“Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances.”

10 August 2008


Bright Idea #71: "All good things are wild, and free."
"It is right it should be so;/Man was made for joy and woe;/And when this we rightly know,/Thro' the world we safely go./Joy and woe are woven fine,/A clothing for the soul divine./Under every grief and pine/Runs a joy with silken twine." Yesterday at the Faire letting the energy flow free silent between smelling of resinous oils and horses the sound of bells and laughter in the throng i look up into the trees my spirit dancing over the heads of people firmly attached to their surfaces my very sweat a purification from humdrum. the dragon dancer the mute swan the anonymous throng that met my eye with nothing but a linen shift and a beautiful vibe. i just wanted to float free of the obligations of flesh and desire. i just wanted to steep in the energy of the glorious afternoon and we learned more about each other and ourselves and even though it worked like an anchor my coracle desperate to cut away from the rope i gained wisdom for the next time. someone ran through the rain last night setting off small explosions and the morning was beautiful bright lovely shade dappled like a good grey pony. the boys went off with J. to be fishers and im here in the rabble and ramble of Grey Haven listing off the duties and chores all the while knowing Take A Walk will win. the life and death struggle of attendance to obligation vs. surrender to evanescence. give me the moment and everything will see to itself. in my dream i was sick to death and among the treacherous everything corrupted cast away but ego sickness and waves of craving and shame. i all wanted was love and honesty and wondered why i was so hard to find.
"And if the question were asked: What is more real, the mundane or the sublime? most would hesitate before they gave an answer. On the one side, details: say, the aftermath of a breakfast, dirty chipped plates in the sink, their rims encrusted with egg yolk. Against this, the unnameable: small aching heart with boasts, what can you know? Outside the cage of everything we ever heard or saw, beyond, outside, above, there lies the real, hiding as long as we shall live, there stretch and trail the millions of names of God burning across the eons. When all through this our end will come before we even know the names of us.

For many the egg yolk prevails." -L.M.

"Love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is done well." -V.V.G.

"The perfection of the Absolute where all Becoming stops and pure Being, immutable, timeless, unchanging, hangs forever like a ripe peach upon the bough." -E.A.

"...and the whole incident was incredibly frazzling and angst-rod and filled almost a whole mead notebook and is here recounted in only its barest psycho-skeletal outline." -D.F.W.

"At the top of the mountain, we are all snow leopards." -H.S.T.

"Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live." -D.T.
"Cometh a voice: My children, hear; From the crowded street and the close-packed mart I call you back with my message clear, back to my lap and my loving heart. Long have ye left me, journeying on by range and river and grassy plain, to the teeming towns where the rest have gone - come back, come back to my arms again. So shall ye lose the foolish needs that gnaw your souls; and my touch shall serve to heal the fretted nerve. Treading the turf that ye once loved well, instead of the stones of the city's street, ye shall hear nor din nor drunken yell, but the wind that croons in the ripening wheat. I that am old have seen long since ruin of palaces made with hands for the soldier-king and the priest and prince whose cities crumble in desert sands. But still the furrow in many a clime yields softly under the ploughman's feet; still there is seeding and harvest time, and the wind still croons in the ripening wheat. The works of man are but little worth; for a time they stand, for a space endure; but turn once more to your mother - Earth, my gifts are gracious, my works are sure. Instead of the strife and pain I give you peace, with its blessing sweet. Come back, come back to my arms again, for the wind still croons in the ripening wheat."
-John Sandes, The Earth-Mother (excerpt, 1918)