Rescuing the Lover.

"And nobody told me I’d be begging for relief.
When what is silent to you feels like it’s screaming to me.
Well nobody told me I’d get tired of myself.
When it all looks like heaven, but it feels like hell."
— Damocles, Sleep Token. 

We meet every Tuesday at noon…

I’ve been in a Men’s Circle (ARKA) for a year now. Took me longer to pull the trigger than I care for, but all things happen right on schedule. 

There’s a strange safety in the ‘facilitator/leader/coach’ role: the spotlight is rarely on me. 

My job is to get out of the way and serve people. To not make it about me.

Always the facilitator… never the participant. Never the one bearing his heart and pain. Never the one having the emotional breakdown. Never the one admitting an uncomfortable failure, or celebrating a glorious win. 

But even gold medal athletes have coaches. So, I took my own medicine and jumped into a container as a participant. 

One crisp spring morning, I opened my laptop, parked up Indian style, and got ready for the 2 hour session. Deep breath. We broke into small groups, each of us speaking for several minutes on “Where are you currently stuck?”

“Stuck? How could I be stuck? I’m on a semi-sabbatical. I have nothing but time, energy, money, and freedom. I’m the living definition of ‘not-stuck’… right?”

First reactions ripped through my mind. I’ve spent decades pursuing total freedom. I’ve come a long way. No longer bound by finances, skills, countries, commitments, mortgages, toxicity, taxes, you name it. I’m a free man… right?

But the clench constricting my chest remained. Then—BAM—it surfaced:

“My artist is stuck. My romantic is caged. My lover is dying.”

Oh boy…

For so long (my entire life in fact), I have funnelled the infinite tsunami of my creativity to flow in only one direction: writing semi-academic, quasi-poetic, philosophical essays. 

Writing saved my life. I’ll never stop. It's like breathing to me. 

However, when I look around my room at my few remaining possessions, I see: a Native flute, an Argentinian saxophone, a watercolour paint set, calligraphy pens, a tea ceremony kit, origami paper, martial arts gear and gi’s, and God only knows how many tutorials, resources, and PDF’s on my computer… 

Everything ‘waiting’ for ‘someday’ like Andy’s neglected Toys…

What f*cking day? When do I plan on doing anything with these? What epiphany needs to happen for me to just enjoy sitting down and learning how to blend watercolour paints? 

I have never viewed myself as an Artist...

Something within me rejects even the possibility of that identity.

Big talk for a guy who writes about ‘identity-level transformation’ on the internet professionally.

I started attending business/tech-specific regional programs in Grade 7. Grade 7! Middle and high school. Graduated university with a Commerce degree. Straight into tech startups. My entire adult life in businesses and business school. 

But… for both middle & high school, I applied/was accepted to the music/arts regional programs too. Some part of me was still whispering—whimpering—the fire still burning.

Part of me yearns for artistry. Dying for it.

I’m sorry, my child. I’m sorry I left you behind.

It’s the main ‘wing’ of my Enneagram (#4 – The Individualist/Artist) after the likely-obvious #2 – The Helper at my core. It boils down to:

“I want to help people, but in my own fancy way.”

All of a sudden, ayahuasca retreats, 100-day discipline challenges, ketamine therapy program design, wilderness first responder training, and wild essays all make a bit more sense. 

This is also how I relate to the martial arts. 

I prefer the ‘internal’ martial arts (chi gong, shaolin kung fu, yoga) to the external (bjj, muay thai). I view martial arts as an artistic expression as much as any form of fighting skill. Watch a few videos of Shi Heng Yi, 35th Grandmaster of Shaolin Temple Europe (this and this) and tell me you don't see an artist at work.

It’s literally what Kung Fu (Gongfu) means: refined skill through hard work over time. No different than painting, singing, dancing, writing, or even building businesses. 

Martial == Discipline. Arts == Creativity. Martial Arts == Disciplined Creativity.

This is the beating heart of my work and life. Martial Artistry as a Way of Being. 

But something is shifting in the deep…

A new self-concept and world-view awakening at once. My whole life I saw the arts/creativity as ‘not practical’, certainly ‘not for me’. Now, I feel something else…

If you go through your entire life unable to connect with the awesome beauty of existence, with no ability to see, feel, appreciate, or express that—what have you really done with your life?

I’ve had reflections from people that I have a ‘high risk tolerance’. Uprooting my life and moving countries, jumping into fields I have no experience in, taking the almighty bet on Bitcoin.

It’s odd… I feel risk-averse. It’s just a matter of which risk you’re trying to optimize for, I guess…

Having your Lover/Artist/Mystic/Creative/Romantic shut down might be the greatest risk you can take.

If I don’t change something… my spirit will die long before my body is buried. I almost died this way in my 20s. This is a risk I will no longer take…

I’ve written millions of words on the internet, millions more in private pages. I accept that some things simply cannot be captured in words. Or, that words are nowhere near adequate to convey the feelings/insights/experiences. 

In writing, I feel the same underlying essence in the Ba Duan Jin, in this song, in the haiku of dying samurai, in Alex Grey’s Net of Being, in Vianney Lopez’s ancient flute. Expressing the inexpressible. Noble failure. Serious play.

And maybe—just maybe—if I had more outlets to express and expand my Creative/Artist/Romantic energy, if my Lover was more deeply rooted and stable, I wouldn’t fall victim so easily to its' shadows: the impotent (passive) and the addict (active), both of which haunt me...

Part of me is begging for total integration. 

To expand beyond blinking cursors, neat penmanship, and blank pages, and pour all of myself into music, creative experimentation, and works of art that go where words cannot reach.

Who would’ve thought: an innocent kid from Canadian suburbia would be crying out to write poetry, play the flute on the edges of great lakes, and channel the brilliant energy of life into great works of art.

Certainly not me. And yet, here we are… I don’t know what this will look like yet, but I know I will answer the call.

Do not let your Lover die,
EB.