reflections

On humility 

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

I am DC Gunnersen, watching the world from Southern California, part philosopher, part poet, part psychologist, and always restless in my soul. I write about ethics and philosophy, depression but beneath all of it runs one quiet current: we are fragile, and that fragility can either destroy us or teach us humility. I do not pretend to have perfect answers, because I know my thinking is limited, prone to confabulation, and forever unfinished; that knowledge keeps me humble and grounded.

Humility, for me, begins with seeing our own weaknesses clearly, not as a verdict of worthlessness, but as the starting point of honest growth. When I write that we must “surrender to humility” and “learn it, embrace it, master it, teach it,” I am pointing to a practice of listening to feedback, accepting vulnerability, and refusing to become our own liability. Humility is not passive; it is an active balancing of our flaws with the resolve to refine ourselves with scrutiny and patience.

I am a free-independent thinker, wary of dogma and illusions of invincibility, and humility is the safeguard against my own certainty. Knowing that human intelligence is not static, that perspectives change, I hold my conclusions lightly and stay open to correction. This stance allows me to critique systems, beliefs, and myself without pretending I stand outside the human mess I describe.

In my work I often expose hypocrisy—talking of wisdom while worshiping screens, preaching depth while chasing shallow validation. These confessions are not accusations aimed only at others; they are mirrors held up to my own contradictions. Humility here means admitting I am part of the condition I analyze, that I trip over the same wires of ego and fear.

The blog is a reflection of the world through my eyes, but it is also a reflection of my limits. I write about suffering and vulnerability because I believe they open us to deeper connection and empathy, if we are humble enough to let them. I see frailty not as an embarrassment to hide, but as the raw material for strength, wisdom, and authenticity.

Humility, then, is an essential way forward through our life challenges: it lets us forgive, not just for the “sole sake” of others, but for the “sake of the soul” that has been wounded. It teaches us to accept responsibility for our choices, to grow from our mistakes, and to keep our hearts open even when we have been hurt. It is how we stand in the fragments of our understanding and still reach for deeper truths.

Anyone who reads thundergodblog.com steps into this ongoing exploration: a realistic, sometimes raw look at the human condition that still insists on hope. They encounter psychological insight framed in simple language, poetry that makes vulnerability feel human rather than shameful, and a perspective that treats humility as both a discipline and a liberation. In that space, they can see their own struggles mirrored back with honesty and reverence, and perhaps find the courage to walk more gently—with themselves and with others.

I stand here small, beneath a thinking sky.

My proud ideas learn how to bend and heal.

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I thought I knew, but could not answer why.

My limits drew the border of what’s real.

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I name my flaws, not as a final scar.

I call them soil where living roots can start.

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I chased the light as if it lived afar.

It waited quietly inside my heart.

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I spoke so loud that wisdom lost its place.

I learned that listening cuts through the noise.

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I saw my weakness written on my face.

And saw in cracks the entrance into poise.

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I preached of truth while staring at a screen.

My restless soul knelt down before its glow.

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I felt the shame of all I had not been.

Humility said, “Stay, and you will grow.”

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I tried to stand above the human storm.

The thunder answered, “You are made of this.”

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I found my strength in being less than warm.

When tears fell free, they washed the mask of bliss.

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I sought control in every turning day.

The world replied with fragments I can’t hold.

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I learned to walk with questions on the way.

And let unknowns turn arrogance to gold.

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I fought myself, became my own worst weight.

I judged my heart for trembling in the dark.

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Then gentle words unlatched the rusted gate.

Humility stepped in and left a mark.

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I saw that pain could open hidden doors.

That wounds could speak a language clear and true.

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I let my pride fall silent on the floor.

And suddenly the world looked partly new.

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I met my guilt and did not turn aside.

I faced the harm my careless steps had done.

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In honest grief, a softer strength arrived.

Forgiveness rose and faced the broken sun.

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I watched my thoughts confess they might be wrong.

I felt my logic tremble, then unfold.

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In every doubt, a place where I belong.

A field of questions gleaming like pure gold.

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I saw how fragile every mind can be.

How reason slips, how stories fall apart.

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I chose to live with open mystery.

And guard a quiet kindness in my heart.

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I write these lines to share the view I see.

A world of fragile souls who still endure.

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If we stay humble in our agony.

Our brokenness can make our vision pure.

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So when life strikes and strips you to the bone.

Remember this from one who walks that road.

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You do not face this heavy weight alone.

Humility will help you lift the load.

…

DCG

Screenshot

The Genesis of a passion 

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

Poem inspired by “The Genesis of a Passion”

I did not see it coming, just a flicker in the storm. .

But something in that quiet ache began to change my form. .

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I walked with borrowed reasons, secondhand and neatly filed. .

Yet one small wound refused to heal, and that is where it riled. .

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It pressed against my ribcage like a question said in prayer. .

A restless, low insistence: “There is something growing there.” .

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I tried to drown it in the noise of clever books and plans. .

But still it burned behind my eyes and trembled in my hands. .

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Some nights I traced the fault lines of the life I might have led. .

And found a hidden pathway running backward through my dread. .

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Was it that first betrayal, or the silence at the table? .

Or seeing someone shattered who was told they should be able? .

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Perhaps it was a kindness that arrived when I was broken. .

A stranger’s steady presence like a living, wordless token. .

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Whatever its first ember, I could never name the start. .

I only know it tightened like a vow around my heart. .

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It taught me how our suffering can rip the seams of sleep. .

Until we turn and face the place where memories cut deep. .

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There, in the dim anatomy of what we’ve learned to hide. .

A quiet fire assembles from the ruins we survived. .

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I found myself defending those who shook the way I shook. .

As if my chest became a door instead of just a book. .

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My questions grew more tender, less obsessed with being right. .

I wanted more to stay with you than win another fight. .

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This passion was not glamour, not a spotlight’s hungry beam. .

It was a long apprenticeship to one unfinished theme. .

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The theme that every human life is more than what was done. .

And no one should be measured by the damage when they’re young. .

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So I began to listen to the faulted and the frail. .

To stories that the polished world preferred to call a fail. .

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I saw my own reflection in the shiver of their voice. .

And realized that loving them was also my own choice. .

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Yet choice and calling tangled like two rivers in a flood. .

I followed where it pulled me through the silt of grief and blood. .

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It cost me easy comfort, simple answers, shallow peace. .

But in that costly territory, something found release. .

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I watched my guarded certainties collapse into the sea. .

And from the shards a gentler, braver self looked back at me. .

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To carry such a passion is to walk with open scars. .

To let your past illuminate, not just predict, who you are. .

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It asks you not to worship it, nor chain yourself in pain. .

But use the hurt you once endured to shelter others’ rain. .

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Now when I feel that trembling where the earliest echoes live. .

I hold it like a lantern that was always meant to give. .

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I think of how your own life hides a seed you barely see. .

Some moment that still follows you, still shaping who you’ll be. .

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Maybe it was a heartbreak, or a teacher’s single word. .

A book that found you wandering, a melody you heard. .

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You do not have to solve it, draw a diagram of why. .

Just notice how it moves you when another’s eyes are dry. .

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For passion’s first genealogy is written in your chest. .

In every time you could have left and yet you did your best. .

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So ask yourself, in mercy, what first taught your soul to burn. .

And let that hidden genesis become the way you turn. .

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Perhaps tonight in thinking of the origins you’ve known. .

You’ll find the tender starting point of what you call your own. .

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And in that soft admission, like a long-forgotten dawn. .

You’ll see the quiet passion that has led you all along. .

…

DCG

Specious habits of perception 

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

When you speak your truth, I hear a different sky. .
Your words are rain, but my history makes them dry. .
You say it was a joke, I feel a hidden knife. .
Your laugh is light, my chest recalls another life. .
We stand in the same room, but wear a different past. .
My shadows move so slow, your joy runs bright and fast. .
You only see the surface, the shrug, the turning face. .
I’m drowning in an ocean you call a shallow place. .
I judge you as careless, you judge me as cold. .
We both are reading stories that were written old. .
My mind collects its proof, each glance a heavy stone. .
I build a quiet prison and then call it “home.” .
Your silence feels like anger, your distance seems like blame. .
But maybe you are frightened, and cannot voice your shame. .
I cling to my opinions like a shield of rust. .
They cut into my fingers while I name them “trust.” .
The mirror of illusion hangs inside my head. .
It shows me what I fear, not what you really said. .
Old injuries awaken when your eyebrows rise. .
I paste a former villain over your new eyes. .
These specious habits guide me, unseen but in control. .
They whisper, “You’re a victim,” and tighten round my soul. .
I notice how I flinch before you even move. .
I’m fighting ancient battles you never asked to prove. .
One day the strain is heavy, the argument repeats. .
We’re circling the same old wound on different streets. .
I feel the quiet cracking of the tale I wear. .
A softer voice inside me asks, “What if you’re not fair?” .
“What if your righteous anger is only half the frame? .
What if your sacred story is just one part of the game?” .
I pause before responding; the script begins to slow. .
A strange and aching honesty steps in and says, “Let go.” .
I tell you, “When you leave the room, I feel erased.” .
You answer, “When I stay too long, I feel displaced.” .
We stare at this new moment like a foreign shore. .
Two private worlds colliding through an open door. .
No one is the villain; the lens itself is flawed. .
We’ve worshiped our perceptions like a quiet god. .
You share the weight you carry, the shame you never named. .
I see how my suspicion kept your heart ashamed. .
We speak of early losses, of nights that shaped our sight. .
How hunger taught us both to fear another’s light. .
The room does not grow perfect; the pain does not dissolve. .
But now we stand together with a will to solve. .
We promise not to worship every thought we think. .
To question quick conclusions standing on the brink. .
To clean the dirty window where our fears have slept. .
To honor what we’ve lived, but not be wholly kept. .
In time, the habit changes, though slowly, line by line. .
Our eyes grow more transparent; your story touches mine. .
I learn that understanding is a costly fee. .
It asks my proud perception not to center me. .
So when I feel that tightening that says, “You’ve been betrayed.” .
I breathe, and ask more gently how this scene is made. .
I look for hidden sorrows behind the harsh display. .
I hold my judgments loosely, let some wash away. .
The specious habits weaken when we dare to see. .
That truth is rarely simple, and seldom just “for me.” .
In this, a quiet mercy rises, slow but real. .
We trade our shrinking armor for a wider field to feel. .
We will still make errors; the old ghosts sometimes call. .
But now we walk more open, less certain of our wall. .
And in that humble seeing, a truer life begins. .
Not free of all illusions, but free to loosen their thin skins. .

…

DCG

Casualty of loss- redacted

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

– “Casualty of Loss”

I woke to find my name erased from stone,

A casualty of loss, dismissed, alone.

The photographs still hang but look away,

Their eyes recede like tides at end of day.

The room remembers more than I recall,

Its silent witnesses outnumber all.

I trace the dust where once your coffee steamed,

The warmth has left, but still the mug is dreamed.

We built our days like castles out of sand,

Pretending tide could bargain with our hand.

The sea arrived as if on quiet feet,

And swallowed every claim we called complete.

Now meaning limps, a soldier from the war,

Unsure what any sacrifice was for.

My thoughts grow teeth and circle in the night,

They gnaw the ribs that sheltered once-delight.

I pace the narrow hallway of my mind,

Each door is locked by something left behind.

The mirror will not answer when I speak,

It only shows an echo, gray and weak.

I lost you once, but then I lost my way,

As if your leaving emptied out the day.

The clocks still move, but time has gone askew,

It limps in circles, always back to you.

I bargain with my ghosts for one reprieve,

They only nod and whisper, “Let it grieve.”

The world outside still riots into bloom,

Yet each bright petal mocks this inner gloom.

I walk through crowds, a stranger in my skin,

A vacant house with broken floors within.

The mind replays the moment things were torn,

A film that will not stop or be re-scorn.

Self-doubt sits down and pours another drink,

It toasts the story where I always sink.

I tell myself the fault is all my own,

And crown my shame with thorns I’ve overgrown.

But somewhere in this maze a window waits,

A crack of sky that wider light creates.

I hear a distant song, a stranger’s tune,

It braids with wind and wanders past the moon.

The melody remembers what I’ve lost,

Yet hints that nothing loved is ever tossed.

I open up a vein of honest tears,

And wash the rust from long-neglected years.

The heart, though bruised, still trembles when it hears,

That love outlives our damage and our fears.

I stand amid the ruins, breathing slow,

A casualty of loss, but not of hope below.

The scar will outline where the wound once bled,

A quiet map from brokenness to bread.

…

DCG

The post “A Casualty of Loss” is protected on the site, but the tag listing shows it grouped under “Existential Bewilderment,” alongside themes of disconnection, alienation, and the slow psychological erosion that comes from losing what once sustained a person’s sense of meaning and belonging. What can be said with confidence is that the title and context signal someone who has been inwardly damaged by loss—of love, identity, or connection—struggling to understand how that loss has altered their way of being in the world.[thundergodblog]

Doesn’t always mean what it seems

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

I have all this emotion

But I must keep it locked away

She doesn’t want to hear me

Or what I have to say

And so I bottle  it all up

This emotional genie that wants  to awaken from his sleep

Waiting for the cork to open

Allowing it to feel again and gently weep

How many wishes?

Must we make?

How many opportunities?

Will we take?

What will the heart ask for?

If the genie wakes?

What will we succumb to?

When the heart breaks?

The problem with making wishes

We never know what we’re gonna get

Too many variables to predict 

That would make us upset

Despite , our best intentions

We may just get it wrong

If you accept this does not make you weak

Does it then make you strong?

The reason life isn’t so easy

Sometimes cannot be foreseen

What you see is what you get

Doesn’t always mean what it seems

RSP

…

DCG

Inner demons may preside 

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

Skeletons in the closet

Inner demons may preside

When you become aware

There is nowhere to hide

Once seen, it cannot be unseen

Is this my wake up call

Pride is obstinate

Even after the fall

How we process our information

Our subconscious works with us and against us

It is not always a conscious thought 

Because, because, because because

Not all decisions

Have a firm grasp of reality

We may fabricate our perceptions

To ease an inner pain and it’s gravity

The course of our lives

Can be changed and altered

From events of our past

That often resurface when we falter

The beauty of our sunrise

It resets the day

Another chance to make amends

Another chance to proceed in another way

…

DCG

Time only lives in the now

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

Time only lives in the now

It is ever-present in what we observe

There is no past

With exception to a memory that we reserve

We do not experience a future

With exception to prophecy

But even then

It is only a mental vision that we see

There is no linear time

The Taoist monk would say

Only effortless action

Wu Wei (Woo way)

We are limited beings

With a finite mind

Can we really conceive?

Of limitless time?

Hence the paradox

With only one solution

What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?

They both surrender

This provides the resolution

The mind can play tricks on us

Thus was born philosophy

Just how much do we understand?

Given our own psychology 



…

DCG

Rupert Spira

https://youtu.be/LjDhov4p6Sg?si=f5UcKTw8x15iUkfr

It is not uncommon to misdiagnose our past 

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

It’s hard to gain any ground

When you confabulate

So in retrospect

You must question what you reflect and communicate

With every decade we ponder

The pros and cons of the emotional inventory spent

The more we regret

The more we lament

Growing pains are the by-product

Of reason and accountability

The price and the rite of passage

In our maturity

It is not uncommon to misdiagnose our past 

The motivation is not lost

But it is the result

When we find out the cost

The wisdom we seek

Will benefit us if we pay attention

Some memories may mislead 

Unless we have proper retention

Experience and practice

May dispel a memory

If one is in question

In our receptivity 

…

DCG

At least I gave it a shot 

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

When the mind is weary

It can become overwhelmed and confused

One must then use a counter balance

Before one can defuse

There is nothing wrong with confusion

If it forces you to think

Consider all sides

And be distinct

Sound mind and sound body

Common sense can balance the equation

Activate your intelligence

And confront the mind-virus invasion

Some of our problems take time to work through

Patience, reflection, and persistence

Is the prescription

In times of unsolved resistance

The Tao resolves conflict with Wei wu Wei

Zen resolves conflict; human suffering as attachment

Hence you cannot grasp and cling to your breath

One must always exhale for detachment

On the other hand

The Confucian is the pragmatist

Resolution is common sense

No need for the iron fist

The American surfer knows

How to escape a riptide

Surrender to the water current

And not to their own pride

The will imposes maladaptive behaviors

And maladaptive thought

When we fail, we say

“At least I gave it a shot”

RSP

…

DCG

We are the arbiters of atonement

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

I’d like to think

I have value in my thought

But you must always recalibrate

The voices of opposition and the criticism that is brought

Not everyone is right

Not everyone is wrong

You must choose, which points are weak

And which points are strong

The pendulum swings

Hence the debate

Will judgment be early? 

Will forgiveness be late?

We are the arbiters  of atonement

Just how will we rectify?

When will we smile?

When will we cry?

…

DCG