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.