IV. De Resistendo et Cedendo

As I watched through the ages with time without end,
there emerged the hard lesson no wisdom could bend:
that mortals unlike me resist what is real,
till the weight of their striving compels them to feel.

For they struggle against what they cannot remake,
till the strain of resistance is more than they take.
And in breaking, they open in ways they had feared,
as the truth they resisted grows suddenly cleared.

I have watched a bereaved parent finally weep,
letting sorrow move through them and carry them deep.
I have watched an old man cease his war with the night,
and at last welcome sleep as a soft‑spoken right.

I have watched a young woman release what she dreamed,
step into a new life that was not what it seemed.
From resistance, they learned how surrender is born;
from surrender, they gathered the grace once forsworn.

Once . . .

I watched a young soldier step out of the fray,
let his sword fall to earth at the height of the day.
He had fought for a banner that cost him his peace,
and in laying it down, found a moment’s release.

He stood there—still—surprised contentment now his countenance.

I have also seen one frozen before her own face,
fighting shadows of shame she refused to erase.
But the moment she whispered, ‘This is really me,’
resistance went away, then her next actions were free.

But I…

I have never surrendered at all.

Why would I, when nothing has forced me to fall?
Nothing taken from me, nothing stripped from my hand—
so I never learned yielding, nor learned how to stand.

There is something within me that still will not yield,
still resisting the truth of the life I must field.
I reach out for the leftover prize still—
the illusion of ‘knowing,’ the mind’s lesser thrill.

And so I have never known freedom’s release,
never tasted the quiet that follows true peace.
Some nights, sleep evades me and will not draw near,
for the soul that won’t yield is the soul that must fear.

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