The Deep, Old Things of this World
The deep, old things of this world, that have grown comfortable with themselves, and weathered the storm, and joined the bedrock : let these be elders.
It took a long time to grow this world. It has been through many tremors. Lost stories lay in the land, and every being carries a tale in its body. Old things carry the wisdom of depth. They have taken their due time to become by learning to cohere. They know the way of things. They know the way of wyrd.
A mountain, a boulder, a redwood tree, the sky ; a lake, a tortoise, a herd of elephants, and hawks circling in the wind. Herbs sprouting through cracks in the concrete, kelp and plankton tossing at sea, lichen growing on the rock. Rivers cutting bedrock through slow, moving groove and etching the canyons in slow motion. The crash of salt-water sud as the tide churns and beats the sand.
How long did it take each one to mature? How long did it take each one to find its place, to leave uncertainty and learn to surf flux, in order to grow old, to pass over the crests of time? They know. They remember in their bones the struggle. Often they still struggle. They resonate knowledge, and wisdom, and empathy for small, young, little beings like ourselves who are still trying to find our place in this world. It takes a long time.
The soil, the stone, the moistness that trickles through humus, breeding warmth and microbes, sinking down to aquifers. The warmth of the sun, the glow of moonlight. Into these, you shall melt, and you will speak through the saga of the earth, scion of soil and stone and sun. And when your spirit rejoins the stone, that resonating bone that hollow tones its low and lonely keen throughout the cosmos, crickets, such small things, flickers of eternity, will fiddle for eons above where melting bones lay. And you shall be part of the deep, old things.
The deep, old things of this world : let these be elders.
It took a long time to grow this world. It has been through many tremors. Lost stories lay in the land, and every being carries a tale in its body. Old things carry the wisdom of depth. They have taken their due time to become by learning to cohere. They know the way of things. They know the way of wyrd.
A mountain, a boulder, a redwood tree, the sky ; a lake, a tortoise, a herd of elephants, and hawks circling in the wind. Herbs sprouting through cracks in the concrete, kelp and plankton tossing at sea, lichen growing on the rock. Rivers cutting bedrock through slow, moving groove and etching the canyons in slow motion. The crash of salt-water sud as the tide churns and beats the sand.
How long did it take each one to mature? How long did it take each one to find its place, to leave uncertainty and learn to surf flux, in order to grow old, to pass over the crests of time? They know. They remember in their bones the struggle. Often they still struggle. They resonate knowledge, and wisdom, and empathy for small, young, little beings like ourselves who are still trying to find our place in this world. It takes a long time.
The soil, the stone, the moistness that trickles through humus, breeding warmth and microbes, sinking down to aquifers. The warmth of the sun, the glow of moonlight. Into these, you shall melt, and you will speak through the saga of the earth, scion of soil and stone and sun. And when your spirit rejoins the stone, that resonating bone that hollow tones its low and lonely keen throughout the cosmos, crickets, such small things, flickers of eternity, will fiddle for eons above where melting bones lay. And you shall be part of the deep, old things.
The deep, old things of this world : let these be elders.
posted by SiegfriedGoodfellow at 4:05 AM
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