Table of Contents — Section 6: Acceptance & Transformation
(italicized titles are prose reflections or vignettes)
- Vignette: The Beauty of Chaos
- Expression as Liberation
- To Express is to Live
- Beyond Love’s Simplicity
- The Fabric of Contradictions
- Love’s Seasons and Natural Order
- Seasons of Our Love
- Awakening Through Time
- Windows of Time
- Burn to Learn
- Beyond Memory’s Reach
- A Love that Evolves
- The Fabric of Love
- Cradled by the Elements
- The Divine Interplay
- The Harmony of Longing and Love
- Strength, Growth and Transcendence
- Relentless Spirit
- The Light Between Worlds
- The Weight of Memory Reflection
- Wings of Healing
- Layers of Truth
- The Art of Witnessing
- Nature’s Wisdom and Final Lessons
- The Tree’s Seasons of Grace
- Final Vignette: The Everlasting Imprint of Love
- Eternal Cascade
Continue Reading
→Section 1: The Spark & The Pull
→Section 2: Falling In, Falling Hard
→Section 3: The Struggle & The Tension
→Section 4: The Breaking Point
→Section 5: Grief & Longing
Section 6: Acceptance & Transformation
Vignette: The Beauty of Chaos
Something hideous and beautiful at the same time. How can such a thing exist? Its beauty, as if hidden by a mist, manifests through its grotesque appearance. Before you stands something magnificent—a structure of order and chaos. A balanced creation conjured up, as if, by a creator.
Why is it allowed to be? What purpose does it seek to teach? Perhaps it’s the universe showing us what we need to see. To have chaos without order is like a tide destroying life. But to never destroy is to never create new again.
Your presence. A fresh perspective.
Expression as Liberation
(To speak is to exist. To create is to make sense of what cannot be held. To express is to be free.)
There are truths that cannot be contained—words that demand to be written, movements that refuse to be stilled. The body speaks when the tongue cannot. The hands move when the mind is restless. And the soul—when burdened—finds a way to leave its mark.
To express is not just to be heard. It is to understand oneself. It is to shape the shapeless, to make the unseen known.
Even chaos has form when put into words, when painted, when sung, when lived.
Perhaps that is the gift of contradictions—the more we express them, the more we learn that both light and shadow belong.
(And in that belonging, we find liberation.)
To Express is to Live
(poem about creativity, healing through expression, acceptance, emotional release)
Imagine singing without sounds coming out.
Only tension in your body with visceral motions,
void of musical expression. Dead noise.
Something uttered but fallen on deaf ears.
Nothing for others to absorb but pain.
Your body language expresses—
but if no one looks, nothing can be felt.
Only anguish manifested and absorbed within self.
Alone, with no tones. No feelings to seep into others.
A quiet death.
Is it all so?
But a pen exists. Words to share for others to accept.
Nothing will be lost so long as the substrate of your expression exists.
Let your words flow.
On paper and digital clouds to roam the unknown.
One day you will be heard.
One day someone will feel and understand you.
Utter your sounds when no one listens.
To express is to live, even if a pen doesn’t exist.
Some things must come out.
Motions give rise to emotions,
heal emotions,
and even nurture demons we need to see and believe –
and sometimes need.
Express emotions. Whether a word or a movement,
both Will what lies within you.
Thoughts form around you,
seep into you, flow through you,
and express in unique ways because of you.
Move or write. Or die to the feelings that shed light.
Escape the mundane when life becomes empty.
Escape through expression—a form of self-preservation,
a form of learning about self.
Sometimes, a necessary evil is required
to heed the seeds that bleed to heal.
Continue to learn even though it may burn.
No matter which hand you’ve been dealt,
the game must go on.
Embrace your fate, and let the world know your name.
Or die alone in the comfort of your home,
somewhere it was safe to play.
Maybe home isn’t such a bad place after all.
Beyond Love’s Simplicity
(poem about love, resilience, acceptance, transformation through pain)
Running through a field of hollow leaves,
burned by the sun, torched from lack of rain.
Yet some flowers remain—
California poppies that graze,
orange colors deeper than a fruit.
A hot pursuit to be seen
before dying among the summer frays.
A sheathed sword, yearning to hack and cleave,
seeking prey, not as game,
but as a necessity of being.
To kill is to be. To not is a dream.
What becomes of trees when blood stains the day?
One seed will feed among fields that deliver pain.
Among grass and bodies splayed,
a presence will grow to cast its shade,
allowing others the comfort from hot summer rays.
I pray for you, to one day meet this day.
The Fabric of Contradictions
(poem about paradox, chaos, acceptance, balance, transformation in life)
Color-coded humans.
Creatures of habit.
Mismatched minds intertwined
like the intricate fibers on a vine.
It all flows as it grows,
even bobs and weaves like when fighters meet.
It’s an ordered chaos—
the best of the best, and a mess,
as no one knows if it’s a test or a jest,
a prison or a prism.
A juxtaposition of paradoxes.
What does it all mean if a world loses meaning?
Maybe somethings are not meant to be perceived,
like an ox looking at a clock.
Maybe some things are just meant to be.
And I, in a dream.
Love’s Seasons and Natural Order
(Love, like the seasons, never truly leaves—it only changes its form.)
Love does not end. It shifts. It retreats like autumn leaves, only to return in a different shade, in a different way. Some loves burn bright, then fade into memory. Others remain, deeply rooted, unseen yet ever-present—like the way winter holds the promise of spring.
Time does not erase love; it weathers it, tempers it, shapes it into something else.
The memories that linger, the emotions that resurface—these are the remnants of something that once bloomed, something that still whispers its presence. Even loss cannot undo what was real.
(Perhaps love does not vanish. Perhaps it waits beneath the soil, beneath the snow, beneath the quiet hush of what remains.)
Seasons of Our Love
(poem about love, growth, patience, natural cycles, acceptance)
I need more.
I need the core and the grace to match.
How else will a match catch on fire?
We need friction, you might say.
Friction with the right elements,
or else you’ll tire and give up.
But not with you.
You’re the air I need to make fire.
I’m your dried-up leaves,
but please don’t leave me.
I can please when the next season gives me new leaves.
Then I’ll be fresh and green again,
and maybe naive because I do come back new to you.
Would you be patient with me while I become old again?
New winds to endure,
and new weather to tread again.
But one thing is sure—I won’t go away.
From the time I was a seed, yearning to breathe,
I waited for nature to let me be.
I needed water.
I needed earth.
I needed the sun.
These are all the things you are to me.
Without you, I’m just a tiny seed in need.
Maybe not having a source of life is bliss.
Maybe alone is the way,
but deep down inside me, I know that I need
you
in order to become the oak tree that you
need.
Your air.
With my body to build our home.
And something to keep you safe if you
should ever need shelter to get away.
I’m the thing you can lean on whenever you need.
I’m your strength when you’re weak.
And I’ll absorb your rain when you weep.
But I won’t be hard with you like a tree tends
to be.
You can guide me as we grow together.
Show me which way to flow and I’ll grow,
baby, grow.
It’s my nature to mend to you.
My sweet love that I love.
All I need is your patience,
and together we’ll give life to life.
Awakening Through Time
As age continues, lessons never learned manifest, love pursued lays to rest, emotions lose perfume, and what is left is pain to find comfort in.
They say life has just begun when new experiences are on the horizon. Maybe that’s why monotony feels like the enemy, a thief robbing you of meaning. And maybe that’s why beautiful things strike a nerve when we’re hurt.
Beauty has a way of awakening something dormant that lies within. Beauty, like purpose, motivates in ways that go beyond reasoning.
Windows of Time
(poem about time, memory, acceptance, reflection, transformation through perspective)
A vantage point—unseen, yet perceiving.
Looking through a window, through another window,
lies a space between two buildings of steel and delicate glass.
City streets stream like objects in a river.
Some things stand still while others flow.
Some breathe, while others simply take up space.
What appears lifeless has time on its side—
forms that will last centuries.
Many years they had, and many more they will endure.
You and I are just a moment—
a passing tide we sometimes run away from.
As active minds flee from time,
so do moments lose their moment.
So do scents lose their luster.
Mercy exists at the end of our lives,
where dreams will sleep and curses hide.
Somewhere in the river,
there are ashes from breathless minds—
memories they once shared,
senses they once grasped.
Will you live today,
or be locked in the torment of a moment?
Will you regret yesterday,
or let it flow like objects in the river—
those city streets that move and flicker?
They say time and life flow like a river.
Some say their lives are like a movie—
cinematic flows of romance and tragedy.
How do movies reflect the passage of time?
And how do we interpret them?
Scenes manifest from different angles,
different perspectives.
Time and space are intertwined,
yet we perceive them as separate—
impossible to grasp all at once,
almost imperceivable to the human mind.
My mind can only remember
a certain flow of events,
whether by choice or inherited limitations.
My life feels like it flows like a river.
But if I think back,
I remember my life like a movie.
There are cinematic moments I wish to relive.
They stay alive—vivid with emotion and recollection—
things I can dream about,
wishes that travel in thousands of directions.
And then there are disappointments and trauma,
frozen in time.
Cold in emotion.
They can even send shivers down my spine.
Both are the same:
Stuck in a moment.
Lost in time.
In my movie-memory,
scenes transition—
leaving out the flow of daily living.
My life feels more like a movie than a river,
so long as I live in the past—
revisiting memories I wish had lasted,
or never happened.
Life must be like a movie
if time and space are perceived as different—
if things happen at a distance,
sometimes slightly different from the eyes—
like a movie in motion,
as emotions are evoked
through thinking’s footprints.
Even a river’s life is like a movie.
Time slows down not for its own sake,
but for ours—
so we can make sense of the world.
So we may live and love the world we inhabit.
The world we are a part of.
The world above,
as well as the clues from the past.
So we may seek to reveal mysteries—
or remain fascinated by the unknowable,
perhaps better left unknown.
For knowledge may strip us of our remaining innocence—
a gift from the divine,
so we may exist
and feel the bliss
of the wonders of the world.
Are you curious about yourself and the world?
There is a world within us.
One with stories told,
and many more untold.
Which movie will you wish to unfold?
Which river will you ride?
Which tide will you allow to sweep your mind?
Burn to Learn
(poem about time, memory, acceptance, reflection, transformation through perspective)
Old notes have a way of bringing back old hopes.
Grand ideas that vanished into history.
Memories I lived but wish I never had.
The ugly truth.
They take me back to a place when
things were cold, alone, and lost—
three feelings that got the best of me.
I wanted to escape.
But like a black hole that sucks what exists,
there was no way out, not even light.
All felt wrong, and nothing was right.
Not even the might of an angel’s face
could make things great.
To fight was a struggle and futile.
At night when darkness settled
and images of the future looked grim,
I could wish the world to suddenly end.
My mind was gone with the wind,
like a leaf tumbling down rugged cliffs
and sinking into a bottomless ocean.
The world felt frigid, without a sun.
But as new eyes ponder hindsight,
some things feel right.
There were friendly words from friends,
and great minds to read in books
in coffee shop nooks.
There was exercise, a thing I hated more than life.
There was a pillow I could lean on
or make fly like the world’s clumsiest kite.
There was food to cook,
even when my belly wanted none.
There was a sense of order in the world
while mine was in total plight.
Learn and let it burn.
Sometimes you have to burn to learn.
As I read old notes,
I wish for new memories to be made—
the good ones only.
But that’s not entirely possible, is it?
Better to live life and thank the heavens
I can breathe today.
Because if you can breathe…
you can do something about it.
Beyond Memory’s Reach
(poem about memory, loss, healing, acceptance, transformation of love)
Some smile, and some don’t. I wonder why?
If I knew, I might say, “No wonder why.”
Laughter for smiles, and tears that hide—
where does it go when it’s gone? Does it ever go away?
“No wonder why” is the reason for many seasons.
Whether it rains or snows, or when leaves drop in the fall,
it’s the ground that absorbs it all.
Victory or misery, it all goes down.
Even what goes up must come down.
What about words and the weight of their worth?
Does that too sink deep, or is it a sound we sometimes keep?
A treasure we bury alongside skeletons of the past.
There’s a balance at play on the source of your birth—
the curse that hurts,
the place that reveals and heals –
the wonderful mystery.
Nothing lasts but the essence of a moment—
a thing we sometimes share in songs,
whisper in tears, or cheers over beers—
emotions we hold dear and fear.
Meeting you was a moment of truth—
a time when things stood still and what was, was accepted as fate,
even though you slipped away.
Knowing you could fly away was enough to lift the pain.
My love for you never went away.
Hold another hand—it’s okay.
I won’t hold a grudge or budge in how I think of you.
You are as true today as you were yesterday—
a grace I was blessed with.
If fate should align us one day,
know that my love will be the same—
the one that brought us close when circumstances pushed us away.
A ship can sail, but the soul that travels has a home.
I would journey deep in the sea, knowing your face could be felt in a breeze.
Your essence is the timeless substance that has always existed.
It manifests when pain accepts and transforms into a blessing.
Powerful as ocean waves, you are that feeling felt from afar.
You are my wishful star, a dream come true,
true as the color blue when hidden by the gray.
Images can strip, and visions will fade,
but that’s because memories go away.
But I know where to find you—
whether up or down, you’re always around—
no need to remember, when I see you in every day.
A Love that Evolves
(Love does not remain static. It deepens, transforms, adapts. Some loves fade, others endure, but none remain as they once were.)
Love is not what it was yesterday, nor what it will be tomorrow. It grows, it bends, it weaves itself through time and change. Some loves start as passion, only to settle into something quieter, something deeper, something that challenges the soul. Others begin as admiration, evolving into something neither person foresaw.
I have loved in different ways—
With the innocence of a child, when love was pure and unburdened.
With the fire of a man who longs, when love was desire untempered.
With the stillness of a soul that understands, when love became something more.
Some loves are meant to teach. Some loves are meant to heal. Some loves are never meant to last, but they leave an imprint for you to revisit, reshaping the heart long after their presence has gone.
(Perhaps love’s true nature is not in its permanence, but in the way it changes us, in the way it remains within us, even when it has moved on.)
The Fabric of Love
(poem about memory, loss, healing, acceptance, transformation of love)
Callused fingers disrupted her skin,
yet she endured.
Stains of life spilled into her veins,
yet her warmth remained.
Light as a feather,
unbound by dusty winds,
she mended.
When it rained,
she gathered water in her threads—
pressed it free to sweeten seeds
that made things green.
She was the juice in the fruit,
the strands that blend connections.
When it was cold,
she crackled with static,
a quiet spark against the skin—
a veil that hid the remnants of innocence.
She was the fabric of love,
binding all things
unseen.
Over time,
she frayed at the edges,
yet never unraveled.
Through seasons of change,
she remained.
She was a sight to be seen,
bright with a sheen—
glowing,
reflecting snow.
I loved her then
and watched her flow.
I love her now
and watched her go.
Cradled by the Elements
(poem about nature, renewal, acceptance, transformation through earth’s cycles)
Cratered hopes in a barren land.
What once grew flowers,
with streams of glistening gills,
now lay fossilized in the memory of earth.
I wonder if mother felt the pain
of tears that once stained
the woven sheets of trees
where my fingers once drifted.
I wonder if mother heard my words—
melodic streams which seeped into sands
where seeds could not grow.
Have my vibrations withered to an empty sleep?
Or does energy remain, like blood in my veins –
flooded with love and pain?
If my skin is to return to earth,
where will my heart go?
Is it destined to flee like the leaves on a tree?
It cannot be a trick of the mind
to have felt dreams breathe while awake and free.
Or maybe sleep is where eternity exists—
a place where my body can rest as my soul is caressed.
I imagine the wind to be her breath,
the relief from heat,
the rain, a gift of life –
a barren land where rebirth stirs from ruin,
and a place where my soul can roam –
a heart I once called home.
The Divine Interplay
(poem about nature, renewal, acceptance, transformation through earth’s cycles)
What is the distinction between beauty and love?
You admire beauty.
You admire someone you love.
Beauty lures you.
Love inspires you.
Her beauty struck me like an intuition felt deep.
I didn’t seek intimacy with her—only closeness.
The kind of innocent love children experience.
Friendly exchanges carried undertones of affection—
a subtle intimacy born of mutual understanding.
But our ages were no longer children’s.
We had lived, seen, and learned to put things into perspective.
She had a way with words.
A charmer among charmers.
An old soul. A reincarnation.
Something too beautiful to die.
A finely tuned mind, crafted by time itself.
She was a mystery—
something to learn from,
something that could teach.
Our minds danced with words and feelings.
Nuances were our treats.
Pauses sank deep.
Songs played in our minds,
giving cadence to our phrases.
Insights gave life to ideas a hundred times per beat.
Any more, and my heart might burst.
Her words were my nurse.
My pain—she could heal.
My wandering stopped
under the attentive heat of her eyes.
If I was invisible, she could see me.
She could rip me from whatever rotten tree
had sunk its roots too deep.
She was the fire the earth needs to breathe.
From her, new worlds were born—
fertile lands of lush vibrancy,
colorful creations springing from ashes.
Her movements evoked dreamlike worlds—
too beautiful to grasp in waking life.
To capture her
would be to pollute her essence—
an act I resisted,
to preserve her grandeur.
I couldn’t be the source of her misery.
I couldn’t destroy her beauty.
She wasn’t meant for me.
Maybe what I felt was true love.
She awakened inner mysteries—
truths I had never believed.
My forever muse.
My light when I couldn’t see right.
My warmth in the cold storms of life.
I don’t know if beauty and love are truly separate.
Maybe when both align,
they create something divine—
something that transcends them both.
Something that gives you a fresh pair of eyes.
Love is beautiful.
Beauty inspires the mind.
Together, they create a world
where imagination knows no limits—
where all things feel possible,
and selflessness becomes
as natural as breathing.
The Harmony of Longing and Love
Have you ever noticed how longing for love
and being in love both play the same tune
yet sing different songs?
One feels wrong while the other feels right.
One grieves at dawn while the other plays at night.
One body cold alone while the other delights in another body’s warmth.
Both could lose sleep as the mind restlessly speaks,
as both yearn for love to last an eternity.
How would you know what’s special
without feeling the shivers of solitude
or the nurture of companionship?
It’s as if you can’t have one without the other to appreciate.
No room for hate in either, for both thrive on love and desire.
To the future love of my life—
if you can feel my words,
there’s no need to feel alone or live life in delay.
We’ll find each other one day.
Being away gives me more time to be a better partner,
a farmer to plant some seeds,
so love may bloom and grow with ease.
Just you and I, where sky’s the limit.
Cold breeze for hot days,
and warm feet for when winter speaks.
I yearn for the day we finally meet.
Strength, Growth and Transcendence
(Sometimes, pain is not an ending, but a passage. Sometimes, love does not vanish—it reshapes. The wounds we carry do not weaken us; they forge us. What remains is not just survival, but something greater.)
Growth does not arrive gently. It forces itself upon you, reshaping bones, stretching skin, pressing into the hollows where sorrow once lived. You wake one day and realize the weight has shifted—not gone, but different, something you can now carry with ease.
Love was never meant to remain untouched. It was meant to shape, to break, to teach. Some loves burn away, leaving behind only the memory of their warmth. Others settle into the marrow, changing the way you stand, the way you breathe.
I have been broken by love. I have been healed by it, too. Not by its return, but by the way it taught me to hold myself when no one else could.
This is what it means to transcend—not to forget, but to rise carrying all that you were, all that you have lost, and all that you have become.
(And perhaps, one day, I will look back and see that none of it was in vain.)
Relentless Spirit
A lady with a heart of gold.
The golden heart—it’s heavy, and she’s alone.
She’s strong,
but the weight is heavy.
So she hides her treasure,
buries it for when she’s ready.
Deep in the ground she continues to burrow.
Through the cold and the heat,
she digs.
Relentless, she persists.
Her spirit insists.
Until one day—
something gives.
Something stops resisting.
It’s the air. She can breathe.
She can see. She’s now free.
No chains, cuffs, or rope
can hold what’s meant to grow.
She carries life.
She shines in light.
She’s a sight
for all to see.
The Light Between Worlds
A rightly positioned light can make a green leaf glow—
images of emeralds dangling as the wind blows.
What was neutral becomes enhanced.
Even dull surrounding surfaces are accentuated.
Concrete brightens, causing eyes to squint.
It’s a painting come to life.
Clouds play with hues, manipulating radiance—
a symphony of nature, a treasure of a moment.
It’s the gold found at the end of a rainbow:
an intangible substance, the jewels of the sky.
The sun breaks past a building, greeting life down below.
Its rays are nutrients for things to grow;
its brightness, a direction for eyes to follow.
Life survives even when darkness falls.
What is the middle ground between earth and heaven?
What is the space in between?
A space where ideas and visions are formed.
Is it all an illusion of the mind?
I see beauty as the earth spins and dies.
Life repeats its cycle—
a never-ending ride through time.
A gift of the mind to perceive the world inside.
As the sun roams and warms my inner home,
so do leaves breathe air for souls to grow.
Without elements, there can be no life—
no mind to marvel at the world’s wonders.
The Weight of Memory Reflection
Don’t think about her—words I repeat.
Let go—a wishful thought.
She was a clue about truth,
now a dream of grief.
She was a love I found,
and now long for.
Maybe I didn’t deserve it.
Self-reflection has a way of swaying thoughts,
muddling emotions and memories—
both the good and the bad.
Some days, you see clearly.
Others, it’s a haze.
As I observe these thoughts,
I notice my mind grasping for reasons,
assigning meanings,
justifying the pain.
But what if understanding doesn’t mean solving?
Maybe it means allowing each thought and feeling
to exist—
without trying to alter or escape it.
Somewhere in between lies the truth—
a balance at play between black, white, and gray.
What’s a soul supposed to do
when the truth has shifted into false
and the mind hasn’t had time to understand?
Reality feels tampered with.
As if a dream turned into a nightmare
you can’t wake from.
Memories of the past hold on to pain.
Should I forget we ever met—
forget the regrets?
Is that really the way?
I don’t think the mind works that way.
To force myself to forget feels impossible.
To distract myself is temporary
until a moment brings it back.
Is time the only way?
Time doesn’t always work.
Pain can last a lifetime.
I wish to nurture the pain,
to hold it gently,
to give it the attention it needs—
so it can finally heal,
so it can flow through me,
and no longer reside inside me.
Pain may never fade
if I constantly revive it through memory.
But if I choose to observe it—
without naming, without judging—
perhaps I can finally see it
for what it is.
Then, maybe,
I’ll stop running.
Not closer to the past,
not farther from it.
Wings of Healing
A cursed purse which seeks to nurse,
may live bright in a world that’s hurt.
But a golden dress and hollow soul
will cease to breathe and stop to grow.
The world believes what it needs to feel,
when pain is real and makes us kneel.
And when the rain lands close to home,
you’ll need to see how much you’ve grown.
I’ve seen your pain and heard the words.
I plead with you to know your worth.
I’d make the trade, absorb your hurt,
but I can’t change what you are made.
And please don’t see this evil dream
but please do see your magic dreams.
Expand your wings and fly the winds.
You’ll fly so far for miles on end.
You’ll kiss the stars and christen hearts,
ignite new stars and heal the scars.
Layers of Truth
Some days, words are lost.
A pursuit ensues, looking for clues, seeking mysteries and peace.
Beauty has a way of awakening something that lies within—
a yearning to be awed, desires of hidden truths.
A woman carries a world in her belly—
a creation that will create.
Sounds are felt before they are heard.
She observes her surroundings, pacing as she waits.
Her chin is high, displaying the calm on her face.
Her bright eyes reflect light, blinding minds with her presence.
She’s something beautiful and true,
she’s a clue about life and what makes it right.
Her body is like a dress,
her skin is something soft like a cloth from heaven.
Her body glows through the fabric of her clothes.
A radiance of patience in a room of restless nerves.
The way she moves enhances her essence.
She glides when she walks and hovers when she stops.
She’s a power on this earth. A mother for this world.
Will the life she creates inherit her blessing?
How does grace come to be?
Some mysteries are just meant to be seen, not understood.
The unknown element is part of the fascination.
Like an onion with its layers,
the deeper you peel, the more tears appear,
until your vision blurs, and you can only feel.
Words cease to be, and eventually, there’s nothing to see.
All the layers will have peeled, and what was beautiful is now gone.
To observe too deeply may destroy beauty.
Let things be, and let her be.
She’s the scent of a rose, an essence that roams –
a beauty for the eyes and nose alone.
A rose with thorns and not for pickings.
To pick the petals would destroy the gift, the muse,
the wonder which eases moods.
Observe and let her breathe so flowers will grow.
A piece of peace. A blessing to absorb.
The Art of Witnessing
What happens when truth turns false before your mind can catch up?
When the dream turns into a nightmare—and there is no waking?
Memories cling to pain.
Should we forget we ever met—forget the regrets?
The mind doesn’t work that way.
Forgetting seems impossible.
Distraction offers refuge,
until a moment stirs a memory.
Observe.
Observe without justification, condemnation, or verbalization
of what transpired or its perceived consequences.
Simply exist with the feeling so you can become one with it.
In justifying, in condemnation, in verbalizing the feelings,
the mind can rationalize and alter them—
but sometimes, that doesn’t work.
Sometimes, you simply need to exist with the feeling
so that the thinker—the observer that is observing itself—
can break the duality and exist as one.
And in that oneness, what exists can flow through you without interruption.
The feelings—what you are feeling—can then cease to exist,
can dissipate,
allowing you to witness the truth
without justifying, condemning, or verbalizing—
and be free.
Don’t fight it. Don’t name it.
Just witness it.
And the feelings will fade on their own.
Nature’s Wisdom and Final Lessons
(Some things do not resist the changing seasons. They accept, they endure, they return. If love is a force of nature, then perhaps it, too, follows the same rhythm—changing, shedding, renewing, but never truly disappearing.)
Nature does not mourn the fall of its leaves. It lets them go, trusting they will feed the soil, that they will return in some new form when the time is right.
The tree does not ask why the wind moves it, why the rain comes, why the sun is sometimes hidden behind clouds. It simply stands, growing through it all, knowing it was made to withstand the weight of time.
Love teaches us in much the same way. Some loves pass like seasons, some remain like ancient trees, and some, like rivers, carve deep into the land, leaving their mark long after they have gone.
Perhaps the lesson is not to resist, but to learn how to stand, how to bend, how to grow.
(And in doing so, how to love—not in grasping, but in letting love move through you, as the wind moves through the trees.)
The Tree’s Seasons of Grace
The tree is looking at me.
Two branches stretched out like it wants to give a hug.
Its hair, the leaves, shine bright, amplified by the light.
Every follicle of the leaves shines a different shade of green, yellow, and orange.
It’s mostly yellow.
Like someone with eye-catching hair, you can’t help but notice.
Its presence breathes air.
The wind blows but the tree stands tall.
Only the leaves move, it’s fall.
These light-shining leaves are not falling yet.
No, that will come another day.
Not today.
The wind has slowed, just like time does when you appreciate something beautiful.
If the tree were a woman, I wonder what her name would be?
If we could choose our names after living our lives—-
what would your name be, Miss Tree?
She’s not very tall for a tree.
By age definitions of humans, I’d say she’s youthful but seasoned.
She’s accustomed to growing pains and the rain.
She’s been hardened by the elements,
yet here she stands, tall and radiating,
shining bright and graciously.
It’ll take a lot more than the wind to take her down.
No, not today.
Not tomorrow either.
Not until she’s regrown her leaves for many seasons.
This one is here to stay.
So what would her name be?
She’s beautiful, strong, stands tall, not bothered by the rain,
and continues to breathe life into the world.
What is your name, Sweet Love?
Final Vignette: The Everlasting Imprint of Love
(Back in Quebec City, where the journey began. The man who once pondered love at the café now stands at the edge of all he has felt, looking back at the love that shaped him.)
I once wrote her a poem about waterfalls. I still feel every word of it today.
I wonder if she ever read it again, if she ever let the words wash over her the way I once let her presence consume me.
I do not ask for love to return. I do not ask for the past to rewrite itself. I only ask that she knows—some things never fade. Some imprints are forever.
She was my waterfall, my world, my all.
Even now, I stand at the edge, feeling the same vibration deep within me.
(And if love must flow, then let it flow like water—forever cascading, forever beautiful, forever carrying its memory through time.)
Eternal Cascade
“Have you ever felt a waterfall’s might?
The closer you get, the more you feel,
its vibration deep within you.
That’s what I felt.
You are my waterfall, my world, my all.
I could watch you for hours,
and get lost in the fall.
When you moved, like water,
you could turn cliffs into mist.
Forever flowing, gracefully,
even time ceased to exist.
I would drink you if I could,
and turn myself into a fish.
That way, I could feel you,
and be forever within your grip.”