The storm begins, yet stays within, Where reason breaks but will won’t end.
The silence testifies for all,
The words we lost still shape our tone.
A whisper rises, fierce and small, To claim the fault we call our own.
Conviction is no iron chain, But gentle weight that bids us kneel.
It burns not only out of pain, But out of hope we learn to feel.
For judgment’s light is not a flame, That seeks to scorch what cannot last.
It calls us gentle, speaks our name, And frees us from the shadowed past.
We stumble learning how to see, The burden placed becomes a guide.
And fail our way to clarity, Where loss and lesson coincide.
Our hearts, though flawed, remain aware,
That mercy blooms through self-reproach.
Each scar a prayer, each doubt a care,
Each thought a fragile, moving coach.
We testify in restless dreams, That truth is rarely cold or kind.
It lives not only where it deems, But where it wrestles with the mind.
For faith is not a perfect word, Nor certainty a flawless crown.
The soul that trembles still is stirred,
By what it fears yet won’t lay down.
Conviction grows through fragile trust,
That light can dawn through shattered glass.
And though we walk the path of dust,
We rise through love that dares to pass.
This world reflects our trembling will,
Our quiet courage, fierce and deep.
Though time may wound, its hand is still,
For what we see is what we keep. So testify—be bare, be real, Let frailty speak, let silence end.
For in the act of what we feel, The broken heart begins to mend.
And in that mending stands our proof,
That grace is born of self-insight.
Beneath the loss, beneath reproof, There burns the will to seek the light.
…
DCG
Source material from the 2013 post with the same name
Its every day we become inspired about something we have seen, heard, or read about and decided to act on that illumination. An inspiration that leads us to new discoveries and direction in our lives is a moment when we can embrace our values and challenge our spirit. Inspiration to take part in an activity or a personal decision on how we shall live our lives by a newly acknowledged creed is a rarity when it is carried out in practice. I can remember distinct times when I have become motivated by something that sparked my attention and the resulting effect has remained with me for years to come. Why these single moments of attention direct us to connect to something that enliven our experience of the world is essentially a wonderful and mysterious event, yet it is also sometimes a puzzling one since we do not always know the exact reasons for our interest in them. We are often attracted to the charisma of people we are inspired by, or possibly the skill they have in their performance of some gifted ability that takes our interest. It could be a special circumstance that one has endured which led them to discover something about their character that brings out our piety. Whichever the case, the world has many illustrations of people, groups of people, and even cultures that stirs the emotive fabric within us. An instance in my life is the connection I felt when I first listened to the blues. It was the first music that really “spoke to me” on a more meaningful level than other types of music that I had been exposed to. Initially I became influenced through my interest in other forms of music that also took their roots in the blues, before I actually recognized some of the earlier American pioneers. These influences also were previously revealed by my favorite guitar players thereby discovering the link of that influence. A specific interpretation of the blues through Great Britain with bands from the British Invasion reignited the interest in the blues for newer generations of youths as it had done so for me. My earlier influences of country, pop, and rock music, my interest in the guitar, my ability for empathy, and my personal outlook became the amalgam for a passion and inspiration that directly fed this stimulus. Understandably a process usually develops in this relationship such as; learning more about the topic, expanding your influences and further researching your subject, an increasing amount of participation, creating and building your own style or ability, and practicing and developing your craft are all personifications demonstrating that you have channeled this inspiration. The simplest of games sometimes becomes the springboard for a dynamic passion that becomes a lifetime resolution. The factors that determine such innovations must meet more than just any ordinary arbitration’s of the mind and must have a certain resolve of purpose. These must somehow take grasp within our minds and spark something that awakens a passion for it to take hold and develop. Those passions that cannot truly be traceable to their origins because they capture the person from a surprise vantage point and tend to be mysterious to the observer often go unreflected. A viewpoint that has no expectation of their interest from first glance may just be the starting point for a spark to ignite something else unknown inside a person’s mind.
Unfortunately my thought is that many of us do not become inspired or do not hold the formula to launch their inspirations into action. The human spirit can also be hindered if certain conditions are not met for the individual. I see inestimable accounts of people not actuating their potentials due to the limitations of resources or simply just due to the impoverished states of their being. It may be that the psychological dispositions of many will impede any real progress within themselves. The levels of disintegration within our culture alone is worrisome when the topic of personal development comes to mind. The ramifications for misplaced civil atonement’s may also be the distraction some people are challenged by. The world is full of people who do not achieve their passion due to the limitations they place upon their ability for whatever the reasons. For a large part of the population, I trust that we as individuals are responsible for the psychological blockades we place on ourselves if we are fortunate enough to live in an environment that provides us with basic human rights. But the tenacity and fortitude of our determination and spirit still exists no matter what the circumstances of our condition and surroundings. There are many examples of stories worldwide with many backdrops of social constructs and socioeconomic backgrounds that give precedent to show just how powerful the human spirit is. A case in point is to return to the origins of the blues. The social and economic reasons for the appearance of the blues are not fully known.Blues has evolved from an unaccompanied vocal music of poor black laborers into a variety of styles and sub-genres, with regional variations across the United States. The first appearance of the blues is not well-defined and is often dated between 1870 and 1900, a period that coincides with the emancipation of the African-American slaves and the transition from slavery to sharecropping and small-scale agricultural production in the southern United States. The generations of abuse and mistreatment, the limitations of education, and the forced subjugation to social stigmas and ignorance has resulted in the emotive distillation of a human spirit that’s outcry was later heard all over the world. The magnitude of this voice heard in blues music by a people who had tolerated so much for so long has ironically descended upon and affected the world at large, and inspired many of us for many reasons along the way. I find it especially interesting that even under such pernicious circumstances, the emergence of the human spirit still emote a voice with echos of vindication, even after the repression and suppression on such a massive scale. You can impose and enslave a people, but it is extremely difficult to enslave the mind. Henry David Thoreau pointed out in Walden that…“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation. Most men, even in this comparatively free country, through mere ignorance and mistake, are so occupied with the factitious cares and superfluously coarse labors of life that its finer fruits cannot be plucked by them. Their fingers, from excessive toil, are too clumsy and tremble too much for that. Actually, the laboring man has not leisure for a true integrity day by day; he cannot afford to sustain the manliest relations to men; his labor would be depreciated in the market. He has no time to be anything but a machine. How can he remember well his ignorance — which his growth requires — who has so often to use his knowledge? We should feed and clothe him gratuitously sometimes, and recruit him with our cordials, before we judge of him. The finest qualities of our nature, like the bloom on fruits, can be preserved only by the most delicate handling. Yet we do not treat ourselves nor one another thus tenderly.” “Some of you, we all know, are poor, find it hard to live, are sometimes, as it were, gasping for breath. I have no doubt that some of you who read this book are unable to pay for all the dinners which you have actually eaten, or for the coats and shoes which are fast wearing or are already worn out, and have come to this page to spend borrowed or stolen time, robbing your creditors of an hour. It is very evident what mean and sneaking lives many of you live, for my sight has been whetted by experience; always on the limits, trying to get into business and trying to get out of debt, a very ancient slough, called by the Latins æs alienum, another’s brass, for some of their coins were made of brass; still living, and dying, and buried by this other’s brass; always promising to pay, promising to pay, tomorrow, and dying today, insolvent; seeking to curry favor, to get custom, by how many modes, only not state-prison offenses; lying, flattering, voting, contracting yourselves into a nutshell of civility or dilating into an atmosphere of thin and vaporous generosity, that you may persuade your neighbor to let you make his shoes, or his hat, or his coat, or his carriage, or import his groceries for him; making yourselves sick, that you may lay up something against a sick day, something to be tucked away in an old chest, or in a stocking behind the plastering, or, more safely, in the brick bank; no matter where, no matter how much or how little.” Henry David Thoreau famously stated in Walden that “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” He thinks misplaced value is the cause: We feel a void in our lives, and we attempt to fill it with things like money, possessions, and accolades. We think these things will make us happy. When they don’t, we just seek more of them. Thoreau argues that the value we attach to possessions and status is misplaced. They aren’t the key to happiness, and they may hurt more than they help. To him, happiness lies instead in a simple life stripped to the essentials. To find it, we must shed our false values and live austerely, with no luxury and only meager comforts. Thoreau attempted to do just that in his minimalist excursion at Walden Pond. Thoreau’s basically right: Misplaced value contributes to “quiet desperation.” But it’s not the end of the story: it’s possible to value all the right things and still lead a quietly desperate life. What Thoreau’s missing is resignation. We lead lives of quiet desperation when we resign ourselves to dissatisfaction. Quiet desperation is acceptance of–and surrendering to–circumstances. Quietly desperate lives are frustrated, passive, and apathetic. They’re unfulfilled and unrealized. So Thoreau saw most of the society of Concord as being unjust and burdensome. However, he also makes the case in Walden, correctly or not, that most people are creating their own problems, by subscribing to society’s burdensome rules when they don’t have to. I think that most parents would want their children to be inspired and enrich their lives by following a dream. Following a passion that sustains goals and in turn inspires others in their lives is essential for growth and fulfillment. There is a fundamental human desire that compels us to aspire. I ask you, what do you dream about? What inspires you? Think about this from time to time. Many of us sometimes forget just what an impact it may have on us, our families and our children.
“Dare to live the life you have dreamed for yourself. Go forward and make your dreams come true.” ― Ralph Waldo Emerson
“In everyone’s life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.” ― Albert Schweitzer
“Reach high, for stars lie hidden in you. Dream deep, for every dream precedes the goal.” ― Rabindranath Tagore
“What the superior man seeks is in himself; what the small man seeks is in others.” ― Confucius
“You have power over your mind – not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” ― Marcus Aurelius, Meditations
“Why do they always teach us that it’s easy and evil to do what we want and that we need discipline to restrain ourselves? It’s the hardest thing in the world–to do what we want. And it takes the greatest kind of courage. I mean, what we really want.” ― Ayn Rand
“Risks must be taken because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing.” ― Leo Buscaglia
••• “He who loves 50 people has 50 woes; he who loves no one has no woes.” – The Buddha – “Thousands of candles can be lighted from a single candle, and the life of the single candle will not be shortened. Happiness never decreases by being shared.” – The Buddha – “Just as a solid rock is not shaken by the storm, even so the wise are not affected by praise or blame.”- The Buddha – “Let none find fault with others; let none see the omissions and commissions of others. But let one see one’s own acts, done and undone.” – The Buddha – NOTE: This post was reissued due to the disruption of a WordPress server error. I have rewritten from memory the basics previously published from 5 days prior to this posting. It is unfortunate that I lost that post, my apologies to the reader, I tried to do justice in this post.
In a quiet valley between two opposing hills, a bridge maker toiled. His hands, calloused and strong from years of patient work, crafted bridges for divided souls.
One day, a wandering woman stood at the edge of his most challenging bridge. She wore an armor of glass—transparent but unyielding. Her eyes, quick with suspicion, darted across the span, mistrusting the gentle arch built for her passage. The bridge maker sensed her pain. He saw the shadows of past betrayals flicker across her face, the silent language of old wounds and silent retreats. “I know why you withdraw,” he said, “and I do not judge the fortress you carry, nor the silence in your step”.
She tested the bridge’s boards with careful toes, ready to dash backward at a creak. She spun reproaches into the wind—gentle at first, then wounding, hoping that the architect would renounce the task and justify her loneliness. But he only nodded solemnly.
“I’ve walked on eggshells too long to blame the glass,” he whispered, “but I cannot lay down bricks upon quicksand. If I were to forsake my own ground for yours, we both would sink into sorrow”.
The bridge maker forgave her stinging doubts—the anxious protests, the cold withdrawals. He forgave because his heart was anchored beyond the valley, where hope and patience dwell. He loved with an open hand, not a closed fist—never forcing, always inviting.
Each day, as the woman hesitated, circling her end of the bridge, he prayed for her healing, erecting gentle boundaries like signposts: “Here stands my care—here lines my resolve.” He did not cross where he was not invited, and he would not tear down his half for the sake of making false peace.
The irony was not lost on him: sometimes she sabotaged the crossings with words and actions, secretly hoping he’d abandon the project, thus proving the world’s unreliability. Yet he remained—not clinging, but present, a friend unafraid to see her struggle and strength alike.
He never promised to solve her fears. The true labor—lifting self-imposed stones and facing the river’s stream—belonged to her alone. Still, his gaze spoke forgiveness; his silence offered rest. If ever she dared to step beyond her glass, she would find the bridge sturdy, the welcome sincere, and the craftsman’s heart steadfast—never forsaking his post, even as he kept his own soul secure.
And thus, the bridge stood—not as a demand but as a possibility, open to her courage, and guarded by his quiet strength.
Once, in a city fashioned of glass and shadow, there lived a traveler whose name nobody called, for he answered to every sorrow. He wandered a labyrinth built not by architects but by the ache of his own convictions—each corridor made of longing, failure, and half-remembered forgiveness. The wind carried whispers: “You are the sum of all you’ve survived. Accept what little kindness knocks.”
One day, the traveler found himself before a great Mirror. Its surface shimmered with the stories of other lives: parents who could not stay, friends who did not notice, love given as if rationed from a stingy well. He stared into it, searching for the line between reflection and reality, and asked, “Why do I remain with those who wound me, who measure out affection in drops, never letting it become a flood?” A voice answered from within the glass, echoing Charlie’s question from long ago: “We accept the love we think we deserve. We let care settle on us like dust, collecting but never cleansing, because we have mistaken familiarity for destiny.”
Days passed. In the city of glass, the traveler’s feet were bruised by sharp truths: patience worn to threads, safety bartered for silence, emotional needs deferred as if unworthy of daylight. Whenever his heart reached for something gentle, memory would wrestle him down, reminding him of every time he let the world teach him what his value was—and how seldom that lesson aligned with kindness.
Irony grinned from every reflection. For the man who most yearned for love was also the one who built the thickest walls to keep it out, haunted by the conviction—taught early, repeated often—that wounds are more reliable than hope. Each time a friend or lover offered warmth, the traveler hid behind old fears, welcoming only what felt familiar, even when it was insufficient or cruel.
Yet, as twilight bled into the labyrinth, he remembered the stories of Jacob and the prodigal son, each haunted by unworthiness who stumbled, at last, into the arms of undeserved grace. In this city, too, redemption shimmered beyond habit’s reach.
And so the traveler faced the Mirror one last time and broke it—not to escape its reflection, but to scatter its prison. With bloody fingers, he learned to reach—clumsy and imperfect, but real—for the love that did not originate in self-condemnation, but in the wild, unearned generosity of being alive. From every shard sprang possibility: communication restored, safety reclaimed, courage reborn from agony. He found, finally, that greatness was neither in what was deserved nor denied, but in the radical act of refusing to settle for anything less than true care. And as he crossed the threshold into dawn, the city’s glass became invisible—no longer a prison, but a birthplace for love neither measured nor rationed, but freely chosen once and for all.
Upon the breath of winter’s night, a phrase we hold so dear, “Peace on earth, goodwill to men,” rings out with festive cheer. But listen close beyond the gloss, the text may not align, For Greek reveals a shading lost beneath the hands of time. The scrolls inform a subtler sight, not simply peace to all, But peace bestowed on favored souls, whom grace and favor call. Not “goodwill” as a flood to men, a blanket broad and wide, But targeted, selective peace, for those with whom the Lord’s allied. A single letter shifts the weight, from nominative claim, To genitive embrace of those who earn the holy flame. This meaning spins a richer thread, implying cause and grace, That peace on earth is found where reigns a favored, willing place. Implications stretch beyond the words — a beckon, not a gift, That peace with God and neighbor calls for souls who choose to lift, Their hearts in trust, in love, aligned with Heaven’s sovereign plan, Not passive wish, but active will, the work of faithful man. So ponder deep this ancient truth, the original intent: Peace graced on men of goodwill, by Heaven’s purpose sent. Let not the popular misread obscure what lies in store, For peace is fruit from favor born, inviting us to more. This verse calls out to skeptic ears who take the simpler line, To seek beyond the surface, there, true meaning they shall find. Not mere goodwill but chosen grace, not peace to every face, But peace that dwells within the hearts who stand in God’s embrace. Thus hear the angels’ ancient song, more nuanced than believed, A call for wills united strong, a world renewed, conceived. And may this poem open eyes, dispel the common veil, To see the Bible’s depth and truth, through who the blessings sail. This poem captures the semantic reason behind the Greek genitive form implying “peace on earth to men of good will” (those favored by God), contrasting it with the common misrendering “goodwill to men” (as a broad, generic wish). It argues for the importance of understanding this nuance for correct theological and spiritual insight, appealing to those often misled by oversimplified translations.
But my faith gives me courage, gentle strength that will not leak. Your fears are roots as old as wounds left by your father’s hand, I sense the trembling in your soul that few could ever understand. But I don’t flinch from what’s unseen, or from the days you run and hide,
Instead I’ll always reach for you—your journey is my greatest pride. For healing moves in circles wide, not lines that curve and end, And every time you stumble, dear, I’ll lift you once again.
If shame and sorrow bind you still, in chains you never chose, My love will be a steady light each time your old fear grows.
You think you are the sum of hurt, of parents who could not stay, But I see the woman fighting through, her heart lost in the fray
Each setback is not final, nor proof of doomed defeat,
We kneel together in the faith that makes our union sweet.
I know the path is jagged, and patience wears so thin,
Yet with every scar uncovered, I pray new trust begins.
You’re not required to fix yourself, nor please me with your grace, It’s only asked you let me in, to share this hallowed space.
Because your worth’s not measured by how fast you heal anew,
Or by the perfect grace you show—your value is just you. I’ll be here through the winters, and when hope feels far away, As long as it takes, I’ll stay and stay—by your gentle side, I’ll stay
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