Nothing Happens for a Reason

Lately it seems nearly everyone I talk either leads in or finishes our conversation by saying: “Everything happens for a reason.”  And I was beginning to believe that.  It made sense.  And the circumstances I faced certainly supported that explanation. 

But no more!

I do not believe that, and I never have, nor ever will!  We are not puppets dangling by the strings of fate, controlled by some great god.  The events of our lives are not predetermined by some master mind creator for purposes that we will forever struggle to understand.  

Though we may try, and invent elaborate stories to convince ourselves and rationalize our actions, we humans are not above the laws of nature.  I believe that events occur in our lives and we respond to them.  This is the way of the universe – cause and effect.   And we have two options: we can ignore the natural response; we can overlook the phenomena leading to the event, cry or chalk it up to fate, and continue traveling lost in the maze of questions and suffering.

Or, we can respond and adapt.  We can look back with intro- and extrospection at the metamorphosis that occurred in our minds and our worlds to yield the event, and learn.  We can cleanse our minds of the guilt, anger, and sadness, and with a still mind take heed of the lessons and help ourselves and others.

It is the butterfly effect (thanks Tash!).  The caterpillar must be internally courageous as he enters the coxcomb, for he shall soon die.  But by letting go of his past life he can emerge a new being: a beautiful and free creature.  And then he can set forth on the winds of nature, ever floating with the currents, never against, satisfied of life and fulfilled of heart. 

 Jason Cholewa, Ph.D

Webs: Between Our Ears and Between Our Hearts

Weave a web so bitter sweet

The web's been woven around our feet

A web so tight it holds us down

Like hot air balloons still on the ground

They tell a tale that’s half way sung

A tale like such will always stay young

The tale of a being and what he endures

But in a life of pain nihilism is the cure

They spin a reel, and round and round you go

Forget the spin of the earth, but that's our life in whole

And now you carry the lead civilization holds dear

Chained to your back and manifested in fear

They sew a knot that’s in fact unbreakable

To step back inline and become untraceable

And you sing to yourself and are on your way

And you throw out the stale food on your tray

But a cry for rain is bellowed throughout

This land so barren, this land in drought

A land where enlightenment is sought by few

Where artificial desires are pushed upon you

You flout the instincts that allow you to feel

And you carry their burden in a bag of steel

You believe inside the bag resides your soul?

But you think to open it an impossible goal

So weave your web, not let come undone

Weave a web like everyone

To keep out the pain that gives life character

And masks the eyes of languid America

Now weave a web sweet child so dear

And hope that it is done before she is near

For if she can squeeze through the holes in your web

She shall certainly mistake you for the dead

But, I say pass off their demons and their nets

And use your instincts to unwind the webs

To be shed of the spirits that complicates it

And what ever fears you have child, face it.

Jason Cholewa, Ph.D.

Crisscrossing Paths of Happiness and Melancholy

Who among us still sees the signs detailing distances and destinations?

Who among us still travels down the paved road?

We who yearn for enlightenment are but explorers in this lush rainforest of life.  Who’s to say what trail we should take? Are we not all lost; searching for that fabled city of peace and paradise within the dense jungle of the mind?

Yes, we are all lost; our maps tossed aside as we stepped off the pavement and realized how outdated they’ve become.  The paths have all crossed, zigzagging unseen beneath the rainforest canopy, many leading to disappointment and despair.

How many have taken the wrong path, maybe following someone at a fork or wandering blindly to nowhere?  Or perhaps we’ve traveled knowingly down it; caught up in some novel feeling of love we walked hand-in-hand to a dead end of despondency.  And yet others ignore their instincts; unable to accept themselves they’ve pressed forward on a crash-course to ruin.

Not all of us will make it, in fact most will perish; some faltering but minutes from accomplishment, others falling prey to the beasts of the jungle, while the rest lose hope, give up, and fade away into the dense vegetation.

And where is this elusive path they speak of?  It is true many have crossed it without even knowing, but surely none of us actually followed it.   So should we turn about and seek the comfort of the paved roads?  Our paths constantly fork but who’s right is it to say which to take?  If it is not the beaten-path dug in by the dragging feet of others that leads to our Utopia, then should we perhaps yield to our will and follow a fresh, unblazed trail through the wilderness? 

Yes, that is to be my course of action.  To walk the path of my instincts: a path which, although uncut, flows as care-free as water down the stream bed.  Which leaves but one question: If we are courageous enough to follow our own path through the jungle of life, imagine what sweet fruits we are to taste along the way.

Jason Cholewa, Ph.D., CSCS

Of Woman or Beast?

And in the distance he saw a light

That illuminated the dark of night

And while he sat out in the field

His mind spun into a spiraling wheel

When in an instant all turned black

But the wheel still spun free of slack

And he saw a beast, or was it a shadow

Those red ember eyes had a hypnotizing glow

A figure emerged, fair of complexion

And he couldn’t stop staring in its direction

Still the figure came closer, hour glass in shape

And he kept on staring, he had taken the bait

He was highly intrigued by this creature he saw

It was satin soft, but equipped with tooth and claw

So he extended his hand and drew it near

Close to his skin ‘till it breathed in his ear

Now the wheel in his mind came to a sudden stop

While the button from his pants came off in a pop

And it laid him down beneath the starless skies

Where he looked up into its red ember eyes

And it placed a kiss upon his lips

And back and forth gyrated its hips

And their bodies rolled like waves on the sea

Their legs intertwined like vines on the tree

This beautiful fright, he knew what was to be

But he kept on thinking, how can this happen to me

And with its hand raised high it came crashing down

Through his chest and into the ground

Then the hand raised high holding his heart

But no my friends, this wasn't the worst part

Because when the beast rose the treaty was made

The infinite debit of love was the price he had paid

Jason Cholewa, Ph.D.

The Tale of the Cholewa, Part I

To what do I owe this fleeting glimpse into a distant reality?  Each new smell sparks the nostalgia of hazy memories that I cannot for sure say I have ever actually experienced.  Parallels can be drawn, but they twist and turn into a helix so complex it cannot be untangled.

Sights and sounds seem surreal; they flicker and buzz in a blurred web of fading nothingness.  But still there is something in these hills:  something very real about these trees and ferns, these rivers and valleys; something so real that it extends to the bounds of the universe then travels back again only to disappear.

How long has it been since I have seen another human face or pulled the sweet smell of pears roasting on the fire pit into my nostrils.  Days months and years merge seamlessly together into an eternal lifetime then revert back to a single moment before the spirit escapes the body for a brief tour of the universe.  And what fathomless secrets did my spirit uncover while it was on its grand exodus?  It cannot accurately remember – or maybe it just refuses to tell me!

Days and nights pass me by like the leaf fluttering in the autumn breeze.  I used to keep track of the winter seasons but have since lost count after the 20^th; I’ve seen at least nine more pass me by, then again it could have been 12.  Time seems to matter less and less when your only concern is finding dinner – or not becoming that of the wolves.  My old legs may not carry me as agilely as they once have, but my club arm is still powerful.  The wolves discovered that the hard way on one of their hunts; now it seems they check in on me every so often to see if I still stir.  Even so, the wolves have become my only companions as my old acquaintances fell through the disintegrating web of a distant past life.

But still, for how hard as I’ve tried to avoid it, I continuously find myself trapped in this memory web, struggling for freedom against the bonds of the past, disrupting the delicate webbing and letting loose the ghosts of forgotten faces and battles.  And now they’ve chased me across the plains into these hills where I’ve attempted to create my wooden sanctuary.  Ah, but this beautiful forest has become my forked palace; my retreat by day but my prison by night.  You see, each sunset the memories and ghosts return to terrorize me; coming back to life and playing out before my horror stricken eyes.  There is no escaping this nightmare, no wake from this horrible dream, no repose from these coercing illusions, for this is my reality and each evening it reoccurs.

At first I thought I could contribute the madness to my old age; however only now in my self imposed exile have I been able to explore the deepest chasms of my infected mind - and my diagnosis reveals no cure.  I now understand I have been stricken with a disease that has manifested itself over my entire life.  But please, do not think of me as another mad old man, for I once was a very impressive individual.   I discovered in my 7^th year that I alone was different from all the rest. 

Perhaps it best if I start from the beginning:

Jason Cholewa, Ph.D.