Sunday, June 07, 2009

Made Whole By the Trouble That Vexes and Stirs Me

Wod is me, for I have been troubled and vexed by the Lord of Winds, who troubles me that I might be stirred into action, that I might riddle within my breast the troubles of the world and tap the poetry within me to meet it. For life is perplexing, and larger than the small mind, which struggles to encompass it, yet only the breath which blows upon the winds may know the greater mysteries, and we were not meant to be settled with truths that ought unsettle us, but to go forth on journeys that bring us face to face with the self we must become through strange, ungoverned encounter with the other, for only in bewilderness are we unsettled enough to find our own. There we belong, beyond the confusion, that eggs us forward to resolve the contradictions that arise in the sea of complexities whose waves clash and crash upon the shores of history. Many have wept before their destiny, which unfolds from within, yet oft is revealed from without, for its great demands compel us to grow beyond whatever we have become to know more in the drawing-out of self the world evokes. A wyrd unfulfilled gnaws like the deepest guilt, while oft others scold us out of our heimsk clinging to known abodes, when unsettling adventure calls out our name in roll-call to heed the call of orlog.

Yea, many times in the night, tossed and turned, I have asked the Lord of Breath for new inspiration that I might meet the call of creative evolution, and pay off the scyld purchased in my favor and credit in the allotment of fates by ancestors who laid down treasures that I and other children might inherit portions of time and space upon the earth wherein we might come to full fruition. Those ample allotments were not given without expectation of gift returned, for promise was seen and made by disir who egg us on to do that good potentialed within us. The warriors of old knew there was a deed that must be done for the tribe to pay off the debt incurred through birth, for great treasures were not given that our fields might lay fallow, nor made barren by being salted with ill deeds. Every gardener blunders in the learning curve of cultivating a homestead, but we are asked to be good, not perfect. Yet they would have us, holy ancestors, flourish in the plots laid out with stored-up treasures given to the dead for great deeds, as investment that we might seed new deeds for profit to the clan and tribe, indeed showing forth with actions to the whole world what might be done with one garden called an ample lifetime. What we are able to bring to life is of strong import, and ancestors long for their gifts of fertility to be met by our own, that the cycle might grow and flourish.

Empires rise and fall, and names and tongues and tribes rise and flourish, then sink back into the rapids of generations. God masks himself in many a guise, and Love is known by many names, taking to herself the poetic soul that dares to move out from home and heed the call to deliver fertility from the bondage set upon it by misfortune, while God takes to him lone warriors who have fought with skill and true heroism to deliver their tribes from evil. The cycle goes on even as names and concepts change. Stirrer-of-Winds smiles upon the conceptual revolutions, even as we breathe in little breaths of larger gusts of winds, capturing meaning in breaths and sounds while the wind swirls and twirls throughout the larger world.

In the forests of the world lie great holiness, so strong it may bewilder, even as it calls the soul poetic out from foolish smallness into deep and broad peace that stretches the mind to meet the majesty of the hills and expanses. In tumbling the broader frith of the woods within, our minds grow as if larger souls had planted their seeds within, stretching and cracking through the concrete of the small sands of our mind. Go to the woods, the Gods say ; go to find wholeness your small plots of sand and sea cannot know. Bring sand to the mountain, bring water to the ocean, and let the breath of mind blend with winds.

The first king rested quietly with the birds, gently riding through the forests, gathering speech and song of feathered friends, until that time the crisis pulled him out from deep meditation to gather militias to meet the threat of invasion, for he had been specially fated to lead his folk against those who had surrendered to tyranny and trampled upon the folk rights. In the forests it became clear what battles he must meet to pay the debt credited by rich and noble ancestors, and though our battles be not as big as that mighty and kind king of old, there are struggles we are called into, and battles that must be waged against encroaching forces, which would swallow everything wholesome, including the woodlands, to feed the werewolves bred by greed and visions of trauma.

Men fail to penetrate beneath the surface visions to hear the rivers gurgling and winds blow through the woods, for earth speaks not in speech but in rustlings, and the wild mind must be waked to hear these sounds whose tongues speak deeper sagas of ages and seasons, and frith in the hollow clearings of the world. Yet we have been locked into words and decrees that bind the mind, and thrall us to our cells and settings, so the Master of Restless Breezes stirs us that trouble might vex our bonds and burst our manacles of mind, for bewildered, then, we might hear the earth speak for the first time. Earth, who is Beloved of God, and herself lays claim to the queenship of the heavens.

O Souls who weave homes with the wattle of verses, awaken from the ill spells of torpor which suppress your vital movement! Stir from the poison that makes you still, the languishing that melts into status quo, and know further! Grow further than defeats of those settled down beyond their wandering will, and redeem the debts imposed on ancestors, who longing to rush wild with wind, were ensnared into tombs called towns, the old work of giants, where barbarian spirits are bled of their links to the land and blendings with wild elf-folk which make a people strong and noble. All is overturned in time, for the shaping of wyrd turns upside-down the world beneath the heavens, and all that seems unshakeable turns ghostlike, as if it never was. Contemplate the ruins left by the ages and ask if the walls built by giants are eternal, or the winds which blow everywhere, then find where your loyalties may lie. Something asks you to speak a new word, unheard, an ancient word, a word the hills and meadows long to be sung, a redemption of old seeds tossed out and gone to seed in weedlands of the heath, where seeming waste to the towns, the old knowledge lies buried, not in books, but in barrows, whence the out-sitting soul might hear. But first listen to the sounds of rustling movement rushing through your life. There is such desperation that you might fruit, for so many stocks fail to come to seed before their time has passed. What troubles you moves you if you would, for great sagas lie unanswered and unfulfilled, left unwritten in the sands, waiting for you to take up your pen and write in the blood of your vitality the deeds that speak the ancient song. Know that nothing shall meet you but the storm, and in the heart of the storm you shall find the stillness you seek. For winds are unseen, and thus the house of world may seem empty, but all that moves is blown by the rustling of this seeming emptiness that blows from the mouth of God. Hear his words speak wisdom.


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