Learning to Bleed

An Apology 

My sincerest apologies. It's the least you deserve. This nine-letter word, "apologies," is one I offer humbly, knowing you might not accept this show of vulnerability – an acknowledgment of a significant failing on my part. I apologize because I write about light, color, and beauty – about finding immense happiness in a world that's neither simple nor simply understood. 

You're presently due apologies because now, I must meticulously select words that reflect my honest, genuine, deep, and heartfelt emotions – even if they paint for you pictures devoid of light, color, and beauty - creating instead a somber and dark atmosphere. These words will undertake a new task for me: to truthfully reveal, with transparent vulnerability, my internal, intrinsic feelings. The singer-songwriter Jewel once sang about someone similar to me in some ways. Like me, he could express himself intelligently and interestingly, but he was unwilling to delve deeper than surface-level conversations. This man deceived Jewel, leading her to believe he was more like her. She thought he cared, that he possessed emotions. In this beautifully crafted song, he caused Jewel to "bleed" – to plead and express her emotional thoughts and feelings before him. So, in this way, I also need to be like Jewel, the words I now need to choose will be my own bleeding before you. This will be difficult – no, that's a vast understatement – this will be nearly impossible for me. Why? Because while I've written, and you've read, my deliberate word, "bleed," honestly, again, similar to Jewel's antagonist, I suppose I've never bled easily. 

Skirting Around Emotions 

Points of light, I'm in dire need of writing an acknowledgment of my deepest feelings to you... bleeding them before you. In our aptly named blog, "Writing Beautiful Light," I've crafted many powerful, exciting, and deeply moving (seemingly) emotional stories that have resonated with you. However, it seems I've done this primarily by skirting around very real emotions, describing their outward manifestations rather than their raw essence. While not entirely untrue, it's certainly been the dominant trend. Put simply, I haven't truly bled my real, honest, and true emotions for you; I've mostly just painted beautiful pictures of their effects. 

You deserve better than this from me. Question: Can you assume I breathe as I push one foot in front of the other through time and space, as I often describe? Yes. But does that make me a real person? I've often described to you the powerful effects of emotions on me – said another way, I've frequently written to illustrate the observable and outward expressions of my emotions. Because of this, I might appear to be a real person, and I wouldn't fault you for that assumption. 

A Difficult Truth

 You also deserve to know this: Being 2024, I only began to truly understand and acknowledge I have emotions about seven years ago. Think about this: How many times have I told you I spent the biggest part of my life believing the following self-imposed thoughts? 

The first was that nothing I said and nothing I didn't say mattered to anyone. In other words, my words, or lack thereof, held no significance to anyone! 

That self-imposed thought was always accompanied by this: Nothing I did and nothing I didn't do mattered to anyone. Said another way, I believed that my actions, or lack thereof, made absolutely no difference to anyone! 

In each of these miserable thoughts I imposed on myself, do you notice any bleeding? No, that's the firm answer. You read exactly zero emotional feeling in those words. 

Now, if you choose to feel sadness because of this, it shouldn't be directed at me. Instead, if you feel sadness at all, it should be directed towards the people who've always been near me – each and every friend and family member, whether voluntarily or involuntarily, within my immediate orbit. To each of them, I was no different, nor any better, than a life-size cardboard cutout – unable to express emotion or bleed – standing near them. Feel sadness, if you must, for them. 

Again, I owe you apologies for two reasons: I want to bleed for you, and so far, I've chosen not to. 

The Desperado Within 

I recently wrote to you about a desperado. I don't know if I was compelled to write the story or if it was finally time. I hear you asking, "Tod, why did you write it, regardless of the reason?" It's because something in the Eagles song of the same name, a song I deeply love, sounded eerily familiar. To be perfectly clear, certain lyrics wanted to mock and taunt me, singing a truth that fell under my skin. Honesty demands I tell you: I've always rejected this truth every time I heard this Eagles song. But recently, my rejection began to weaken, and the only way to resolve that eerie feeling was to write myself through it. Again, I hear you ask, "Tod, what were the truths you always rejected?" I'll let the song tell you... 

"Desperado, oh, you ain't gettin' no younger. Your pain and your hunger, they're drivin' you home. And freedom, oh freedom, well, that's just some people talkin'. Your prison is walkin' through this world all alone." Oh, and then there's the part about being out riding fences... 

It seemed that every time I listened to these lyrics, something within them wanted to touch my soul and make me notice something very real, true, and vital in their beautifully crafted words (I love words). So, as words often do, those beautifully crafted words captured my imagination. In them, I heard a song sing an intriguing story about a vague desperado somewhere out there – anywhere I wasn't. Then I always felt compelled, for whatever reason, to ask questions I hoped would help me understand: "Who in the hell is this 'Desperado' anyway?" My usual questions were: 

• "Was he flying colors as he rode with a notorious motorcycle gang?" 

• "Did he carry a gun in his belt as he rode the Greyhound Bus, drifting from town to town?" 

• "Did he frequent seedy bars where he always started and ended nightly brawls?" 

Of course, that's who a desperado has to be – just another narrowly defined cliche, right? Bad guy, never the good guy. For some reason, I always clung to that comforting lie. But does it really matter what a desperado looks like on the outside. They're all like those cardboard cutouts – hollow. No one would ever think a cardboard cutout is kind or cares about anyone else. They are incapable of empathy – They don't bleed, and they sure as hell don't think about how what they do (or don't do) affects others. That's when it finally hit me why that song got under my skin. Those beautiful lyrics forced me to see myself reflected in the desperado: I was the cliche, a hollow shell, devoid of emotional connection. Again, I'm so sorry. I want to bleed for you, to truly open up, but I just...can't. Yet. 

Emotions Aren't Gray Clouds

Now, Points of Light, as I've mentioned, while I've mostly avoided writing directly about experiencing emotions, my writings have certainly danced around them. In discussing them with you, I've eloquently explained their impact on my psyche, creating a temporary outward presentation of, well, often wonderful transcendence. But a truly inward reflection of real emotion? That, I've mostly never written for you. In simpler terms, I've never bled for you. 

Please let me paint a picture for you, with the hope that it'll help you understand this better. Today, as I was driving, I looked up and noticed gray clouds rolling into Evansville. Some were darker than others, but together, as they moved overhead, they gave me a sense that this day would be filled with only cold gloom. 

Writing about my feelings has usually been very similar to describing these gray clouds rolling into Evansville (yes, 90% of the time, I've written to you about azure skies, fluffy white clouds, and a bright yellow sun). But I always stopped there, never venturing beyond the surface appearance of things. 

Here, let's stay with these somber gray clouds – I just knew they were brimming with weather, just like emotions hide complexities beneath their outward expressions. Temperatures were rising and falling, winds were swirling erratically. Tiny water molecules flowed on those wind currents, sometimes colliding with each other to form droplets. The immense clash of all this activity generated electricity. It wasn't long before these charged clouds produced flashes of lightning that rumbled into thunder. They then began with a light rain that soon escalated into a tumultuous downpour. This is somber, but..... 

Emotions Aren't Bright Skies 

Points of Light, I've often described to you the beautiful outward appearance of my emotions, as in this blog post reference... 

When I step outside and look up at my crystal-clear azure sky, I know what good means, and I feel this goodness smiling happily at me. If I look too long at this azure blue sky (I ain't going to lie) the goodness of the moment can overwhelm me. This azure sky lets me know I'm loved without any condition; in fact, it wants me to know I'm loved just because I took my last breath and my next breath is coming to me. With this knowledge of her unconditional love, the azure sky freely and easily gives me tears of joy and happiness, along with all the reasons I'm always frantically searching for to help me understand my life. Across that azure sky, the sky that's smiled down just on me, the sky that has given me all her love – well, now she's joined by white puffy clouds. My happiness, my joy, my feelings – my heart – were already full. But this azure sky and now these white puffy clouds come together to assure me that if I didn't feel like my heart smile was real, if I'd given it a moment's fleeting thought that my azure lady was only "a nice story" to consider, together they conspire to orchestrate a soft samba melody for me. It's as though they know that when I allow music to flood my heart, it makes my smile feel complete and more real than anything that was ever real. When I see the white puffy clouds sail slowly through her azure beauty, their song is all I hear. Never is there a time when I'm happier than at this moment, with this very song given with so much love just to me by my azure sky and her friends – the white puffy clouds. 

In this post, while I painted a wonderful, exciting, energetic, and musically moving metaphor of how my emotions might have appeared if they were visibly seen in nature, I never actually described my emotional feeling itself. I only conveyed the effects my emotions had on me. Once again, I apologize; you deserved better from me. 

A Heart That Couldn't Bleed 

As I've already acknowledged, as a cardboard cutout desperado who doesn't bleed, it's only recently (relative to my 64 years) that I've begun to notice the existence of feeling emotions within me. For example, it was only 14 years ago that I wrote the following manifesto, which framed each and every day I breathed and pushed one step, then another, through the time and space I so miserably occupied... 

This Much Only 

Pieces of me, that’s all. Stay where you are. Come no closer. You need not know more. Stay where you are. Where I am you shall not come. You cannot enter. Here behind the veil lies all of me, something I keep in reserve, hidden, set aside for me and me alone, my secret guarded. One knot is my lock, Gordian knot to be sure, tried and true. Stay away. I will share, but on my terms and please be sure that only I hold these terms also within, they are mine as well! What is within is within for my reasons, for the purposes I choose. So stay away, and our unison will be strong. There are things within, many, many things—some good, some bad—but they shall be held with steely grit and determination. My life, my way, by this I am bound; and by this, I live or die. The things within may be hideous, they may be wondrously beautiful, but I am free of your rule. You have no power over me. I will be a rock, a fortress. If I acquiesce it is on my terms, and you shall see a little, but not all, never all. And be confident of this rule with firm resolution, for in that I will be happy. Do not pry, do not prod, and do not hope to know more than all that I reveal! There is so much within. Why do you wish for more? Don’t I know best what to deal out? Ask not the question “Who does he wish to protect?" for rather I protect myself or those without, only I can choose. The lock is strong, it will remain. Stay where you are, and with you do not think to bring along Alexander! 

You might say that from a very early age until about seven years ago, I tightly clung to and refused to let go of this miserable manifesto. You need to know this: within the confines of my existence, except for the occasional sprinkling of tiny beams of light (meaning happy feelings that allowed me to smile and choose to stay alive), emotions simply weren't allowed. 

Emotionless - Beginnings 

So, may I ask you a question? Do you remember ever saying to yourself, 'I'm never going to let myself get excited about anything ever again'? I do. Furthermore, I said this during a time in my life when outside influences from adults who held ultimate power over me continually drained my joy and happiness, sometimes in large doses, sometimes in small bits. No, I can't pinpoint the exact moment I unconsciously wrote this lonely manifesto, but I'll never forget the time in the 1990s when my wife asked me, 'Do you feel anything about anything?' My daughter chimed in with an exclamation point, immediately saying, 'Yeah!'" 

Honestly, except for paying attention to those sprinklings of light I mentioned, I'm not sure if even seven years ago I would have ever taken a chance to notice the unacknowledged and unexpressed emotions within me. But know this truth: before I eventually came around to fully recognizing and acknowledging the emotional person I truly am, for many decades, bit by bit, here a little there a little, it was easier for me to become a cardboard cutout shaped like a desperado who couldn't bleed. Apologies! 

Feeling Genuine Emotional Heartbreak

Will you allow me an opportunity to slightly prick my heart? Bleeding, as you've learned, isn't simple nor is it simply done – speaking for myself. I'm not ready to spill out, not yet. But will you allow me to share a moment, just a moment, of how I feel about one of the many, many times this cardboard cutout of a clichéd desperado acted out terribly with my children, my lovely, beautiful, vulnerable children? 

First, let me reveal a tiny beam of sunshine that brightened my childhood. For a child, there's probably no day more important than Christmas. And next to a child's parents, Santa Claus holds a powerful grip on their imagination. Every adult remembers the story: Santa and his elves working tirelessly all year to make toys for children around the world. Each Christmas Eve, Santa loads his sleigh and embarks on a global gift-giving mission. But a young Tod, with only one "d," ponders, "Where does Santa begin his journey? France? Africa? Japan? Oregon?" The possibilities are endless! 

What if your grandparents were amazing enough to convince you that your house, out of the entire world, was Santa's fifth stop? That's what mine did! And let me tell you, I felt incredibly special and ultra-important. (Seriously, did those first four houses even matter?) That wasn't just a tiny beam of sunshine; it was a colossal one! 

But the much older desperado, that unfeeling cardboard cutout, made a unilateral decision – against his wife's protests, because he "knew better" – that he alone decided to shatter his children's belief in Santa Claus. What had happened to me? Why had I forgotten the precious gift my grandparents gave me, that feeling of importance that fueled years of bragging about being the fifth house Santa visited? How had my heart hardened to the point where I couldn't understand that my kids deserved that same touch of innocent magic in their lives? 

Their arguments, especially my son's, were as logical, intelligent, and heart-wrenchingly honest as they were innocent. He was so young, so vulnerable, protesting my cruelty to him and his sister. "But how did this" and "how did that," he pleaded, but his words fell on deaf ears. His sister, almost two years older, responded with heartbreaking sincerity and tenderness – taking on a burden I should have carried – years down the road. As I look back, I realize the depth of my cruelty. 

While they never received anything close to the gift my grandparents had given me, my kids still had the yearly anticipation, the wonder that transcended their world, their friends, family – even their parents. Yet, I might as well have ripped my son's heart out and thrown my daughter to the lions. This memory fills me with rage at myself. I feel deep hatred directed solely inward for my actions – how dare I steal something I was taught to cherish? I feel profound sadness for my children, mourning something they can never recapture. Most of all, I feel an unforgivable regret. I feel monstrous, a vile beast. 

The Pinprick of Change 

Points of Light, yes, this is just a pinprick, but I'm casting off the cardboard facade. The desperado has proven, mostly to himself, that he has blood and can bleed his feelings for you. For this, I make no apologies.