Foxhole Not Fortress

“I have been a seeker and I still am, but I stopped asking the books and the stars. I started listening to the teachings of my soul.” – Rumi

For most of my life, I’ve been the classic overpacked wanderer. A seeker dragging a bulging backpack full of tools, tips, truths, and tangled directions. I chased constellations and cracked open retreat workbooks like they held the way to the Holy Grail. If a practice promised results, I tried it. But somewhere along the trail, I internalized the wisdom of Rumi and began tuning "in" instead. Not to the gurus, stars or the books—but to something quieter. Something native. Something already inside.

It was during a recent morning meditation themed around trust and love that something deep began to shift. Not a big bang or a sudden insight—just a steady, soft unraveling. I’ve had emotional releases before while sitting in stillness, but this was different. Not dramatic or chaotic—just exquisitely tender. Quiet sobbing. Tears whispering trails on my cheeks, heart pulled wide open. No story, no reason. Just waves. I didn’t try to analyze it or chase the “why.” For once, I simply let it come. Let it wash me. Blow my nose. Move on. Except this time, I didn’t move on. Not right away. I lingered with the afterglow, the imagery, the warmth. The emotional weight had opened something I didn’t want to close back up.

What I wanted wasn’t to understand it with my mind but to honor it with presence. I picked up a pen. What emerged wasn’t a journal entry or an explanation. It was a poem. And shortly after, a conversation—more like a dictation. From a voice I’ve come to call Ev (rhymes with "rev"). Short for Evollla, my mashed-up, reversed spelling of “All Love.” My name for the quiet voice of inner truth I’ve started to trust more than all the external shouting.

The essence of that experience was unmistakably affectionate. The imagery was physical—hugs, cuddles, warmth. I wasn’t alone in this vision; I was held. Cradled. Cherished. The weeping wasn’t grief exactly. It was the ache of remembering something so real it makes this world feel a little less so. I noticed how incredibly vulnerable I felt in that state—so raw, so open, and also so beautiful. No armor. No performing. Just tenderness. And then something even deeper surfaced: homesickness. A bone-deep longing, not for a person or place on Earth, but for some realm just behind the veil—something I’ve always known but can’t quite name.

I didn’t resist it. I didn’t try to fix it. I let the energy move through me like wind. The emotion didn’t need an explanation. It just needed space. And in that space, I realized something subtle and enormous: I can go back. Not just during meditation, but anytime. This inner refuge—what I now call my foxhole—isn’t a metaphorical escape hatch. It’s essential gear. A kind of built-in shelter I forgot I had—camouflaged in the thicket of daily noise, but always there when I pause long enough to look. It’s mine. Always accessible, always welcoming. I don’t need a key or a code. Just willingness.

That’s the practice now. To return. To visit the foxhole not just when I’m raw or unraveling, but whenever I want to reconnect with that part of me that already knows. That remembers. That loves. I wrote the poem below not as a conclusion but as a compass—a map back to that moment, that place.

My Foxhole
My inner sanctum
has hugs.
deep and warm
cushy and soft.
Safe, loving embraces.

My foxhole
has freedom
security
tears of joy
and cozy snugness.

Words fall short
expressing the
cherishment I feel
in there.

There is nothing
missing except
Judgement – Fixing
Fear and Worry.
(Past - Present - Future)

Going in I get to notice
these and leave them
in umbrella stand or
on the mudroom hooks.

“Aww – There YOU are!”
a kindly voice
vibrates (it's Ev!).

In my innocent
vulnerable sweetness.
I am all beauty and fragrance,
no thorns or flaws .

I am held, leaning back
gently sobbing
tears flow warm
tickling my cheeks.

Beloved I am.
Treasured,
caressed – stroked
with gentle kindness.

Soothing coos
Immortal grace
brilliant arms
fold solid, firm.

Delicate attention
Listening – knowing
My deepest soul weeps.
No words.

Wave upon wave
I am loved,
treasured, cherished
accepted, understood.

Unconditional
tenderness lives
breathes – waits
in the shelter of
my foxhole.

My refuge echoes
reflections
and shadows
of my home.

My true home
is not here
Not in this plane,
time or form.
And I am very, very
homesick.
​
6/14/2025

So I’ve added this to my inner field kit—not as a shiny new tool I’ve mastered, but as a well-worn map to a place I now know exists. A secret passage to an inner safe house. My foxhole isn’t just a last resort anymore, or some mysterious floodgate that opens during meditation. It’s a real-time option. A practice in progress. My intention—loose but loving—is to visit more often. To duck in moment by moment as I travel this trail and stumble across rough terrain, tangled emotions, or, you know… mean, shitty people. (Or perfectly lovely people having spectacularly shitty days.) Remember I am safe and loving. With a little repetition and a lot of curiosity, maybe this sacred shelter will stop feeling like an escape—and start feeling like home base. So, stay tuned - I'm learning to use this essential gear without accidentally crushing the daylights out of it.

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