Dancing With Fear

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! ​

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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... ​

JON'S STORY

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... 
 
Gentle rolling. 
Pain. 
Darkness.  
"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
​Juhl xx