We haven’t sat for a while, them and I.
At first, it wasn’t for lack of trying. I would go to the usual place, sit down and wait for the fire to light itself. It remained stubbornly unlit. Without fire to draw them, nothing was drawn. I might have taken it upon myself to light the flames but, in the strange rules of the place when it comes to starting fires, I am entirely ignorant.
(more…)Something about the campfire and the silent ghosts feels more burden than gift, so I slap my knees to signal that I need to get moving along as we do in the upper midwest, vocalize the requisite “welp” and stand. A few of the spirits turn their grey eyes to me, grant me a lingering look and then those empty eyes return to the flames. Not even a farewell wave then — the winter cold must be slowing them down today. Or maybe it is the daylight’s glare across the fresh snow that makes them blind. We gather in the late morning, although it isn’t without precedent. They prefer the glow of the flames against the backdrop of night, I’ve been told, but they will never turn down a flame lit in their honor if there is one burning in their area.
I don’t bother with any parting words. Not out of spite, but respect. I am mirroring their inclinations.
(more…)You’re learning, says Raven. A bit soft in the head, but at least you’re progressing.
I put another piece of kindling in the flames, keeping the fire. It’s fire season in the forest. While there is no big risk of flames causing mass destruction here, of all places, I try to be mindful of the possibility and restrain the firebug inside. It seems like that critter has vacated anyway, which is just fine by me. My inner firebug got me into as much trouble as fun over the years and I’m tired of manufactured crises.
(more…)And, sometimes, it rains.
I pick up the rain-soaked branch, examine it and hope that by doing so it becomes dry enough to begin. That kind of hope is futile when the weald wants rain. And, today the forest wants the rain. I chuck the piece of firewood to the pit and wander down one of the myriad paths branching out from one of the myriad firepits of the wode, all of which are the same firepits and yet all have their own accord.
(more…)A fog had descended on camp. It happens at times and, when it does, the fog reflects the flames in such a way that the immediate surroundings appear aglow but the campfire is quickly swallowed by the thick fog standing a few dozen yards away. I did not expect anyone to find me tonight as a result of being well within the betweens. So I warmed my hands and contemplated the thorns still visible on one side of the clearing: daggered things that would have screamed of a sepsis incurred within hours of being pricked by their sharp tips.
The weald likes to keep its secrets. I may be the nominal warden of this place, but that does not mean that I know anything more than I need to about the darker spaces within. Of course, if there were need of the blackthorn’s protection, I would find I could slip within the hedge’s folds like a chickadee or wren. The weald protects its own as much as it wards.
That is when a familiar and small voice spoke in my left ear.
Hey, they said. Thought you could stand some company.
(more…)There is no preamble when they arrive, not even the fluttering of wings to announce their presence. Just:
You are a fool, Raven says.
(more…)No campfires for me last night, I’d decided. Instead, I elected to wander away into the day that followed flame as I left the camp behind: Sun blazing on one side, Moon cool and pale on the other. Maple’s yellow leaves fell mystic around me, an autumn kind of sakura celebration lacking only the plum wine for the stream ran beside me, falling over stones and breaking white the reflection of the sky.
(more…)
somewhere along the path
i somehow lost my way
that was what
old craggy guy
was trying to say, just
get back to the sit...
an expert leading
by example
You and I, we hung moon in arctic turquoise skies above the gravestones of friends buried in the Evernight. For remembrance, certainly, but also for that our own souls could the words to move on. To find our smoke and ride the starry road North to Stone.
Ancestors, they came to our Gathering Flame; those sitting as were wont to sit, those standing as were wont of standing. All sought the Strange dancing in the flames, be they feather, flesh or fur. Even the alder man came, his sap reddening ran.
And they spoke at length for fourteen days of gloam, each giving words to carry to the below or for how they must be brought. We gathered and, just before the dawn meant for leaving shores, all gathered and sang to welcome the sun adorned.
One step, then four, we entered wearing our horns and gave to follow the floes, leaving the snowfells behind. And Ancestors? They watched, forlorn, each wishing in their own way our safe journey on to Stone.
I have many thoughts trapped inside my head. I cannot free them because they are thoughts without words to go with them, or the words that might go with them are inadequate to express those thoughts. Trying to express those thoughts feels too much like, as Alan Watts would have put it, trying to bite my own teeth.
If I managed to construct those thoughts into something that could be understood, if I could find the words and unstop this mute mouth — would anyone read them anyway? I mean, really read. I am fairly certain that they cannot be words that can be heard, so I do not dare speak.
I have for a very long time tried to personally touch these thoughts, hoping to better understand people who struggled in much the same way as I do now to express inexpressible thoughts. Now that I am on that path, I understand their struggle. There are no words, we need a new language altogether to get at the words needed to explain explain explain. Maybe, I think these thoughts can only be expressed sideways, with a slipstream sense.
After I slip into the wilds, do you think you could find me? Would you want to?
The buzz of insects over a mercuric lake…