,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