It was in the stillness of the dawn, that quiet time, where breeze dare not blow, for fear it's voice would stir more than the leaves. Before the birds began their greeting of a new born sun upon the horizon, spreading fingers, awakening all within reach, that she realized...if she wanted to get anything done, she had to switch off Facebook!
Whilst others danced with Angels and played with Masters, the last human stood alone.
Listening as Starseeds spoke of a place they couldn't wait to leave. Watching as Others raped and broke her home.
If they would only leave one unspoiled realm, where bare feet could once again caress the sun warmed soil. She would make that place her home, a sanctuary of healing ways and the life of old would be reborn.
But who would she heal? The creatures long gone? The plants changed beyond health, beyond life enhancing abilities.
What left, the last human.
Oft times, peering through the woods, between the trees offered fleeting glimpses, of people long past and those yet to be.
Always, just beyond vision, little touches of spirit, between the birds, between the creatures scuttling. Always just beyond, just between.
Why the foot met stone and stopped, has ever been a wonder. The warm sensation of the rock, retaining heat of summers day, gave pause. Melting tension as she stretched, arms uplifted, mimicking the trees surrounding, the mingling of old with new, eyes closed...she began to see.
Eyes closed...she began to see.
The sounds of leaf and stream, bird and breeze, intertwined, playing in symphony and sympathy. The scents of earth, leaf, flower and Sun, melded, combined with the sounds, a sensuous dance upon her soul. Sensations, emotions, before unnoticed, a depth of feeling so intense, overwhelming, as lightning fingers tripped along her spine, forcing eyes open in attempt to escape. Yet even then, now, the world revealed was so very different.
Where once the leaves had traced gentle arcs on the wind, brilliant jewels of emerald green trembled in delight anticipating the warmth of the sun. Every stone, once grey and never noticed upon the path, shone in stark relief to its neighbor, a network of individual blue, green, gold, pebbles working in unity, aiding and protecting the plants of their forest clan, from the careless foot fall of Man.
And there, no longer just beyond, no longer just between... And there, no longer just beyond, just between...
It was the nose you saw first. Potatoes of old, lumpy, dusty, as freshly pulled from the earth, were more attractive than Jon's nose, bulbous didn't cover it. You know the old men who have spent a life on Whiskey and Gin, topped with a touch of regret? Well like that only bigger!
As a wee lad of around three, Jon's father had died. Leaving him the only child of a mother already much worn by toil and the early loss of his siblings.
Earth to till, seeds to plant, cow to milk, eggs to collect, wood to chop, as the years cycled through Jon was pleased to take more of his mother's load. The ingrained dirt of foot and under nail, unnoticed in his pleasure at the sight of Mother resting the achy gnarls of body hard worn since youth, before the warmth and glow of the fire.
You can perhaps imagine the young Jon's chagrin upon the age of ten, when informed his mother's younger brother was arriving to "give care" of the place. A lot of pride was in the now well muscled Jon, had he not been good enough? Yet as he opened eyes into the maturity arrived on too soon, he had to cede, with just a tad of resentment, that the roof shingles were indeed in need of replacement, the barn a total rebuild and perhaps another, older, hand around the place would be nice. And if he were truly honest the thought of meeting mother's Kith and Kin, real from beyond the stories, held a touch of excitement and more than mild curiosity.
.A touch of excitement and more than mild curiosity.
And so it was dancing from foot to foot. Hair neatly parted, with spit washed face, the moment of arrival was upon him.
The knowledge of death and renewal was not new to Jon, all his life surrounded by cycles of seasons, plantings to harvest, stock birth to cull, but always those cycles had rolled on, unaltered through the years of his life. Here was a knowing, cycles would never be the same. An alchemical difference was to mark his world, for good, or for ill.
Twitching, nervous he waited upon the road by the gate. Head craining at any little sound, peering into the distance, straining his eyes and patience to the max. Finally an imperceptible speck on the horizon began to grow. And as the speck grew, so too did the knot in Jon's stomach. An invisible hand found his gut, at first squeezing, then twisting, shutting off airways. Sweat sprang along his temple, jaw clenched, waves of nausea rolling hard, the world shifting. The shape on the highway grew. Jon's terror grew too, flooding every muscle, paralyzing every thought.
Pheasants broke cover. Their cries sudden, startling. In that moment Jon was undone, he turned and ran...
...he turned and ran.
Feet thumping, fists pumping, heart pounding, terror filled, Jon ran. There are sayings around the surge of energy Jon experienced, running "as if the Hounds of Hell were at his heels" and I wish I could say "terror guided his feet", but in actuality Jon was blind with panic. He fair flew along the pebbeld path. Sweat filling his eyes, ragged breaths grasping for purchase through parched lips. Faster, Faster, home, home...
"There, There, boy."
Strong hands. Strong arms. Pain.
Darkness receding. "I'm blind" thought Jon. Deep voice, gentle hands, pain, sleep. And so it was, as Jon lay in bed, listening to the sounds of wood being chopped and chickens being fed, as the swelling that had closed his eyes became less and the pain fueled nausea became less, Jon sat by the window, watching Uncle, mow the hay, dig the house garden and lay a gentle hand on Mother's shoulder.
By 50, as the Grand babies cut their teeth on the lumpy Potato of ole Jon's nose, as the family tell tales, before the fire, Uncle whittling, Mother knitting, Wifey cooking, the story of a boy, who ran from change, ran from fear itself, is a favorite.
And there, along the pebble path, a Sun warmed rock smiles, remembering the time it met young Jon's nose.
Much, much love
,All through my life, all places I have grown. I have and have been around, Wylding.
A piece of land, left. No touching, no entering, no interference by family at all. If an animal wonders in, well, that is their choice. But no child, no Grand Ma and no me, permitted. Yes, thoughts count and should not be directed there either.
For me, in order to feel free, I have a space, a space within where I go to explore, lift, sometimes, entertain, thoughts very deep and to me fearful, but always private. It is my space though, and no hook, no thing, may enter. I am a Sovereign Soul. This space within, is in a way, my Wylding.
Within my yard. Off vision, you mightn't naturally find this area. O.k. so some of my friends might pick this spot, quickly. There is a place, where lawnmower is banned, roundup warded (actually whole property) and no one, may enter. This is my garden Wylding. I don't know if any one lives there. I don't pry, too much, as privacy, a place to breathe, to hang out and be, is a necessity for anyone, or thing, in surviving the stress of this world. I wonder if these places, the Wyldings, are not sometimes, places where beings too old to bear it any more, go to sleep. Sometimes forever.
As a child the Wylding, was magickal. No I never, shhhh, but in Kaiuma, between the house and the creek, where the creek forked, the Wylding, softly hid. Here, it was protected, by clever paths around, easier, better, more to see, shiny magpie things, that led around, rather than through. One never entered, for the wood here was strange, not that I would know. Finding ways between the dense wet ferns, flax and colonialism, perhaps, gorse, was icky and ouchy. And one would of had to squiggle and really wriggle, through prickles, woody manuka and wet and wetas. But if one were really in need of hiding, in need of a, can't be found space, then perhaps, one might enter. One might find other beings there too.
Around the home, at Grand Ma's Past the sheds, past the plum, the potatoes, turn, eat at the peas, skip on past the hedge, approach the walnuts and shh for here were the bees. Bees require a flight path, a way of leaving and returning home. so clever are these, so ouchy, one must be sure permission is asked, before one passes softly by. And there, between two hedges, guarded by bees, whom I never saw enter. Again, a Wylding. This one I never entered, it was still to close to home, one should never hide in the same place twice, if one truly does not wish to be found. And though more meadow and scented sweet than Kaiuma, this Grand Ma's Wylding existed through mans desire. Whereas Kaiuma existed because it was clever, most simply didn't see it.
My home now, New, only 1890's or so, much played with, surrounded by suburbia. Flown over by increasing air traffic, and seven years old, though pacts have been broke, two years rededicated. A beehive awaiting a Queen. No offerings, no noticing, no weedeating, no threat of poison, barely a glance, a Wylding.
In peace, strength and love
"And so it was, there came a time. A time that was, and a time that was always before.
The Dream World, the world of battles. The waking world, the realm, where battles, not fought, became real.
Many different the ways of then and now, still the battle truths remain. There were those who thought themselves, stealthy good Warders and Knights of the way, and offering of esteem was granted these beings.
“Let me! Let me fight for you. I will dedicate my life, you will dedicate my upkeep, and the victories shall be ours.” had been the subtle bargain. Knights of the way had no time to plow, all energy on winning within the land of the dreams was spent. The Knights, powerful and the people at peace.
Gratitude and offering the response. For who would not let others fight their battles? Freed from responsibility of self, so much more could be done! The least of which, the offerings of gratitude, were surely /' a pleasure to pay.
Time moved on and the Knights of the way, so involved in their skill, taken care of by all, became lost, to that world of dreams. So well did they battle, behind closed eyes, nothing harmful became real. Within the waking world, peace reigned, joy flourished and the tributes flowed. The skill of the personal dream, lost, in visions of safety.
None new learned the battle skills. The enemy, the reason for dreaming, forgotten.
Yet, within the dream, shadows and lurkers, gathered, their plans laid, learnt and studied long ago, improved upon, evolved. To few were the Knights to intercept, the soft subtle tendrils. As soft as butter, defenses melted before the shadow mass, of darkness, wreathed with mares. To few, were the Dream Warriors, to stem the tide. No new to replace the lost. The awake realm still seeing peace, yet the world of the dream, was changing.
With stealth, grace, deadly rage in check, the Shadow horde creeping, advanced. Snatching, the odd unaware, to study. Tentacles probing, testing the sleeping awake, as they rested, without fear, without protection. The longer the waking slept without ward, the better. Who knew what would happen?
Should these sleepers awake, to the depths, the deceptions, of this dreaming?
Lines were spun, could be’s, should be’s and would be’s, yet, none of the lines were spun true. Long had the dream realm studied, and well did they know their tasks.
To live, one must be present, within the dream and awake and it was for this the shadows had practiced. In the sleeping world of the awake, thoughts of false Knights were planted. The offerings, long forgotten, real reason forlorn, treasure for the Horde to use and plunder, battle tokens.
An inversion had begun, an invasion of twisting ways, so subtle in calling, the wake peoples under gentle (at first) control, became vassals. Enlivening the dreams and plans, which the shadows, had cunningly hidden, in the awaken-eds very midst, their minds. Yes, these beings were awakened, but they were no longer aware.
And so it was, the Shadow Hordes usurped the waken realm, creeping crawling through minds, bridging through sleep, into waking lives. Seeding, breeding, lines of not quite true. Subtle was the advance, softly, softly least the untouched realise. Gently, beguilingly least the bridged, break free. The shadows arrived, made real, manifested.
If only an awake were to take back the dream, from before the Knight, when the awakened realm was aware and faced the battles in the dream, individually, self responsible, where would the realm be?
Ahh, but such dreams are confusing and nonsense.
A tide can not be turned back. Yet just as the wood fuels the fire, it is the charcoal that nourishes the earth. What grows in the bare land beneath the unused fire pit? Well, first come the quickest, then the fittest, seeds of course, you may know them as weeds. Yet, every now and then, we find a tree in this midst. A tree whose roots, reach outside the fireside, new shoots, beneath and through the scorched earth, nurtured and fed by the dying ‘weeds’ the tree shall in turn overgrow. The weeds, are they sacrificial? Or are they giving? fulfilling their nature, to become nature, contained within the tree? Individuals united by place.
I wonder now, who is winning, within this realm, at this moment, the shadows, ever reaching realness? Perhaps, winning is a wrong perception. Perhaps the awake will once again step forth and true battles shall be hosted, where true lore made them be. Within the dream. The place where all bodily forms are equal, as only one energy is worn.
In peace, strength and love,
Simply My Thoughts