The Modern Definition of Piety:
pi·e·ty
/ˈpīədē/
noun
- the quality of being religious or reverent."acts of piety and charity"
- a belief or point of view that is accepted with unthinking conventional reverence.plural noun: pieties"the accepted pieties of our time"
early 16th century (in the sense ‘devotion to religious observances’): from Old French piete, from Latin pietas ‘dutifulness’, from pius.
***
In the days of Ancient Rome, those that took up the mantle of “knight” were expected to hold in their hearts and act with “pietas.” In modern day society it is a term more associated with the common religion as piety, and deemed more mystical than true. Some would have it discussed in a philosophical sense, though most today would rather forget it exists entirely in the pursuit of their own desires.
For me, it comes as naturally as breathing, though at times I feel as if drowning might be easier. My Great-Grandfather, my Grandpa, and my mother instilled in me the courage and fortitude to never discard it when engaging the Abyss of the human soul. I grew up with tales of Arthur Pendragon and his Companions of the Round Table, how they represented “Pietas” and all the other grand qualities of heroes, it was my Grandpa Lanny who lived it.
To me, he was and still is, as kingly as Arthur ever was, and his Round Table was the circle of the Wrestling mat. Lanny was the coach of the Knights of the Hell’s Gate, his companions, his wrestlers, and through his dedication, discipline, compassion, and love he led them to their Legendary State Championship, paving the way and planting the seeds of victory everywhere he went. He has reared many great men, and though I never was a State Champion, I would count myself among those that strive to match his pietas in all that I have done.
He taught me that life was exactly like the struggle on the mat. The philosophies of action and wisdom mix together and become inseparable, where pride can lead one to fall from great heights but through discipline one can rise again without fault or blame to overcome any challenge. For much of my own life I could not put it into words well enough to explain to those outside the circle. The Arena is and always be the place I feel most alive, and now, having traveled along the path to self-discovery, through greater despair and heartaches I have ever read or heard told, the seeds in my heart have matured enough to understand and bear the fruit of wisdom. I write this from jail, a political prisoner in my own community, to remind myself and others what the fight and struggle are really about.
Some might say this is a fight for our lives, but it isn’t. It is a fight for life itself. On the mat the only death is the end of the match, heralded by the whistle of the referee. In the world it is for order and justice and all the ordinary and simple things, the little things we have been deprived of for too long. The things that any decent and healthy society should secure, that the truth of America never has. The guarantee of food, a safe place to rest, roads that any person may travel with security from thriving town to city and to country, into the wilderness and back again. Homes of wealthy folk where some grace of living may grow and mature, free from greed and desire, giving scope to any who wish to hone their craft and those who simply seek to learn. Where anyone can read a book on any philosophy, faith, creed, or science and have a healthy discussion of the thoughts and emotions they provoke. Where lovers can grow old together, watching their children and their children’s children thrive to learn the gentler arts of living. A place where Truth, Justice, and understanding replace violence, intrigue and petty tribal jealousy. That’s my dream for Montana. That is what we are fighting for.
Martin Luther King Jr. spoke of a similar dream while he yet lived. I get to dreaming of a world where men walk simply without deceit or subterfuge. A kindlier world than the one we know right now, where the strong defend the weak instead of the greedy and to have some manners is not thought to be beneath a warrior’s dignity.
Truth, Justice, Mercy - one cannot impose these things - they must grow out of a man’s striving for himself. We wonder why evil and wickedness exists in the world. Those that follow the Church of the Dying God say that the world is evil because of one Great Sin. I grew up in that religion but can no longer prescribe to it’s remedies. Though we could take the finest sieve and sift the entire universe through it, no molecule of love could ever be found. For no man who has not known despair knows himself, and no man who does not know himself can find the truth; The rhythm of the universe and the Love that sustains it. Whether it is on the mat or the battlefield or in everyday life we must be ready to enter Hell’s Gate and confront all that which lay on the other side. As Dante says in his Divine Comedy’s Inferno, “All hope abandons, ye who enter here.” This is how courage is born.
There is no courage without fear. The Hero of Time taught me that. The bravest is often the most frightened, and if we are afraid of something that means we MUST confront it directly. In that respect, solitude is often fear’s companion. To be afraid is to be alone, but it is only then a person attains that self-discovery. Pain defines and exacts the price of wisdom, and the price is worth paying because it must be paid. The Sufi poet, Rumi says this, “just as clay needs to go through intense heat to become strong, Love can only be perfected in pain.” Through courage one earns honor. In all of life, in my heart, mind, body, and soul, courage is the principle thing.
Shakespeare says that “all the world's a stage.” On earth, every man plays a part and that part is appointed to him by the powers that be before he is even born. In one incarnation a slave, in another a king, in yet others a common soldier, a priest, a merchant, even a politician. In each part, as he plays it out in life for ill or well, he learns something he needs to know until all good and evil have been experienced and the soul can distinguish for itself between the two and so grows towards the perfection that is man’s final goal. A king is not greater than a slave, for both are men. In fact, a king’s role is more difficult, for what a great man does other’s will follow. It is of equal importance that they should act their part so that the play mirrors Truth.
This spirit needs to be awoken, set to a standard, create a pattern that even the dullest can comprehend and strive to achieve. Truth is always simple enough so that a child can understand it. A promise is a promise. Once given it must be kept, lived by, or be forfeit of honor and to the noble dishonor is worse than death.
The Old Faith of the Druids holds that once a vow is made it cannot be unmade without damage to the soul. In this Greater Cosmos we are the Individual Cosmos and in the triad sayings of the Bards, Oviates, and Druids there are three things that no man can alter; The stars in their course, the flowing of the tides, and the pattern that unrolls from the given word.
By the things taught to me, that I’ve learned through my own experience I live in service, given without grudging and without hope of rewards, through the quality of my heart and the respect earned by it. We must honor our own gods and give respect to other men’s. We must seek truth and speak it always, even to our own harm and hurt. We must be worthy of trust and trust one another. I would have us use our strength to protect those that cannot protect themselves; the old, the weak, the infirm, the widows, and the fatherless. Even those that we hate so long as it treads the path of right action. We will have the manners of Kings, equal to any in any land, and so above those things that leaden a man’s spirit: anger, desire, and greed.
To be anything less would shame my family legacy.
***
To me, he was and still is, as kingly as Arthur ever was, and his Round Table was the circle of the Wrestling mat. Lanny was the coach of the Knights of the Hell’s Gate, his companions, his wrestlers, and through his dedication, discipline, compassion, and love he led them to their Legendary State Championship, paving the way and planting the seeds of victory everywhere he went. He has reared many great men, and though I never was a State Champion, I would count myself among those that strive to match his pietas in all that I have done.
He taught me that life was exactly like the struggle on the mat. The philosophies of action and wisdom mix together and become inseparable, where pride can lead one to fall from great heights but through discipline one can rise again without fault or blame to overcome any challenge. For much of my own life I could not put it into words well enough to explain to those outside the circle. The Arena is and always be the place I feel most alive, and now, having traveled along the path to self-discovery, through greater despair and heartaches I have ever read or heard told, the seeds in my heart have matured enough to understand and bear the fruit of wisdom. I write this from jail, a political prisoner in my own community, to remind myself and others what the fight and struggle are really about.
Some might say this is a fight for our lives, but it isn’t. It is a fight for life itself. On the mat the only death is the end of the match, heralded by the whistle of the referee. In the world it is for order and justice and all the ordinary and simple things, the little things we have been deprived of for too long. The things that any decent and healthy society should secure, that the truth of America never has. The guarantee of food, a safe place to rest, roads that any person may travel with security from thriving town to city and to country, into the wilderness and back again. Homes of wealthy folk where some grace of living may grow and mature, free from greed and desire, giving scope to any who wish to hone their craft and those who simply seek to learn. Where anyone can read a book on any philosophy, faith, creed, or science and have a healthy discussion of the thoughts and emotions they provoke. Where lovers can grow old together, watching their children and their children’s children thrive to learn the gentler arts of living. A place where Truth, Justice, and understanding replace violence, intrigue and petty tribal jealousy. That’s my dream for Montana. That is what we are fighting for.
Martin Luther King Jr. spoke of a similar dream while he yet lived. I get to dreaming of a world where men walk simply without deceit or subterfuge. A kindlier world than the one we know right now, where the strong defend the weak instead of the greedy and to have some manners is not thought to be beneath a warrior’s dignity.
Truth, Justice, Mercy - one cannot impose these things - they must grow out of a man’s striving for himself. We wonder why evil and wickedness exists in the world. Those that follow the Church of the Dying God say that the world is evil because of one Great Sin. I grew up in that religion but can no longer prescribe to it’s remedies. Though we could take the finest sieve and sift the entire universe through it, no molecule of love could ever be found. For no man who has not known despair knows himself, and no man who does not know himself can find the truth; The rhythm of the universe and the Love that sustains it. Whether it is on the mat or the battlefield or in everyday life we must be ready to enter Hell’s Gate and confront all that which lay on the other side. As Dante says in his Divine Comedy’s Inferno, “All hope abandons, ye who enter here.” This is how courage is born.
There is no courage without fear. The Hero of Time taught me that. The bravest is often the most frightened, and if we are afraid of something that means we MUST confront it directly. In that respect, solitude is often fear’s companion. To be afraid is to be alone, but it is only then a person attains that self-discovery. Pain defines and exacts the price of wisdom, and the price is worth paying because it must be paid. The Sufi poet, Rumi says this, “just as clay needs to go through intense heat to become strong, Love can only be perfected in pain.” Through courage one earns honor. In all of life, in my heart, mind, body, and soul, courage is the principle thing.
Shakespeare says that “all the world's a stage.” On earth, every man plays a part and that part is appointed to him by the powers that be before he is even born. In one incarnation a slave, in another a king, in yet others a common soldier, a priest, a merchant, even a politician. In each part, as he plays it out in life for ill or well, he learns something he needs to know until all good and evil have been experienced and the soul can distinguish for itself between the two and so grows towards the perfection that is man’s final goal. A king is not greater than a slave, for both are men. In fact, a king’s role is more difficult, for what a great man does other’s will follow. It is of equal importance that they should act their part so that the play mirrors Truth.
This spirit needs to be awoken, set to a standard, create a pattern that even the dullest can comprehend and strive to achieve. Truth is always simple enough so that a child can understand it. A promise is a promise. Once given it must be kept, lived by, or be forfeit of honor and to the noble dishonor is worse than death.
The Old Faith of the Druids holds that once a vow is made it cannot be unmade without damage to the soul. In this Greater Cosmos we are the Individual Cosmos and in the triad sayings of the Bards, Oviates, and Druids there are three things that no man can alter; The stars in their course, the flowing of the tides, and the pattern that unrolls from the given word.
By the things taught to me, that I’ve learned through my own experience I live in service, given without grudging and without hope of rewards, through the quality of my heart and the respect earned by it. We must honor our own gods and give respect to other men’s. We must seek truth and speak it always, even to our own harm and hurt. We must be worthy of trust and trust one another. I would have us use our strength to protect those that cannot protect themselves; the old, the weak, the infirm, the widows, and the fatherless. Even those that we hate so long as it treads the path of right action. We will have the manners of Kings, equal to any in any land, and so above those things that leaden a man’s spirit: anger, desire, and greed.
To be anything less would shame my family legacy.
***
Some that I have spoken to about these things tell me that the depth is intimidating and others have viewed them as only fantasy. One going so far to tell me, “it sounds like you’re just trying to convince yourself.” In my youth, these left me to despair and loneliness, unable to share my soul with another. They have stayed where they are, rooted in place and unable to take the leap in faith that lets one start the journey of a thousand miles with that single step. Faith is not trusting the unknowable or the unseen, faith is understanding the machine of the macroverse and knowing the intelligence behind it is in complete and total control. Though it is not responsible for any of man’s actions.
Where the path of right action will always be Grandpa Lanny’s, the path of wisdom was the way of my Great-Grandfather William Caswell Bryant tread. In my heart of hearts he will always be the greatest man I have ever known, and if I can only be a reflection of his teachings of gentleness and mercy then I know I could light up the whole of creation for a single instance of this one life. He is and always will be my Buddha, my Krishna, my Merlin, and my Captain Jean Luc Picard. It is my hope that right here I can plant the seeds he gave me within others, so that even if his name is forgotten, then the Love he carried will not be.
He was a born enlightened sage, ministering to creation as he walked home from school and church. He once told me that he was pretty sure many of the cows that were pastured in Texas reached the abode of the Supreme Lord, having told them about his Christ the moment he became aware of the Lord’s love himself. “The Holy Cows of Texas!” He would say with a laugh. Brahma’s sign of Grace, I would say today.
At fourteen, he started to lead his Church choir, and through his wanderings west to California and north to Montana, he started 89 churches in his Lord’s name, never taking more than was necessary to live simply. One for every year of his wonderful life. His goal had been one hundred, and I’m sure that if we counted those congregations that grew out of his own works, we’d find maybe ten times that number. He never claimed the works of others as his own, so I’ll honor that.
I was born in Missoula, Montana in Community Hospital. After a series of tragedies my mother experienced, she moved to California to be with my Great-Grandparents for help in raising me while she sought a way to better our lives. My earliest memory is of us sitting on a picnic table in his backyard, a hill, and a toy truck with me on his knee watching the California Sunset. We were moving, I believe, for my toy was a purple U-Haul. His eyes were welling with tears as he told me, “Proof of the Lord’s Love lay with all things beautiful.” He was a poet, and it is these moments that I remember him the most, for it was often that his spirit was moved while I was with him and his wisdom shone brighter than if a thousand suns rose in the sky at dawn.
My Lord of Lord’s, how I miss him.
When we moved back to Montana, my mother decided that she was going to take up the familial legacy of teaching. It is here, truly, that my own initiation began and the paths of my grandfathers converged into me, to be shaped and molded by my mother, beaten into me by my uncle, and tested against the Darkness of the World. Three great peoples, and their many branches, producing me, the fruit of their legacy.
***
I remember much of those early years thanks to my mother teaching me simply how to learn. She wired my grey-matter sponge to love it, seek it, devour it, understand and regurgitate it in my own words and expressions. Coupled with the wisdom, emotion, and grace of my Great-Grandfather, the discipline and determination of my Grandpa, I couldn’t have asked for a better childhood. The one glaring gap, like a missing tooth, was a solid father-figure. Because of that I also grew wilder than most. Not rebellious, but wild, like a bear, wandering on my own merit in nature’s grace. While I did wonder about my own father on earth, I was told that, “My Father, who art in Heaven” loved me more than I could ever know and that I was here because he willed it. In this aspect, I was completely self-created, for in my own heart and imagination I clung to him in my loneliness and it is that same heart that the ideals I live by were shaped.
What is more powerful than a young boy’s need to prove himself worthy of a Father crafted in his own heart and mind?
***
Where the path of right action will always be Grandpa Lanny’s, the path of wisdom was the way of my Great-Grandfather William Caswell Bryant tread. In my heart of hearts he will always be the greatest man I have ever known, and if I can only be a reflection of his teachings of gentleness and mercy then I know I could light up the whole of creation for a single instance of this one life. He is and always will be my Buddha, my Krishna, my Merlin, and my Captain Jean Luc Picard. It is my hope that right here I can plant the seeds he gave me within others, so that even if his name is forgotten, then the Love he carried will not be.
He was a born enlightened sage, ministering to creation as he walked home from school and church. He once told me that he was pretty sure many of the cows that were pastured in Texas reached the abode of the Supreme Lord, having told them about his Christ the moment he became aware of the Lord’s love himself. “The Holy Cows of Texas!” He would say with a laugh. Brahma’s sign of Grace, I would say today.
At fourteen, he started to lead his Church choir, and through his wanderings west to California and north to Montana, he started 89 churches in his Lord’s name, never taking more than was necessary to live simply. One for every year of his wonderful life. His goal had been one hundred, and I’m sure that if we counted those congregations that grew out of his own works, we’d find maybe ten times that number. He never claimed the works of others as his own, so I’ll honor that.
I was born in Missoula, Montana in Community Hospital. After a series of tragedies my mother experienced, she moved to California to be with my Great-Grandparents for help in raising me while she sought a way to better our lives. My earliest memory is of us sitting on a picnic table in his backyard, a hill, and a toy truck with me on his knee watching the California Sunset. We were moving, I believe, for my toy was a purple U-Haul. His eyes were welling with tears as he told me, “Proof of the Lord’s Love lay with all things beautiful.” He was a poet, and it is these moments that I remember him the most, for it was often that his spirit was moved while I was with him and his wisdom shone brighter than if a thousand suns rose in the sky at dawn.
My Lord of Lord’s, how I miss him.
When we moved back to Montana, my mother decided that she was going to take up the familial legacy of teaching. It is here, truly, that my own initiation began and the paths of my grandfathers converged into me, to be shaped and molded by my mother, beaten into me by my uncle, and tested against the Darkness of the World. Three great peoples, and their many branches, producing me, the fruit of their legacy.
***
I remember much of those early years thanks to my mother teaching me simply how to learn. She wired my grey-matter sponge to love it, seek it, devour it, understand and regurgitate it in my own words and expressions. Coupled with the wisdom, emotion, and grace of my Great-Grandfather, the discipline and determination of my Grandpa, I couldn’t have asked for a better childhood. The one glaring gap, like a missing tooth, was a solid father-figure. Because of that I also grew wilder than most. Not rebellious, but wild, like a bear, wandering on my own merit in nature’s grace. While I did wonder about my own father on earth, I was told that, “My Father, who art in Heaven” loved me more than I could ever know and that I was here because he willed it. In this aspect, I was completely self-created, for in my own heart and imagination I clung to him in my loneliness and it is that same heart that the ideals I live by were shaped.
What is more powerful than a young boy’s need to prove himself worthy of a Father crafted in his own heart and mind?
***
My mother, born in 1961 in Garden Grove, California to Lanny and Ann Bryant, given the unique combination of their names: LanAnn. She was the eldest of five, born to young boomer parents, and the strongest woman I’ve ever met. Her heart is large enough to hold the weights of oceans and her mind bright enough to see the turnings of the stars. Though she has been given a few rough turns down unknown roads, her faith has been her guide and her wisdom to me in my own difficulties has always been simply, “just do the right thing.” She is a Priestess of Solitude, courageous beyond measure, and a balm of comfort in my own pain. Whatever I could say would never do her justice. She has the dignity of Mother Mary, herself, and if there is another woman as selfless as her I have not yet encountered that being. She deserves every blessing that her Lord could bestow, and she would only ask for love. The tragedies she has endured has only made her more flexible and stronger than Damascus steel, and sharper than any sword, and the only thing she would cut through are the lies and illusions of the world. Her two daughters are no less magnificent. If I, myself, are the lesser of her three children, it is only because of my wild nature. My sisters exhibit all the qualities nature gave my moth, in their own unique way more refined, like one refines the scent of a flower in a perfume or the way one can hone a knife to cut clean with a sharp edge. Evolution at play, I would say, and empowerment at work.
***
***
If I could write their stories, I would, but I can only write of their influence on my own. I start this piece with my family because you should know where I come from; a stone's throw from Eden. Where I have gone has taken me beyond Hell’s Gate, into the heart of the Abyss, my soul raked across the coals of oblivion until only a fragment of a fragment remained. The loss of my perceived self so great that I did everything I could to escape existence as a fox caught in a hunter’s trap gnaws its own foot off, and yet by grace I'm still here, if not whole, ready to grow and live again. This isn’t an instructions manual or even a biography. It is an intimate examination of my own soul so that I can see into me and maybe recover that hope that abandons us in our own hellscape.
My path has been high, indeed, and as my favorite author says, “Upon the heights the paths are paved with Daggers.”
My path has been high, indeed, and as my favorite author says, “Upon the heights the paths are paved with Daggers.”
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