once again, dream and thought and pathwalking in the night. oddness, but not without meaning.
she whispered the telling as if there were yet ears that might hear it ill. we sat huddled and close about the old campfire and leaning in, rapt and eyes wide for visions seen in flame. she spoke of ancient history and dreams shattered, how dark tragedy befell the people and they were set to ruin, with only some rare few managing the most narrow of escapes.
i had heard these words before. we all had. but as is common amongst people, the emotion of the moment often impedes. we become incensed for the telling and swivel like leaves in a good wind, believing in right and wrong, believing in good and evil, content to be inflamed or outraged for that which seems ourselves who imagines being in the situation and shudders for which outcome they would find.
as i said, i had heard these words before. not a cycle ago, in fact. a lone and despairing man, stumbling into the compound in the night, in tatters, rambling, bruised, bloodied, and all but unconscious. we took him in, of course, tended his wounds, saw his body healed. but there were nothing to be done for his mind.
then, as now, we sat encircled by the ritual fire…. a place of dream speaking and far seeing, a place where past, present, and future were the same and admitted as illusion, all. some would speak of their paths and the walking, others of things seen in the deep places, still others of what was found in the cold, wide forever of space. all speaking, welcome, we stitched humble being from it – our remembrance, honor given, and our mindful thoughts a dowry of hope for our people and, indeed, all beings.
the man, stuttering in his rush to be heard, spoke as well of ancient history and shattered dreams. of betrayal and evil that undermined and weakened the greatest of hopes and set all things to ashes, dust, impossibly broken. he wept as he spoke, and pulled at his hair and clothing. desolate he was, and no manner of comfort could be given him. when we pointed out that which remained, and spoke of the forward looking, he seemed as if offended. there was nothing for him but the memories past, and as he sat in our circle, he was as if one blind…. clinging to ghosts, he murmured of loss and pain and his inconsolableness was a bramble he seemed almost delighted to set among us.
eventually, feeling our words and presence were, perhaps, it’s own bloody thorn, we gave to him pack animals and blankets, clothing and trinkets to trade, weaponry to defend himself, and the blessings of our mothers and sisters. his was a suffering acceptance, with the perking happiness that is like a child receiving a cookie… quick to arrive and as well to pass.
he rode out without looking back. we sensed there were to be many such visits along his path, for we discovered the following week his hiding place, where the markings and debris indicated we were not the first place the despairing traveler had plied his trade of cunning.
all the same, the woman now speaking i could not condemn for it. perhaps we are such fools as to vest trust in all who appear trustworthy, but it would seem a great loss to the world that such ability should pass. we are the keeper of innocence and sacred truths, scryers of sun, moon, and starlight, it does not seem proper that shadow be permitted to fall over such things.
there are plenty to be the skeptic, the world is rife with those who will judge long before words are traded, let along actions set to support or belie them. in this place, by design and will, we are infinitely hopeful, devotees of compassion. by birth and bond, we serve to keep these alive in the world. and so, for it, regardless any experience, all who reach our doors find sanctuary and sustenance.
the woman has fallen silent, and i ponder that which the man of last visit and this one share in common. it is obvious from their tellings that they speak of the same happenings. one from the view of the overcome and one from the view of the oppressors. it has ever been intriguing to me how the same event will seem so very different depending upon who honors it with a telling. one view, a hero, and the other, villain most foul. one view, a defeat, and the other, sweetest victory.
it is oft said the victor writes history. for those content to read of it, this is undoubtedly so. but there are many histories in the world, carried not in letters, but by minds and hearts. we compile these things, make of them our tellings, and through them, keep the sacred things alive in the world.
for this reason, our doors remain unlocked and our kitchens, open. interestingly enough, for all there are those who will scheme to deprive us, there is never a one in need to whom we are not willing to give. it is a known thing that those who believe themselves undeserving will be the first to scheme… and compassion demands the appearance of ignorance on our part. such loathing as is present in these actions cannot benefit from confrontation. the mayors and leaders of the surrounding areas have long and long scoffed at us as fools for it… but there is not a one who will speak ill of our presence, our people, or our devotion to these ends.
we are, of course, a remnant. survivors of this very ancient history that we so often hear twisted and presented to us as objective truth. there is a third aspect of any such tale, the victor, the defeated, and the witness. we are they who keep memory, they who mark paths for others to find, and walkers of the deep dreaming… the place in which all things are one, and together, what we know as existence is made.
the woman has begun to nod across the fire from me, we hum soft and tender tunes to ease her passage into the dreaming. together, lift and carry her to her slumbering place, then turn each to our own. these words she brings, they are mindfully recorded, anchored with others that speak of the same, the better to provide a full accounting and remembrance. on the morrow, they will be laid to script and the accounting adjusted to include them.
for now, i am weary, and turn me to the pillow, my own path this night to follow. there waits for me in the deep dreaming one i adore, and i am hungry for his company. rest you well, when you go to rest… and in all ways and for always, may the spirit of tenderness entice you.