Drink Deeply of the Sky

I do not breathe
I suckle from the Sky

The Great Mother Wolf striding above me as we stalk across the stars
I revel with the Trees to Her pulse
Their hymns offered up in a susurrous tongue few remember

Much has been forgotten
Some say that oxygen attaches to our haemoglobin
I say that my blood binds itself to the Sky
Carrying it deep within me
Connecting me to Her
Always

Move

The days are warmer now

More comfortable

But warm nights are cloudy nights

And I can no longer see the stars

Comfort is a trap, a stunting of potential

There is nothing to push me forward

And nothing to guide the way

Better to pick a direction and move

Any direction away from the illusion of the good life

Towards toil and appreciation, true satisfaction

Towards hard days and nights full of stars

Dream Chasers

A Life Remembered

What if time isn’t going faster, but my life is literally flashing before my eyes? What if this is that desperate high-definition memory of my life in my final moment?

Then I should let go and breathe.

Savour.

Every.

Moment.

Feel into every moment with appreciation and wonder.

Surrender every interaction to compassion and kindness.

And if life is simply just moving faster should I not still treat it like a life remembered, or failing that, as I would remember it? So, whether a life lived or a life remembered, in the Everywhen it will be a moment of love.

Anchor

I anchor myself to my breath. Follow it out of the maelstrom, into the eye of the storm.The eye, the present moment, the only moment, the Everywhen.A sphere of calm in a column of golden light.From here I can observe the swirling chaos. Be curious about it. Outside of, and free from the stories I have created about it.To master this moment is to master every moment that has ever been, and every moment that will be. They are all here now, Everywhen.In my prayers I hear only my voice.In my breath only God’s.

She Remembers a Time of Giants

This is the moor where she lay in the wild heather and watched shapes in the clouds while her grandmother told her the stories her grandmother had told her.

Ancient allegories hiding sacred truths. Layers of whimsy and nostalgia ensuring their safe passage through the generations.

She lies in the heather, now an adult. She remembers white bread sandwiches with the crusts cut off; she remembers…

Beneath her the land tingles, sensing the words of power that play unrecognised in her memory. While above her the clouds play to her imagination, obeying her flights of fancy, as they always have.

The Alchemist

The secret is this, The Alchemist smiled, “Every day you awake to a world that is brand new. All history, memories, and expectation are just scenery left on the stage from yesterday’s play. You don’t have to play that part today. Its only authority rests in our unspoken agreement to buy-in to the illusion. So, reject the script, hoist the scenery back into the flies, and play any part you wish. Why not play yourself?”

Alone again in the tent he laughed to himself, “Wait until you learn that you can step off the stage and leave the theatre entirely.”

Dust

Memories glowed and hovered like dust motes in life’s late afternoon light. All the disappointments and struggles which had burnt so much at the time but which had ultimately been overcome pulsed the brightest and sweetest. These were the moments which had elevated his life above a mass produced and mass consumed narrative to poetry.

And now this dust of dreams began to settle. Constellations of love and life falling over his consciousness. Slowly at first but faster now, cocooning him in light.

As always, the sunset ahead of him was only somewhere else’s sunrise seen from the other side.

The Space Between Spaces

The breeze came like a choral song susurrating through the branches and the leaves of the fir forest. A gold and amber aura pulsing like ocean phosphorescence where the uppermost branches brushed the bruised sky with their leaves.

Here the land was whole… untouched. Here the Sky still lay close to his primordial lover, Gaea, and the air hung thick and heavy with magic.

Here where the trees knew my soul name and greeted me like an old familiar though I had not yet met them in this life. Here where I last saw you, in the space between spaces.

 

The Librarian

He got a part-time job at the library. It was the only way he could track and access all the books she read.

He had to hope that he could map her imagination and follow her footsteps through stories, and tales… places her mind dwelt in wonder. And just maybe, somehow, in a dusty side street in Cairo, or on the pebbled shore of an emerald lake in an exotic land, their minds would bump into each other.

And that through some law of attraction or entanglement their bodies would follow suit in this dying town where nothing ever happened.