Written Long Ago

What lesson is repeating itself?

At times I am a stone, still and hidden for lifetimes. At others, I am found, pocketed and saved as a relic or remembrance of a lovely walk. When do I dance in the center of it all, full of gossamer grace, not held but beheld, as healing filtered light? Well, that is the lesson – her answers found in songs written long ago.

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Melancholy air sits at the top of August. Despite the way land holds this heat, I can feel the change of seasons. One waits on the threshold with grass goddesses and hushed dunes. Let us sway. Let us pray.

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My latest teacher was a storyteller. Kerri ní Dochartaigh in Thin Places said, “good seanchaidhthe – storytellers – never really tell you anything.” My teller's stories came as close as my own breath to changing everything. What did I hear? The stories are gone now. They spilled out of his mouth, danced with my soul, took a last spin around the room, and went up the chimney as ash from our fire. Yet these lines – here – speak of him. I can't tell you anything else about this except, now I am just here, pen in my hand, writing my own story.

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I'm ready to feel something other than my past – to know something other than the space between heaven and earth.

I think my teacher told me a story about going to hell; I've been there already and now realize how very tired I am.