Sometimes
I think about the strength it takes to change, or lead. To be a way-finder, or
a lantern for the lost. I think of all the little ones standing in that
numinous place between worlds. A twilight neither dawn nor dusk. Haunted
by expectation. Wondering what it might take to be enough. I think of
those sad, frightening moments when a young soul begins to comprehend the savagery of the sensate world. We were all one among those young. Unborn and
full of bright conviction. Barely understanding the logic of this vast dreamtime
yet sensing the sheer power of its storytelling. The little angel trembles like
a butterfly, tiny fingers curling around the hilt of a fractal sword. Drawing
forth like a self-birthing chrysalis. Into infinite air. The dreams of a
thousand children in the angel's palm. A chorus of sword and stone, arcing
endlessly through the myriad. Whosoever, the legends tell. But, in truth, we
are all chosen. Each child is special, ever-changing, feeling their way through
the dark toward a greater destiny. The anguish only begins when the adults
around us forget those moments of metaphor. Elders can be so thoughtless, can't
they? Unimaginative and cruel. And so, the butterflies have no choice but to
mimic what they see. They doubt the truth of M'ithriin's forge. Or Nimue's
waters. They fold their wings away, turning their backs on their
birthright. I too tried to sacrifice my innocence upon the dark
altar of the adult world. A faux rites-of-passage we've all endured, some
earlier than others. Those moments when we were encouraged to crush our last
fairytale-ember until mere ash remained and we silently wept at the loss. A
death we mustn't openly grieve, of course. "Put away childish things now.
All your heroes are dead, and the new teachers have no need of
magic." Well, I tried to be that child. I tried to internalise those
horrifying sentiments. But I couldn't. I don’t think many of us could. Thank
God. My memory of the sword was never truly slain. The dreaming cruciform that
that cleaved Golgotha. Pulled from the stone of the hill like a kiss from a
poet's skull. Excalibur is a promise and a sacrifice. The most loving form of sacrifice. The
true royalty of the heart. All poets know it deep down. We tell stories about it
still, don't we? That place where fiction and fact intermingle. Where earth and
heaven meet, exchanging memories and dreams. Sometimes I think about the
strength it takes to lead like that. A lantern on the hill. Reciprocity, aglow
for aeons. My dreaming was saved by that kind of love. Peace, but a sword. My
innocence safeguarded along with my future. The future of us all, I suspect.
And so, I wield the sword despite my fears. I teach where I can through symbol
and sign, despite my incomplete knowledge and imperfect grammar. We mustn't be
afraid to change or grow. A true way-finder was once just a young prince or princess.
A hesitant child trembling at the threshold, armed only with glimpses and
stories to fortify them. I do hope these words help you find your way, little
ones. All of us, tiny fingers curling around the hilt of a fractal sword. A
promise of hope. A legacy of love. That we might be an inspiration to our kinfolk,
adding our contribution to this beautiful, wondrous art.
