The almanac says we are gaining 15 minutes of morning every few days. This is more than evident on my commute to work. Today the treeless woods were coated with a spattering of snow. I cannot describe it other than to say it possessed a Revolutionary War look to. One could easily imagine soldiers wide eyed, keyed up, hunched walking with awareness through those woods. It got me thinking of the revolution that has been building inside of me; my chest and gut. My dreams that walk through the forest of myself.
It was the fallen wood that truly touched me. Due to all the storms and weather pattern changes, the grounds had been saturated for weeks on end, and like pulling weeds in the garden after rain, very large trees lay sideways with their entire root system exposed. They seem to be waiting for a Homer-like giant to come along and replant them.
I suppose, one day, when I have a wooded lot next to my farm, fallen wood will be work half done. I always did have a problem even watching trees being felled. Watching majesty fall. So by a process of cosmic natural selection - I could walk in the woods, chainsaw in hand, and render those fallen fuel.
Yesterday at work of all places I had a spirited talk with a fellow prepper of sorts about hunting small game, large game and the spiritual mindset of slaughter.
I recalled with a shudder the Christmas party I attended last December. It was a popular restaurant where they served Rodizio. Basically it's cooking small portions of fine protein en mas then serving them on skewers - round and round they go til you are stuffed and cannot take anymore. Scallops wrapped in bacon. Quail. Filet Mignon. Strip Steak. Huge shrimp (oxymoron?) Pork. And on and on it went. Though it was enjoyable and a feast to end a wonderful bang on work year, there was a feeling of guilt that came over me. Were these animals raised correctly? Were they cared for? Did they get much sun? Good food? Was there end speedy and humane? And why in the hell were we eating so much food, when so many went hungry? I put my fork down and sighed...these animals died for our enjoyment. I felt disrespectful of their existence.
It was then that I saw the glaring difference of a hunt, a prayer, the gift given by God and the natural earth for the sustenance. The feeling of knowing YOU had a place in that circle and that YOU as well may be dinner one day. The removal of this reverence bothered me. There is still prayer of thanks for food on the table, but sometimes it seems shallow. And words not meant are truly not words worth saying.
I work in a job...not directly in the day to day provision of my life and that of my family. And while we are so called 'advanced' something has gotten lost along the way. There is a reason I want to leave my car on the side of the road and walk into that forest that lies in wait. There is a reason I have urges to forage in a sense or at the very least pull my dinner from the earth. There is a reason I want to be close to what I eat, to give thanks for it, to use as much of it as possible, and never take for granted the slaughter that may take my family through a harsh dark winter. There is a reason I want to touch the wood that will splinter and pop and change to grant me heat. There is a reason I wish to know how to take the plant, grind the wheat and bake the loaf. I am no longer afraid of these reasons.
The human race has made great strides. We have climbed from a scratching toil of existence but I cannot help if in some ways that has been to our detriment and ultimately the demise of our soul.
I sought a soothsayer, a vision woman once and when I asked of my children, she had simply stated 'when they chose you they chose well'. In that realm I am enough...more than enough. In this realm I am somewhat bewildered. It's akin to asking a warrior that's itching for the battle to sit still in a church and pray for the best. For the warrior the best is blade drawn on the field making it happen...or die trying.
My prayers and gratitude are best through sweat, through tears, through the laughter of my children when their bellies are full and sleep is soon. And sometimes life grants us those reprieves.
Everything that was once roaming has the essence of the Call of the Wild. I've had a growing ache for what I believe is the call of my Authentic Wild Self. My genetic lottery of a Scot dictates I am clan like to the core with a blood that runs thick for it's own. We are scattered now, but should a calling go up we will arrive. My make has granted me freakish strength, sturdiness, a calf muscle no fashion boot would fit and no rocky climb could tame. I've a heart that quickens in the natural realm and beats like the drum of a warrior, a fighter, a memory, and a touch of the eternal. There is a stirring when I hear the pipes, their sound carried by the mist over the mossy rocks. Our kind is the kind that is true, that you want in your proverbial corner. What I cannot seem to get right in the ways of the heart, my cup runneth over in the ways of the battle. It speaks to me in dreams, running like water to soak my existence.
Like the waxing and waning moon, the vegetable and the seed, the night and the day, change is always. I will have land and woods. I don't know how, I just know yes. I do know these yearnings are bigger than me and they must come to fruition. Right now I have my feet in today, in this existence - but I hear the call - my soul is in the forest I pass...breathing...waiting for my flesh to join it. To become whole. To become authentic.
I am who I am and I make no apologies...not any more.
I have had dreams, and I have had nightmares.
I overcame the nightmares, because of my dreams
-Jonas Salk
These are the thoughts I have, in the half light of morning, on my way to work
Namaste
