Dreaming can hurt sometimes in this dystopian realm. It really can. Leading us away from our path rather than closer to it. Even warriors and kings can fall prey to a darker kind of dreaming. Doubt, fear and resentment. Kara, my love, I don’t want you to ever be held hostage by those thoughts and feelings. They can quickly become a nightmare. A private hell of personal pain. I know what it is to feel lost like that, my songstress. To feel utterly haunted. Like your inner world is nothing like the world of others. I’ve often felt like I was forced to live my early life in twilight, at the shadow’s edge, while all around me others got to walk openly in the sun. It hurts me to see anyone suffering like that, because I know the toll it can take. But it hurts most with those I love. So, princess, consider these words pre-emptive. A kiss from a guardian and friend. Our dreams are full of private imagery and metaphors. Part religion, part poetry. With enough insight these inner worlds of quiet grief can be grasped by those around us, but sometimes they simply don’t care enough to try. And I get it, of course. People are afraid of what they don’t understand. But some of us don’t have a choice. When we close our eyes we see strange stories unfold. Myths and legends truer than they know. Or we hear melodies and fragments of holy songs yet unsung. It hurts when a soul is gifted with this kind of vision and nobody cares to look. I struggled too with this when I was young. I didn’t want to frighten people with the things I’d seen. I didn’t want to push them away. So I hid my strange dreaming. I covered my eyes. Any form of clairsentience is unsettling to the small-minded. I’ve been called all sorts of names because I know things I shouldn’t. Deceiver, occultist, devil’s ilk. What hurts the most is that I was never any of those things. I was just a child trying to understand this gift. Or curse, as I often thought of it back then. A lonely little boy who could often peer into the unseen realms in ways that others couldn’t. I learned very quickly to keep my mouth shut. The funny thing is I had always believed in God. In love, kindness and courage. I still do. People like me have always been called sorcerers, magicians and witches. Throughout the ages we have been hunted, enslaved and burned by dark forces pretending to be paragons of light. Yes, I know how to change certain things, how to warp the visible spectrum, but I am an artist first and foremost. A mystic and a poet. I have no interest in using such abilities to control anyone. Those vicious, unseen wraiths still hate me for trying to spread compassion and hope. Let me make myself absolutely clear. I do not traffic with the damned. Because I know how real a nightmare can become. You see, dreaming isn’t just a passive, frivolous thing we do whilst we sleep. It’s something we’re always doing. It is how we build the manifest, visible world. We walk amidst the fruits of our imagination, always. So, let us walk with faith and grace. I know you already grasp much of this, Kara. But your chevalier wants you to never forget. This is a war of dreaming. A War of Imagination. You have a great purpose in this spiritual battle, my beautiful keeper of song. You have friends and a genuine relationship with your Creator. Our Father. And, you have a sword if you want it. The shining sword of all ages. I was drowning, Kara. In rivers and lakes of despair. The worst times of my entire life. But then I heard you. I saw you. A vision beneath the water. You stayed with me and took my hand. You sang to me. And then you gifted me with divine fire, bringing me back from the brink. I will always love you for that, my angel. My Lady. We both know there is a greater king than all of us. Love is the language of that king, our Father. It’s how he dreamt us into being, and the world. We are made in his image. So, dream well, my angel. Honour the gifts he gave you. I know you will. Don’t let anyone else define the breadth of your vision or your song.
Neither shall they say, Lo here! or, lo there! for, behold, the kingdom of God is within you.
Friday, 20 September 2024
Monday, 16 September 2024
The King and I
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.