Tag: Rebirth

A Summer’s Dream

July 8, 2022 / Tom

I’ve found you.

I’ve found you in the sounds of rushing water returning to the sea. Ages spent playing on her banks, feet frozen in the current, now have me longing to bathe in her rapids. Come, hold me there and wash me pure, touch me and I will die hearing the power of our truth set free in Spring’s release.

I have found you, and you shall know me as no other.

I’ve seen you.

Up on the summit, looking out beyond trees, my soul has seen you. Hiding among the flowers you are, dancing when no one is looking as carefree as one could be. I’ve seen you, though, and you have not known it. I’ve loved your dance and found my rhythm in your steps. There are no dreams but this dream, and there are no answers but you.

“They thought her insane, those who watched her dance yet could not hear her music.” I can hear it, and I am dancing with you.

Despite the moments where no answers came to the questions I have asked, I now sit and gaze at this vast horizon. Somewhere, out there, you are dancing and singing and wondering and doubting while I sit here, longing for the moment when I can touch the horizon and feel it touch me in return. I wonder if in the breeze that now dries my skin there is your whisper, reminding me that this road still has some miles and you are waiting upon a shore somewhere. I cannot help but to whisper back, hoping you can hear my prayer.

When we kiss will you feel that wave of truth wash over you as that river in which I’ve bathed? When we search for each other in the night, will our hands find flesh where a dream once slept? I do so wish for those things but only if your lips are the “amen” at the end of the prayer and the note that starts each day’s song.

I shall see you there, one day, of that I am sure.

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 Risen Man

October 18, 2019 / Tom

When the Phoenix rises above the ash, he has no desire to return. That’s how the Phoenix knows he has risen, when the cocoon of ash and ember no longer hold any appeal. He may tell the story of destruction, of death, of rebirth and of resurrection but only the living part of that tale is his. What came before his rebirth fails to matter. What matters is he lives and rises to the Sun, and surrenders not to any darkness.

Until that moment when the piles of blowing ash no longer stain his mind, he is a slave to it. Until that moment when the pulsing-orange embers cease to burn his soul, he can only focus on the pain. Until that moment when his fisted hand rises into the mountain air, he will be buried beneath the surface of his agony. He will say words like “healing” and “growth” but he will mean none of it. A seedling may seek the sapling, but until he pushes through the soil his is but a hope, an egg in which no bird can fly.

The seedling cannot bloom to share its fragrance with the wind, and the egg cannot sour among the breezes of this life. Born in the nest of ash and ember he is but a promise, a dot of potential to which no truth can be assigned. Yet, with some battles and some defeats he finds his true victory. He stirs to crack the surface of his ashen shell, punches through the shell that once imprisoned him, and feels the clean air for the first time. Once risen, he cannot fall even when he falters before his god. He can only fly. He can only soar. He can only live his truth.

Once that breath of life fills his chest there is no death in which to surrender. The body may surrender but the soul that burst him through the ash will live eternal. He will leave his footprints in the mud and, sometimes, drops of blood upon the soil that guides him in his travels, but he will not die. Those who knew him will hear his song ring out from within the forest veils. They will feel him in the drops of dew that wash their tired feet. They will know him in their own rising, and they will find him as their shackles fall to the ground. Their name will be his, and his will be theirs, and they will forever be bound in the life that births their quest, and the quest that births their life.

Return to the hell that burned him is impossible. He never gives that thought a moment of attention. It becomes like a subtle whisper in the woods, one you know is there but cannot be truly heard. He is healed, truly, remarkably, and with that wisdom in his heart he turns to face the wind, smiles, and takes to the flight he was born to take.

Sunken in the Hollows

August 8, 2018 / Tom

I hear the footsteps, and see my feet walking down an old, familiar hallway. A brightly-lit room turns sepia as I enter, the silence grows in the aftermath of my entrance. Strong I am as I cross the threshold, shortly that will be forgotten.

In the pales of own ingenuity I stumble through the doorway. Shocked, nearly blinded, the stoic nature of my heart melts in the damp air of own subconscious. Legs made strong by a long journey give way to the temptation of the moment. I am sinking.

The purpose of this arrival remains unclear, yet arrived I have. I want to shout to the demon before me that things are different this time, that I have mastered what I was sent to master. I steel myself to the battle about to happen and then the subtle, soft voice stops me in my tracks.

I know that voice. I have never forgotten it. It is as much a part of me as my own flesh, very much a weakness that turns my mind against me. Old scars seem to reopen on their own, and the echoes of stories past as my knees give way; my breath difficult to recover as my form falls to the floor.

“I am different. You do not know me,” I shout as I tumble. I wish to stand, but can find no strength in my legs. My arms give way as I try to recover, and I notice little words etched on the floor as it meets my chest with a thump. These are words I have long forgotten. These are words I have not uttered since…

…then.

Moments of suffering tumble on top of me as memories flood my heart. I can remember etching those words so very long ago, during the dark times. I can remembering uttering each of them as the pain poured from my chest. Words I cannot speak now are words I once believed. I read them, but cannot find the strength to says them. It was in my weakness that I wrote the prose, and it to that weakness that I desperately do not want to return. I wish to be awake, to end this nightmare, but sleep has a hold upon my heart.

I search for some sanctuary wondering what will be next. Her voice comes at me from every angle, and though I feel paralyzed with fear I search for her acceptance. There I will feel safe again. There I will feel loved. Words that she gave me, words that I agreed to, were words that would drive me to seek shelter within her.

When her touch finally came, my body let loose a shudder and a sigh at the same time. Sliding backwards I came to rest on her lap, my head laying nestled on her naked breasts.

“Don’t worry, I’m here,” she whispered, comforting me with gentle strokes of her hand.

“But I have changed,” came my reply. “I don’t need…” her lips silence my own, my thoughts drifting to a time when this was all I needed, all I longed for. I could feel weakness return as I sought her approval, and longed for her acceptance. I knew I would fail, as I always had, because that is what I do.

Yet I buried my head deeper in her chest. Approval never known was within my grasp. Soon, she would see me as I am, and love me just the same.

Nothing. I tried to get closer to her, murmuring a mantra of change, of strength, of rising to the heights of my own desire. Still nothing. I waiting to see what I would need to do next simply to be loved.

Nothing.

I had sunk once again to the hollows, looking for the features in my space that would remind me of what I had achieved. I had to get away from here, knowing that the great love within my heart would never be realized in the space where I had stumbled once again. I would love the voice forever, knowing that even deafness would not render it silent.

Awakened, I moved away. This time I was on my own as I found the strength to move toward the door I had fallen through before. I wanted to stay, and I could feel the stinging bite of tears flow down my cheeks as I opened the door. I may have even muttered a sob as I tried to regain my breath. All I knew is that despite my desire to get out of that room, part of me wanted to stay.

It is in the hollows of this life that I have found myself. In the weakness I discover the unrealized strength that drives me forward. In the darkness I uncover the ability to see without the light, and to miss its absence only long enough to find it again. In the dream I discover the ability to awaken regardless of how strong the gravity of that memory. It is in the words that I have etched on the rock bottom of my life that I find a mixture of truth and the lie which are, undeniably, a part of who I am.

Neither the summit nor the valley defines me. Each has left its own mark of comedy and tragedy on the pages of my life. I am not a beast until I am the whimpering pup. I am not the lion until I have first survived as a cub. I am not strong without my weakness, nor am I courageous without my fear. I have not the will, nor the ability, to honestly deny either.