And Oh, About That Thing

I am up before the sun. I suppose this is not so unusual for me. However, I am awake, especially early today and waiting on the morning’s first light to come from the east.
I can hear the wind blowing through the palm trees outside of my temporary stay near the beach.
I have come here with a purpose.
I have come here to tell my sins to the sea and to feel the redemption of my feet in the sands.

I need this now, the Atlantic is by my side, the memories of times that went by, the feelings of love, the ideas that took place as I walked down this very same beach, years back when Mom was still alive.
So much has changed since then. I suppose this is what we always say when we look back at the way things were, ten years ago.

I have heard it suggested that if we are the same as we were ten years ago, then something is wrong. And I understand why someone would suggest this.
I do.
I understand life without growth and going further. I understand about the benefits of challenge or the building of emotional muscle, and how the passage of time builds our strength so that we can not only survive what’s ahead of us, but we can learn how to endure the strain more comfortably in our later years.

At the same time, I recognize that am not the same as I was ten years ago. I am not built the same. I do not have the same priorities nor the same intentions. I do not see, think, or feel the same way as I did ten years ago.
I have changed.

Some of my changes are for the better. Some of my changes are tests of my strength or proof that I need to be stronger. To add to this point, I have grown more than I could have imagined. I have equally reverted back more than I ever assumed.
However, I’ve still grown, at least enough to question my old beliefs or to learn that my old assumptions were inaccurate and unhelpful, at best.
I have learned to outgrow the unuseful things I have learned, and as for the inaccurate lessons from ten years ago, or the lessens that go back even longer, I can understand why it was suggested to me that if I am the same as I was, ten years prior, then yes, something is wrong.

I am here.
Waiting . . .

I am waiting for the sun to come up where I am. I am waiting for the warmth of South Florida and and the color of the sky to do something hopeful and helpful to me; and more, I am waiting for the great inhale of the ocean’s breath, or the air of the sea to heal me, at least for the moment.
I am awaiting the arrival of something good, or something peaceful and hopeful.
I am awaiting a sign from someone, like the Great Mother, Holy, and Loving, The Mother above, and the Mother of all creation, the Mother of time, Mother of all kindness, and The Great Mother Directional and the Divine of divinity. I am here to see The Mother, Giver of Life, and I am waiting to feel her breath, like the winds from an ocean breeze, as I stand at the sea and ask for mercy.

Dear Mother, I am old but a child in the same breath. I am weak and broken, whole, and I am growing and moving and assuming all too often that the worst has yet to come.
I am the compilation of my worries and assumptions that the impending doom is only natural; whereas, no, I understand that today is a new day and that today is unlike yesterday. Tomorrow will come regardless of the evidence from yesterday or the day before it.
So, act accordingly.
Improve . . .
And make life better.

I am nothing more than this, a small child and a blip in the labyrinth of time.
I am here, now, and awaiting to see the sun come up.
I am praying for the warmth of salvation or the quench of the waves at the shore.
I am the same as the dry sands, parched until the tides resume.
I am dry in some regards and awaiting the return of the waves.
I am in need of a cleansing, same as the waves cleanse the unwanted debris from the shores and pull them in and take the undesired filth out to sea.
I want to rid myself of the unwanted debris, to have them taken elsewhere, and be unobjectionable.

I see the rise and fall of the tides and the need to quench the shore.
But more than anything, I see this as the embodiment of the earth’s confession.
This is the love that Mother gives when she washes us, her children, and this is the way she cleans us from the soils of our past or the pains of our life.

Glory—

Dearest Mother, I am your child. I am hurting. I am lost. I am afraid and I am worried that I am not strong enough to withstand the current waves.
The tides feel too strong.
I am afraid that I am about to be sucked away, or drawn in by the undertow, and washed out to the unknown sea, forgotten, unloved, unwanted, and irredeemable.

I am here, in grief and with hope.
I am here, out of despair; yet, I am here as a promise and I am here, open hearted, open minded, and I am here with my arms extended, like the sick requesting the nurse, or kneeled before you. I am like a sinner, afraid of the trouble I have caused, or otherwise; I am like a child too afraid of the dark.

Loving Mother, comfort me.
Come for me and take me to the paradise within.
Let me feel the warmth of the sun on my face. Let me here the anthems of the sea, and the song of the overhead birds, and the celebration of waves as they crash upon the shore.

Blessed Mother, I am sorry, but I am a sinner.
I cannot hide behind the darkness anymore.
I am selfish and self-centered.
But –
I am far from evil because if I were evil, I would not see anything wrong with the way things are, nor would I be able to identify my sins, and thus, I would feel nothing about me or my transgressions.
I would be fine to be numb or emotionless.
However, I can see.
If it is true when it was said, “I have come to give sight to the blind and to take from those who can see,” then yes, it is me who has sinned, because i can see, which means that I know the difference between right and wrong.
In fact, I see myself all too clearly and as someone who is aware, then I must equally be aware of the tax and the tariffs and the cost of my redemption.
I have to understand that salvation is not free.
Since this is true, then please allow me my penance. Allow me my way, my hope, and my course to the truth. Allow me, weak as I am, but hopeful and hopefully stronger; and please, with all my heart, allow me your grace—yes, me, please, a sinner, a small man, too afraid to face the light which has exposed me to the light of truth.
I am like the demons who are afraid to be exposed to the light because this shines upon their secrets; therefore, allow me your grace despite the darkness of my deeds.
Forgive me, for I am sorry.
I have true sorrow for my sins, hoping to be absolved, but I am also understanding that to be absolved, one has to repent or at least replenish what has been taken or destroyed.

“Tear down this temple, and I shall rebuild it within three days!”
I am not so crafty. But the word is the word. and so, if I must, then I must.
I expose myself.
I am a coward.
I am a weakling, faking a strength with a mask called false bravado.

Greatest Mother, lover and giver to all, watch over me.
But more, watch over her, my love.
Comfort her and ease her pain. Share with her, your oceans of peace so that she might find the light, like the birth of dawn as it appears, like the yolk of the sun, arising from the palm of your horizon across the ocean’s blue.

She is beautiful. She is warmth. She is the guiding light and the keeper of my earthly peace. But more, she is the beautiful soul and the hand of my affection and, of course, she is my only touch of warmth in the coldness of life without heat.

I have come here to circle back to a place of comfort. I have come here to feel the warmth of a morning sun and to smell the air in a place where I was, the last time when Mom was alive.
I am not here for anyone else. At the same time, I am here to acknowledge a loss and the event of a brutal passing of my friend. I am here to make sense of something that makes no sense, like a savable murder, which just took place.

I am here to reconnect with the tides and to recognize that I am not who I was, this time, ten years ago. I am better in some ways and not as good in others.
So, thus, let me be good.
I want to be a good boy again.
Let me come back or return no differently from the Prodigal Son who wasted and squandered his inheritance and his gifts, and let me see how I have gone poor, so that I can achieve the wealth of (her) love (again).
Allow me this moment, please, and heal me.
Wash me, and cleanse me from the parasites that otherwise hurt or degrade my best efforts.
Please, Great Mother.
Keep me from my infections.

I ask this of you, my Mother, and my hope.

I ask for peace for my friend who chose his exit because as I reveal this, I extend my heart and my sorrow and pain.
I offer myself to the solace of truth and betray my secrets by revealing them here, to you.

No one can tell me that I am a good man like Mom can.
No one can heal like Mom or help us make sense of the nightmares or the unknown monsters in the dark.

I confess with my words and my mouth and from my heart.
I confess my selfishness to the seas and to the upcoming sun.
Forgive me, my Mother.
Pardon my sins and keep me in your heart.
Be patient with me because as old as I am, I am only a boy hoping that one day I will be a man.

I saw a reminder of myself yesterday. I saw this the way a broken mirror shows the inaccurate version of what we look like.
I tied this back to a memory that comes from the worst of me.
I know who I was and I know why too.
I was violent and vengeful, drooling with hate and seething with outrage, armed, and willing, capable, and dangerous.

I trained myself to be this way.
I trained myself to be numb and unfeeling of good, or kindness. I trained myself to survive in the absence of love which, to me, is the same as living with the absence of air or sunlight. Therefore, I trained myself to be disconnected and unhinged from the pain. I trained myself to be unmoved from the blood, and to be free from the connection of passion and unhinged.
I trained myself to be so insane that the terms of sanity no longer applied to me—or moreover, I trained myself to survive in the dark and the absence of light.
This was me.
I was the unhelpful son, the unreachable one, and the one who became the sum of all my hate and all my outrage—and clicking back on the hammer of my silvery postil, I trained myself to taste the steel of the empty barrel in my mouth, so that I wouldn’t flinch, just to be readied for the “click” and the loud bang that was instantly followed by the silence of an ongoing sleep.

I am not this person, nor was I ever this person, nor could I be.
I am not him because despite the span of my hate, there has always been something deeper inside of me.
There has always been love. Had there not been, then I would have been fine to go down for “the dirt nap” long ago.
There has always been more. However, I am that child, too afraid to show the simplicity of my toys, and too afraid that the other kids will make fun of me (again) or that I will seem poor or unworthy.

I have come here to circle back to a time and a place where sickness and healing went hand-in-hand.
I need this.
I lost my friend to a bullet. His family lost far more than I, yet I wonder if I weep more because I spoke with him, and inside, there was something about this talk, let’s call this a semi-intuition that told me, something’s not right here, but I said nothing.
Therefore, I did nothing.
And thus, he is gone and so is all that he took with him.
But you, my man.
I knew you.
You were something remarkable to me.
You were my friend, you son of a bitch!
And you still are.
Just, differently.

I have no time nor affection for my old self and my old ways, nor will I ever assume or reconnect with the violence I was willing to commit.
However, I can appreciate the reason why I chose this image as a cloak and a shield — I chose this because life hurts, and while my life was crazy, at least I was better when it came to the endurance of pain. And now, all I can do is feel it.
The bitch about pain is pain hurts.
a lot . . .

Blessed Mother, take me from this place.
Keep me grounded and earthly, but I ask this with all my heart.
I ask you for the cleansing of your salvation, or if nothing else, please allow me the feel of your warmth so that I can see the proof of your sunlight and realize that above the clouds, no matter what, you will always be there with me.

I ask this and more.
Can you deliver this for me, please?

Dear Mom,
I am in love. And I am alone.
You never met her, at least not really.  Then again, I assume this, of course, assuming that you are alive in the afterlife and looking down on me.
Send her your warmth. Let her know that there is more to me.
Please.
I really am a good boy.
Then again –
I don’t know who I am sometimes.
I want to be a good boy.
I promise.

The sun will be here at 7:16am this morning.
I will look for you there, Mom.

I am here.

Waiting.