if you don’t.

Aloneness is feared not because of the solitude it offers, but because there is no one left to blame for your unhappiness. You can blame no one for the choices you, alone, are forced to make. You cannot hide behind the veil of anonymity others provide if those others do not exist, and you cannot claim ownership of the joy that I provide if I am not there to blame. So, enjoy your solitude, and ride the wave alone toward that place where you are not only responsible for all you are, but also for who you have created others to be.

Good night.

I Have Tried, Failed, and for this I am Sorry

La soledad es de piedra/ SorrowI need to speak your language. I need to speak in a way that you will understand. I need to remember your language, the first language I was taught, in order to talk to you so that you will hear me.

For this I am sorry.

My word will need to become fallible,  and I need to take this personally.  I will need to again make assumptions. In fact the only agreement I have made with myself that will remain intact is that I will try my best. I will try my best to see things as you see them, not as I see them. I will try my best to assume what you assume, and say what you want said, in the way you want it said. I will try.

I have failed you. I have not been fixed to your satisfaction. I don’t see the story the way you want, and I don’t hear the music the way you do. I have tried, of course, to be who you want me to be. I have made a liar out of myself in order to be the version of me you wanted, you needed, you required. I pretended to bloom when my flower had not yet even formed, and I tried like hell to fly when I wasn’t even yet hatched from my own egg’s shell.

For this, I am sorry.

I have failed you. I have failed to dance the steps you have laid out before me. I have failed to hear the rhythm of the song you’ve sung to me, and I have failed to remember the chorus as you have written it. I failed to remember when the woodwinds were to enter, and when the percussion was to fade. I just could not get the song written within me to quiet down long enough to hear the song you wished me to know, to hear, to dance to, and to play. I tried, and I failed, and for this I am sorry.

I have failed you.  I could not end my philosophical nature, and I could not stop asking questions. I can remember as a child, beaten and broken, asking the most fundamental question “Why?”.  That question kept me sane in the most insane moments, and as the answers came I began to understand so much more than anyone could teach me. I could not stop asking the questions not because I love the question, but because I love the answer. I know you valued my silence, those moments when I had no questions and therefore had no answers. I lied to you, pretended that silence reigned and answers were not offered. I tried to be the type of noise you wanted to hear, and I failed. For this, I am sorry.

I have failed you. I tried to see the art as you saw it, and I tried to blend the colors as you wished. I tried to play with the blends of the palette you gave me, and I tried to make sense of them as they touched the canvas of our lives. I tried to hold the brush as you suggested while shading in the shadows of my life with the brushstrokes you prescribed. I did what I could to pretend the shadows were not there, that the voices that had always pushed me forward were now dormant parts of a past that had been forgiven. I worked to prove to you that nothing existed outside of the world we had created when, in fact, it all was very real in my mind. You could not see the love I brushed freely between the frame while I tried hard to remain focused on what never existed for you. For this, I am sorry.

I have failed you. I cannot see love as you do, and I cannot find the silence within me to just allow it to be. I can’t speak my truth without it becoming a lie to you, and I can’t hear your truth without being lied to. I have seen a Great Place, and have eaten of its fruit and tasted the waters from its clear streams.  I have felt its silky sands between my toes and basked in the gentle breezes of its shores. It’s hard for me to remain silent in the face of such a place, let alone not share it with you, my friend, my love, my sacred self. I try, and fail for reasons unknown to the point I wonder if the effort is worth the joy it costs me. Then, you throw your stones and stamp your feet, and I wonder if the joy is worth the price as well. For this, I am sorry.

I have failed you, and in the process have been left unsure in wave after wave of doubt bound in unbridled certainty. An anger builds up within me, reminiscent of a time and place so foreign yet so much like home. I have tried to shed that vein of pulsating heat within me, and in return it has come back to whip me across my back like a withered stick, leaving blistering welts of insanity in a testament to the practice. I am but a man, after all, and I’m not sure why they desire a god in my place. Is the punishment I bear too great for me alone?  I do not know, and for this, I am sorry.

I have failed you. I have dreamt of your luscious breasts and the sound of your beating heart as I press my ear close to them. I have tasted you firmly upon my mouth, and I have breathed your breath and bared my soul to you a million times in my mind, yet never uttered a word to your waiting ear. I have traced unimaginable lines among the countless bumps I have raised upon your skin, yet never pressed one finger to your supple flesh. I have felt you press into me a thousand times as my mouth kisses desire upon your waiting neck, yet I have never once held you in my arms. I wait, wondering if you can hear the subtle whispers from my soul in the light breezes that wisp upon your waiting ears, knowing that if you can you may not even recognize the voice. I feel afraid, and for that I am sorry.

I have failed you. As the winter’s morning sun glistens upon my icy window I can feel the pain coursing through my body. I beg forgiveness for some unseen sin, and ask for no more than I deserve be written in the annuls of my life. The me I know is not the me you care to see, and the me you see is not the me I care to know. Do I succumb to the pressures of being your friend, or do I simply concede to the art bestowed upon my canvas in the manner few can find beauty in? Do I choose to stay my course, or do I choose to force love to again grace my battered timbers? I want the warm glow to light my way, so why can’t I seem to see it? I am lost I suppose, and for this I am sorry.

In this struggle to be clear I have lied to you in the most honest way I can. I have poured my cup out, and claimed the emptiness as some magical place upon which I offer you a drink. I have lost my way, but I don’t care, I just want the pain to end soon, and have it serve a purpose. I want to run through the leaves stiffened by the winter’s grasp. I want to walk through the woods I love beyond my words to describe. I want to carry you high upon my back through the foggy mist of changing times. Heal me, my love, my light, my greatest friend. Feel me, all of you, and know me real beyond the idiocy of our minds conjoined in endless chatter. Here, there, everywhere we find the love we say we seek, and realize that it was there all along.

So now I fade, to focus on the truth I know exists beyond the lies we have agreed to tell each other. I will see you when we crack the surface, embrace the depths, and breath our lives anew.

Peace.

God I love this place!

betelgeuseI walk.

I marvel at how the once soft, fluffy sands have become hard and unforgiving in the winter’s chill. I’m alone with my thoughts save the sounds of the surf crashing behind me; the sea hidden behind a shroud of darkness that allows me to focus on that music and the Universe exposed around me. I sit in the chill, gazing up at Gemini hoping to see the faint streaks of light created by the end of things likely born long before man was a dream. I give thanks in each passing blur as I am reminded of my own mortality, my own beginning, and my own end. I am reminded of the distance between the two, and I am grateful for this step in the journey of remembrance.

Through the shivers and the wet feeling of coldness upon my skin, I realize I love this place. I love the drawings I see as my mind connects the dots on Heaven’s canvas. I love the bright gaze of Jupiter staring down at me as I stare up at her. I love the orange flicker of Betelgeuse lighting my way toward the Hunter I’ve loved so much since my youth.  I remember gazing up at his belt, staring at its perfect alignment and marveling at how the dots seemed so close together, yet were so far apart. I remember realizing then that what we see from where we stand can make all of the difference in how we think.

God I love this place.

I walk.

I walk through the paths others have cut through forests created long before I was born. I embrace the stiff silence that allows the wind to make music through the brittle, dead leaves on their Mother trees. I notice how both seem to hold on to what was, neither truly wanting to admit that the time of their union has passed. It’s a certainty that the winter wind will separate those who cannot seem to let go on their own, and that the tree will sleep and the leaf will fall, lightly, to return the gift it has been given.

I cross a stream.  Little tufts of earth peek through slowly moving surface of crystal clear water, reflecting Heaven’s gaze. I notice how everything reflected seems the opposite of what I see, and I wonder which is the truth. Am I seeing things as they are, or am I seeing things through a reflection in my mind that is the opposite of how they are? Whichever, I continue walking, realizing that time and space can change everything, including the distance between giant stars that likely pay no attention to each other.

I allow the cold winter winds of my life to separate me from my leaves. I let go and say goodbye as they drift away toward their destiny. I know those things I think, those things I see, are mere reflections that exist only in my mind.  I am a man, after all, and can enjoy a view through both tainted eyes and the crystal clear waters of Love that exist in the calm stillness I dive into. Both exist for a reason, and a purpose to which both can be known.

God I love this place.

Here I sit. I’ve done nothing on my to-do list, yet I’ve given birth to an entire universe. To whatever blesses me with these words, I am grateful. To whatever inspires me to see beyond my flesh and bones, I am grateful. To the power that takes the ingredients of a man and makes them so very special, I am grateful. To my eyes that see and my heart that feels, I am grateful. Though I am no longer who I was, I am grateful for who I am. To the music I dance to and the voices I hear whispering lightly in my ear, I am grateful.  To the scars and the wounds as well as the dream I had that gave them life, I am grateful.  To the love and kindness offered that has held me steady, I am grateful.  I am grateful for it all.

So I sit, in peace and in stillness as the Sun shines gently through the window, its glow changing colors through my closed eyelids. I inhale its warmth that contrasts nicely through the chilled morning air, realizing both in the same moment. I realize the stretch of time that has brought me here, the limitless experiences and infinite possibilities of what “now” has to offer.  The raised bumps on my skin tell a truth, a truth that says, “Yes, you are on your way.”

God how I love this place.

Ode to an Old Friend

Karen Hallenbeck August 5, 1968 - December 3, 2013

Karen Hallenbeck
August 5, 1968 – December 3, 2013

I shouldn’t be doing this.  I have so much to do, and I just don’t have the time to sit and write right now. Yet, like some obsessed creature of habit, I have no choice. The feelings well up inside of me and I must, without pause, sit and let them out.

I can feel the emotional tides shift within me.  They come in waves, sometimes they crash into the crusted shoreline of my mind, and in others they gently lap upon the grainy sands of time, pulling those sands away while gently erasing the footprints left behind. I do, sometimes, struggle with it in the face of my own conditioning.  Emotions are for the weak, sadness for the meek and tortured soul with the phony stoicism of men being the standard-bearer of good behavior.  Yet I can’t help myself as I feel it all, and in that moment I decided to let it go because someone, somewhere, feels it too.  And there the lie ends.

Death does not ordinarily effect me in this way.  It is a certainty, and because I have no idea what will happen during or afterward, I usually don’t dwell on it, instead choosing to focus on the act of living.  Death will come to me, as it will to all of us, yet I see no value in dwelling so much on the destination when there seems to be so much left in the journey to get there.  Maybe. One cannot be certain of the destination, except that I have arrived where I am, now, at that may need to be enough.

This week I lost a friend, and I’m not sure why I am so effected. We were once good friends, in our youth, and I’ve always had fond memories of her. She was a beautiful girl, with a happy, peaceful way about her that made the chaotic, confused me stand up and take notice. She was always someone I was happy to see, and I would always enjoy her hugs and her voice, which was unique in its deliberateness as well as in its pure sweetness.  I was fortunate to experience Karen for a few years until, as is quite often the case, I went one way and she went another, and we lost touch.

Enter social media, that often vilified method of human contact that, to me, has amazing potential to make the world smaller and our experience greater. On November 4th, I received a  Facebook friend request from Karen.  I felt like I always did back “in the day”, elated to hear from her and looking forward to seeing how time had treated her.  As many of us do, I immediately went to her page, checking out the pictures and stories in order to close the gap between then and now. She looked just like she did back then, with the same smile she always had.  She appeared to not have aged a bit, with that bright, genuine smile and graceful posture I had always known. It was awesome to see she had become engaged, and that her life had brought her the love she so readily deserved.

We caught up a bit, promising to catch up more after the holidays.  On Saturday, December 1st, I laughed at her admiration of the new recliners at a local movie theater, and her suggesting that they are designed to put you to sleep so you’d have to pay to watch the movie again.  I had suggested the same thing to my own children when we went not too long ago, and I wondered how many had the same thoughts when sitting in those chairs for the first time. Great minds think alike, even on the simplest of experiences. Yes, I smile at the notion, and feel a joy in my heart even through the sense of loss that comes with these memories.

On Sunday, she talked a bit of “trash” as most Eagles’ fans do when our team wins an important game.  Thankfully, Karen was a home-town girl, and not some Cowboys fan who must have been switched at birth.  Yes, somewhere out there is an Eagles’ fan living in Dallas, switched at birth with a half-brained sports nitwit who, with their blue star and pathetic love of a team whose city they’ve likely never visited, dumbs down the sports IQ of the entire City of Philadelphia. I have a feeling there are many out there who understand what I am saying, and are laughing at the suggestion.  Even up in that mystical place some might call “heaven”.

There are events that clearly define a person’s place in the world.  Not their physical place, but their metaphysical place.  You can find a lot about yourself in how you react to others. In this case, I’ve found that I truly value the loving presence of great people, people who judge everyone as equals (or don’t judge them at all). They work to be a positive influence in the world, and rarely create anything but ripple after ripple of positive energy in this sea of life. Of course they aren’t perfect, they struggle like the rest of us with varying degrees of humanness, but they so effect your life in the positive that their negatives don’t seem to matter. They brighten up your day by making you see something in yourself that makes you smile, laugh, or at peace, and they do it from a distance was well as from the inside places of who we are.

So I honor my friend tonight, not because she died, but because she lived. I honor her not in her passing but in the permanent mark she made on others. While her sudden passing made me take inventory of the impermanence in my life, it also made clear the permanent imprints we can make on one another. We can have that kind of effect if we choose to.

It is said that “charity begins at home.” So does happiness. So does joy. So does peace, love and bliss. Anger and fear begins there, too, and we all have a choice on what kind of life we are to lead. The good news is that one can make choices in an instant, and we can choose to take the desires we have for beauty and make it real in any holy instant we want to. It is never too late, it is never too much to bear, and it is never anyone else’s fault. We are the creators.

I’m grateful that the life of Karen has created so much for so many, and I’m grateful to have known her.  I’m grateful that, in her passing, so many of us can share the exact same experience with a woman we’ve known at different times in our lives.  In the case of Karen Hallenbeck, this is not lip service paid to the newly departed, but a true testament of who a person was in the life she lived; a life lived as a beautiful pebble who created a gorgeous splash and wonderful ripple for us all.

So, we move on as we must, shed tears in memorium and smile in honor of a life well lived. There are some flowers you simply stop and smell for a while, and whose fragrance you never forget. I am glad to know so many.

Peace.

In lieu of flowers donations in Karen’s memory may be made to Women of Hope, 14 B Estaugh Ave. Berlin, NJ 08009

A Pure and Holy Selfishness (An Introduction)

“Selfishness is one of the qualities apt to inspire love.” – Nathaniel Hawthorne

 

Sidewalk Stencil: Love knows no boundsI wander, in this windswept world of ideas and thoughts, and wish I could escape it all.  Yet, the wish is yet another idea, part of the mind, and it seems as if there is no liberation from the voices in my head.

My soul, my essence, my spirit, has apparently decided it wants to play in the land of the Great Known. Here, everything is judged, defined, and falls under certain rules we must all live by. Judgment is a part of the breath of our physical form, for even the very act of being non-judgmental is an act of judging itself. Beneath the conscious parts of ourselves lies an undercurrent of patterned behaviors, of instilled thoughts and ideas that can only be vetted by the amount of suffering they cause. It seems as if the world around me is devoted to the act of suffering to the point where even the practice of detachment is devoted to it.  We suffer in the fact that we must become detached from those things that make us suffer, never realizing that it is the suffering itself that is an arrow pointing toward places of pure joy. Yes, Eve, it is possible to revisit the Garden of Eden, but first you need to wake up from your nightmare.

I am fortunate. I live in a society where, traditionally, being white and having a penis is an immediate advantage. Yet I feel distinctly disadvantaged as I observe the suffering around me. I see men forgetting who they are, struggling daily to act like their fathers and the men who taught their fathers. I see the glorious power of women being trampled on by the fear and insecurity of men taught such things by their ancestors. I see children being victimized by those who love them the most as the shackles of ideology and culture are placed upon them, and see the wonderful wings of a child’s imagination clipped as they are taught they cannot be who they want to be, and they cannot do what they find great joy in doing.

Of course I generalize here, describing the things I see pejoratively in the largest part of the whole I have lived my entire life in. My memory brings back a time when I was a conservative white male and saw the world through those eyes.  My, how the victims I see now were the victimizers then.  My, how those with the least were trampled under the weight of my idea that they deserved to be.  I remember how the poor were unworthy of my help, and how my white, male self was being victimized by the poor simply because I was forced to help them.

Today, of course, I have evolved and see things much differently. I’ve been wealthy and have lived the life of a wealthy, white man. I’ve had a gorgeous wife, a big house, fancy cars and money to spare. Yet, like a short-necked giraffe I could not reach the sustenance I needed even as I stood on the summit of the American dream. The fruit I needed to live was on a much higher place than I could reach, so something needed to change.

So, as is the case for most of us, something much more powerful than I took over. I lost my financial wealth and was forced to downsize a life that had gotten out of control, a process that continues even now. I lost the gorgeous wife, the fancy cars, and now live in relative simplicity. The talents that helped me accumulate wealth are still there, but my focus is now on what brings me joy. I write, I think, I protest, I work and I live to love my children. My children are not an aside to my workday, my workday is an aside to them. I have discovered the love of people I would have never known in my “past life”. I’ve taken charity, I’ve received and I have learned. I’ve learned to let go. I’ve learned to tolerate.  Most of all, I’ve learned to forgive and accept while always realizing that my choices are my power.  There, I’ve learned much about responsibility that goes well beyond the type my ancestors taught me.

I may not die the millionaire I once sought to be, but I will die a wealthy man. I will die a liberated man no longer a slave to the story I once saw as “my truth”. Today, I see my truth in the fact that I am a perfectly fallible man, full of judgments and opinions and thoughts and ideas. I accept the fact that there are times when I will judge you harshly for your actions, but I also accept the fact that the gaps between such judgment and my forgiveness of it is narrowing quickly.  Perhaps that is the role of judgment, to make us examine the gaps between the lower vibrations within us and the higher ones we seek to feel and how quickly those gaps close.

Right now I look to compassion and love for solutions that used to come in dollars and cents (no, not sense).  I’m talking about real compassion and love, not the kind that says “I’m beating you with this stick because I love you,” or “starving people is compassion because it teaches them they need to fish.” Compassion, to me, is defined by what makes me smile in service of others, and love is defined by what raises those tiny little bumps on my skin. That’s all. It’s not about you as much as it is about me.

This is a new kind of selfishness that I define as a “pure and holy selfishness.”  Here, my neck must lengthen not for the good of the herd, but so I can reach that fruit at the top of the tree that will keep me alive so that I may do some good for the herd. Here, my arms must widen so that I can hug you tighter.  Here, I must be happy so that I can make you smile. It has to be about “me first” so that I can put YOU first. It’s a simple equation that goes something like this:

complicated equation

 

Ok, I’m just kidding.  Actually, it is more like this:

I(x) = U(x)

If “x” is happy, well then I am happy and you are happy. But I have to be happy first.  I can also make you upset if x= upset. See how easy that is?

I can even change your x simply by being a different x first and choosing to stay there. Yes, I now love math when it’s taught like this.

I can attest to the fact that this is not an easy road to travel. It’s rife with the pain and anguish many spend their time avoiding. I can understand the avoidance, and I know that when the Universe says it is time you will have no choice.  It may not happen in this lifetime or even the next, but it will happen when your soul is ready to experience something new we profoundly call, “the truth.” One day you will wake up, swallow the red pill, and the pathway will change. Enjoy the journey, it is nothing but wonderful once the fog lifts and the sunlight warms your heart.

Peace.

« Older posts Newer posts »