Stillness and chaos, Moonlight and night wishes Sunrise shrewd in clouds and mist
Fire and Ice,
Dreams and the beyond Forged in steel, bound by flowers, like a star in the wind
Where is the dream? What is real?
Nothing is a dream. Nothing is real. It is all just perspectives. And perspectives can be turned, changed, tuned.
Whether we are awake during the day, sleeping and dreaming during the night, or the other way around nobody really knows.
How would you prove it?
When you are busy wanting to prove something you miss all the cues, all the goings on, all the “living” in the periphery of your space of focus so how can you know ?
What would happen if you invited yourself to stay open, to stay really, really curious to all of the above or maybe even something entirely different being what specifies “real”? Who knows? I mean, who really knows, really?
Speak love in to being, the starlings are back. Rime and frozen windows, magic is here to stay.
Wanting to do more than you can might be seen as virtue. It can also kill your spirit. Not seeing what you are doing, while only seeing what you percieve to inherently lack, that is not what this thing you call life is about.
Speak love in to being. With every word you create. Don’t bash. Re-create.
See the wonder in her eyes. Let her love you, by loving her back in all the same ways she loves you. All of you. Also the impatient, wounded parts. She sees them, tilts her head, tries to understand them. It might be out of her world and being, but she does. She does understand them. And she loves you. All of you.
“Really let all the stardust and particles shed through your life. Don’t try to understand what I am saying. Feel it and dance through it all. Rest and move and rest and move again . All is an eternal dance and you choose the tunes. You really do. What you set your reciever to is what you recieve. Just like a radio. Juice FM or Downbeat Dread ? Sparkle and Space or Beat The Shit Out Of My Brain ? I can go on and on saying the same thing in tens of thousands different ways, yet the message will always be the same. Choose. Act. Then choose again.”
She put the feathery inkpen down. Blew out the candle, opened the window to the winternight. Exhaled a dust of white foam in the starry sky.
Reaching for the skies as the wick dies down, curling inwards, imploding
The end of the end of the end.
You see, the light needs to die before it can be reborn. That is what it does. That is what light is. Swallowed by darkness it hides underneath the ground. Germinates. Sprouts.
The darkness cannot be fought. It needs space. It needs to be given space.
You see, eventually darkness will feel so alone that it can do nothing but invite light in. Make space for it. Dance with it. Live with it. Mix with it. Mingle.
The light needs to die to be re-born. Darkness is the space where the light grows. Without darkness, no rest. Without rest, no movement.
You see, flow is what happens in the space between two points, two destinations. Music is what happens in the space between two notes.
“Everyone heals in their own way. How you heal is up to you. Up to you to find, to feel, to sense, to belong to. Yes, to belong to. There is nothing to figure out, it is all in the heart, in the Earth, held by the sky and Space. That which you belong to. That which is also your healing.”
She changed her seat. Got up. Twirled the thread between her fingers. Spun it around her hands.
“The gift of healing is the gift of seeing”, she continued. Her eyes were wide and warm. Her breath travelled far in the cold air filling the cottage.
“Magic is a choice. Seeing is choice. Living is a choice. What you choose is what you see. The more often you consciously choose, seeing itself chooses you. Just don’t ponder too much on that last part. Go out and choose!”
She swung her arms open towards the door, motioning me to get ready to leave.
“Remember, there is no horizon. Remember, the horizon is the horizon”
We went into the woods to be baptized by the trees. Over and over again. Bowing under ash, dancing under cedar, reaching for oak, hiding under willow, laughing with pine, sitting under beech, healing through birch, cocooning under elm. Every breath a baptism.
Do you remember how the trees actually found us? You wanted to head for the ocean and I pulled you towards the trees. Do you remember biking under them to get to the open fields? I sang to make you stop and sense them there right underneath their canopy.
Do you remember how their leaves turned yellow, bright, red, golden, orange ? Like they showed us the multidimensionality of every single essence which grows. The sides which turn in the wind and look different from every direction.
Do you remember them bearing fruit? And how every new entry to ,and every exit out of , the woods had its ritual of me devouring at least one of those fruits?
Do you remember that there is actually not a lot to remember aside from that we were, we are, together? That it was how our journey together started? And it will never end. As it is a journey on a thread of many journeys. Might feel like it has a beginning and an end, yet all it has is a continuity. A continuity of that which holds it. Life. Light. Power. The Force.
Do you remember driving through all the trees to find me? To pick me up? How it felt like home once you entered the pine forests? How you loved the birches, ashes, oaks et al and that love turned to passion and homecoming when the pines started lining the road?
That is the continuity I want you to follow.
The continuity of the continuity of space, passion, life. You. Trinity. Power, Stillness and Presence. Smack right in the continuity of Space, Passion and Life.
If that ain’t an instruction for the New Chapter, I don’t know what is. And I, I know everything. I am Starlight.
“The space between space is who you are, is where you are. Right there, in the space of the space between space. Feel it! Can you sense it? Can you hear it? Can you step in to it?”
The voice was like a hymn being carried through the glistening landscape of ice and sunshine.
Of course she could feel it! But how do you step in to something which is already there? Something which has always been there? Something which will always be there?
“It’s a just a matter of disconnect and reconnect”, the voice seemed arrive through the candles in the window.
She moved closer to the house at the end of the road. The dancing flames of the 14 armed chandeliers seemed to be the source of this knowing voice.
Who lives here? Whose house is it?
She had walked past many times in fall when she was out foraging for mushrooms and the last berries of the season, but never had she noticed this cottage. Grey logs stacked on top of each other in the most exquisite way, red painted window frames, fir-smelling smoke coming out of the chimney dancing in the same rhythm as the candles in the window. A gleaming sled leaning against the porch.
As she passed the mailbox she noticed a little sign just underneath the lid. What name was on there? Trinity leaned in to read.
“The Blue Wizard”
The Blue Wizard? Was that a company name? Or some sort of artist name?
The front door blew open the same nanosecond she finished her train of thought, or train of questions. A Gandalf like figure stood in the opening, royal blue robes, long grey and white braided beard, embroidered hat on his head. He smiled and waved at her.
“What took you so long Trinity?”
How could he know her? And how could he possibly know her newly acquired name?
“This is not the time of playing small my dear Trinity”, Wizard chuckled as he greeted her. “It is the time to relax and be yourself”.
Wasn’t that an oxymoron?
“Absolutely not”, the Wizard replied as if she had spoken her thoughts out loud. “This is the secret instruction for everything in these times, this very time of the year, this very year. It is not the time to be playing small. It is the time to relax and be yourself. Just let that sink in for a while over some pine tea and saffron nut bread with us here in the stables behind the house.”
If I am really honest, in my heart of hearts I
will soar like a bird,
touching the snow covered mountain tops.
I will run downhill
paws deep in the mud,
grass
and moss
like a wolf,
chased by the wind, embraced by
moving space,
scents, a whiff
on a hunt
not for food but
for play,
for life,
for joy.
If I am really honest, in my heart of hearts I
will sing to the dawn, dance
in the shadows of morning
and eve.
I will not
succumb to this mediocre
numbness of
sitting
not to be sitting but
to be seated
where someone put you.
If I am really honest,
in my heart of hearts there is
no resistance,
no pull,
no push,
no tug,
no moving,
without purpose.
Like a reed in the wind,
its movement its purpose.
If I am really honest,
in my heart of hearts I will
throw out all the blankets,
the cushions,
the pillows and
their safety-nets.
In there, in my heart of hearts
is she,
her,
it,
them,
this,
whatever opens,
whatever closes
holding a candle,
enjoying the flickering of the
light,
the wind,
the rain,
the snow,
the sea,
the cold,
the sun,
the wintery, wintery skies.
If I am really honest, in my heart
of hearts
that mountaintop
is my home,
those woods my
backyard, my pantry
that river, my blood.
I sit there,
having chosen
to sit there
myself.
I live there.
Having chosen to live there
myself.
I breathe there,
having chosen to be there,
myself
In my heart of hearts.
Cecilia Götherström, April 23rd 2022
FlowerOfTheThunderAndLightning 