Skip to main content

Raising My White Flag

Okay, so here I am, being spit out.

I think the hold of darkness lessened when I decided to match my fear with a little bravery, which was really just doing something I was a little less afraid of--airing my vulnerability here--knowing that I would be met with love.

Can you even call that bravery?

Who cares?

That's the exact kind of thinking that got me into this mess.

Maybe it was as simple as reaching out for help. No shame in that, is there?

I'm done doing this on my own. I've proven to myself time and time again, that I cannot take on my monsters without mighty companions by my side.

Healing separation does not come from remaining separate--but why do we so often choose to remain separate, until we can pretend better?

It isn't often that I reach out for help. I'm so busy holding up my faithful illusion that I have to stay strong in the march toward peace--lead the weary soldiers. I am not allowed to fall out of step. I am not allowed to fall behind.

Something clearly wants to break this thought system apart, and oh, how I welcome it.

The army I'm leading is an army of ghosts. They never existed, because they never had to.

I am tired of marching. I am tired of needing to feel like we are winning a war. I am tired of standing at the sidelines to judge the results by what I see, when I know I can't really see anything.

I am tired of keeping score. That is why I don't enjoy sports. It hurts too much to see a winner and a loser. Too much pain for the loser, too much pain for the winner who must keep winning.

Thank you for all of your showerings of love. By the end of the day, your comments and emails began to actually penetrate a thick wall of darkness that had become my experience.

But there was a stark realization that no one could really pick me up and carry me the rest of the way--at least a significant part of me would never allow it.

Seems that I am looking more for a mid-wife--just someone who is still in awe of the process, but who isn't afraid because they've seen it happen over and over. Someone who can ride the contractions with me, but not be overtaken by them--but will be okay if I am for a while.

Yes, I believe that I have to do the hard labor on my own. Going to have to look at that.

I have to admit, I'm not sure what I am birthing anymore, or why I must keep myself in a perpetual birthing process.

So, what do you do when you realize that what you can see, what seemed special and unique to your vision, the source of the advice you held and shared as truth, that just might hold the answers to freedom, to unraveling, to peace--when you find all of it exists as another set of finites to fuel just another crusade, within a reality that isn't finite.

What I've construed doesn't really matter, does it? Because in each new moment there is the infinite, and it can't be pinned down.

I mean, so you can hear a beautiful melody. You still can't really interpret it--not without limiting it. Even using the most poetic of language to describe it will limit it, unless, of course, the poetry becomes akin to the melody, appealing to the same feeling place stirred by the music. And then describing the poetry becomes as limited as describing the melody.

I begin to understand why the Romantics were so suicidal, why so many went mad, or were on the verge of it. Imagine being able to hear, or worse, being the actual conduit for the most hauntingly beautiful melodies to spring forth, and finding yourself completely unable to translate them into experience. And then to not be able to catch and hold your creations, the only hope of their existence dependent on a mostly non-feeling world, as performance, as prized exhibits to feed a competitive vein, destined to become subjects of scrutiny, picked apart until you could no longer hear the music.

All of the beauty continually up against a mind that requires that we label, that we limit, that we evaluate, that we explain.

It seems the feeling place is always fleeting, internally or externally.

I mean, I found the light living outside of a grotesque embrace called vampire and saint, but in the end it didn't matter much that my mind could shout victory! because the realization was only for that moment--for that present moment. It didn't really fit later, because the feeling was gone. The memory of it could not be translated, nor explained, because in the moment of receiving, it was a melody that had sung to me. It was the light-- but you can't catch the light and hold it. You'd only be chasing it later, trying to recreate the melody.

But a chasing mind does not create melody.

And enter darkness.

Winning is just for a moment. It doesn't matter shortly after. Even if you string the winnings along, there is now something to keep up to, chase after. Something that chases you.

So, my discovery wasn't really something that could be carried down the road, as reserves for later.

No, something wants me to stop carrying anything, to stop focusing on the winnings. Something wants me to stand still. Something wants me to sit quietly at the edge, watching the waves rise and fall, and do nothing but let them lap playfully at my toes.

So, what I feel more prominently in my experience these days, after the epiphanies have faded, is a distinct desire to turn off the engine, to shut down the entire operation.

Something wants me to get comfortable with this place. Something wants me to understand that nothing true can be birthed from anywhere else.

But part of me is afraid of this place, because it feels like the surrender is so final. To really admit that there is no fight left in me? Isn't this just death? Isn't this eternal slumber? And what if I am still living? What would that look like?

Yet, I listen, even if I have my doubts that something can be birthed out of nothing.

Something in me recognizes that it has never been, nor will it ever be about searching down every dead end road for the final answer, for some holy grail that holds all the secrets.

Maybe the search is over.

But can I relax enough, let go enough, to ever let it show me the way?

I guess only time will tell.

But maybe it is as easy as perking up an ear, and listening to the music, feeling into it, and being okay that you'll never pinpoint exactly where it comes from, or what it has to say, or that you'll never succeed at holding it in your hand.


  1. Dear Brooke,

    I fully support you in sitting quietly at the edge.

    Christ has not lost sight of you.

    Love Nige

  2. We all need and be can midwives to each other in the labors of our spirits. I love that idea.

    Brilliant insight about the Romantics!

    Your post made me remember a quotation from Emerson that I think goes: "Our moods leave no footprints."

    For sure our epiphanies come--and then go, like tides and breath.

    Your post also made me think about the death card in tarot, that total letting of the known, which is the passage into new life, which will doubtless lead to other death-like surrenders.

    Yes, I am with you!

  3. I am here, my friend. It's all just beyond words, isn't it?

    I'm taking in a big, deep breath of emptiness right now and it feels so full. Nothing is always something, isn't it.

    My heart is full of love for you always, in all ways, in whatever way you are or aren't.

    As wise Nige would say, it's safe to let go. You are held.


  4. I find it intersting that the secret word that I have to duplicate in order to leave this comment is: grussemo.
    I have the distinct honor to be the first man who held you in my arms and said,"I love you". Then like all good parents I proceeded to fuck up your life. (It's the law) I cannot tell you how amazing it is to watch you grapple with the 'muy grussemo' shit of life and conquer it, bit by bit. I love you, Brookster, and I am soooo proud! Papa


Post a Comment

♥ Thank you for taking the time connect with me here. ♥

Popular posts from this blog

RIP Poltergeist

After over ten years of an incredibly intense journey as a seeker, I find myself lying fallow. Taking a rest. When I first discovered this uncomfortable fact — threat to the hamster wheel that was my spiritual rat race, I surrendered for dead, but something wouldn’t let that fact sit as truth. I was lying fallow, but this implied that after a good rest, fruit could follow. This had nothing to do with death.

I am humbled at the courage it takes to write. For many years I kept a blog read by only a handful of very supportive people, and you’d think that after sharing writing for so long with perfect strangers, writing would have gotten easier. Actually, it got harder. In fact, at one point I was so paralyzed, I just stopped writing altogether. It was just too vulnerable. There was no trust there anymore, and I attributed any courage I had had to my youthful ignorance.

However, life continues, as it inevitably does, and there is still this pang to write, and it grows stronger and strong…

Here With You

Photo by Daria Obymaha on
Sinking lips into your tiny round cheeks, I'm home. Holding your tiny head to my heart, caressing my chin to your downy baby 'chicken fluff' we'll come to call it later, I'm home. Taking in your baby magic scent, I'm home. Pressing nose to nose, forehead to forehead, staring wide-eyed into each other's eyes, I'm home. Toting little bum and dangling legs around my middle, I'm home. Filled with purpose as you point where to go, what you see, I'm home. Your eyes, new windows to a world I thought I knew, I'm home. Holding you with fever, picking you up when you fall, I'm home. Navigating the years between, boxes of your firsts, every paint brush and pen stroke a miracle, I'm home. Saving pottery penguins, turtles, shiny red roses, a burrito with all the fixings immortalized in clay, I'm home. Kid sister fruit and craft stand on the corner, change clinking in coin purse, magic for the neighborhood…


The other night I had a vivid dream that my youngest daughter had died.

There is a time when I would have been unable to even bring this to consciousness, let alone write about it. It has always been my deepest, darkest fear, to lose a child, and this fear has always been there prominently with my youngest.

In the dream I could conceptualize her under her grave, which happened to be in a dark, jagged cavern of colorless rock and stone--no lush lawn, no flowers, just a gaudy gravestone, that glowed, like a tacky neon sign in Vegas. I found myself digging frantically in the earth under her grave marker to retrieve her little bear, so much loved by her in her five short years, that it is no less 'real' than the Velveteen Rabbit.

I found the bear mixed with rubble above where she was buried, brushed it off, and clasped it to my heart, as if it was the last part of her I could keep with me. I pressed the little bear hard to my nose, sniffing for remnant smells of my daughter. The smel…