Arrow of thunder

Push through and on the other side it is lighter - like the gauntlet that the metaphysicist had to go through - the torments intensity of that place is where I am - what I’ll do. A student with Jacob Boeme - thats me - looking to the cosmic Christ as my guide - I will arrive - safe and sturdy in my own body - warrior, king, magician - and lover. The lover has been so alive - taken over really - thrown the palace into disarray as he follows his Sidhe woman where she beckons - dangerous territory as Finn McColl discovered with his deer lady love. Now I ground, sitting in a full bath - feeling my greater self in presence - knowing my grief - embracing what more still may come - but at least somewhat mythically awake to the passage of this - my own life and the guides - and the great stories before me that can guide this little boat down a river that doesn’t end up beached. The tussock blows in the wind and sounds my name - sounds a warning - to leave the forrest - or else to make proper ritual and ask permission for further engagement. And so I do - kneel down before an old tree - ask her permission to take a leaf - standing in trance within the grace of the forrest - weep - then bury that mountain stone I’ve carried in my pocket for over a week - thinking I’d deliver to to my mother. But it was for the forrest - the Emerald green of Ireland - placed in the bosom of this forrest of great power. The silence of the bush life here is creepy - then the soar of the Kererū - always a joy to my heart. The eastern rosellas have made a nest up the back and are now resident - the garden I have half weeded - even though we are leaving this place and will not receive its bounty. It is good for me to attend to the soil - take my tears to the earth and mix and mingle these forces to give something back to what made me, made thee.