Sunday, February 23, 2014
You Know That You Were Born For More Than What Machines Provide
"I command the darkness to leave this space
And out, and out, these demons will race."
I command the sage with a wide blade of banishing, hurling it forward as the smoke billows in my hands. I am not quiet. I am not polite. I get angry and vicious. My voice is sharper than the blade I wield, for I know that belief and demanding are the only ways to get anything out of life, and the matter of smudging my apartment of negativity is no different.
I move from room to room, no space or object or entry is left untouched. I tell the mirror that it is not allowed to harm my self-love, and command the shadows to take flight. When I'm finished, the sage branch does something I've never seen before. It pops in an orange glow of a spark, bright like a flash, and its like the pressure equalizes or a window has been thrown open full of clean spring air. I breathe and feel the exhaustion, but its the satisfied kind, the sort of heavy breathing I once felt upon finishing a day of hay work for a local farm or walking four miles to the factory. The ache is a pleasant sort of thrum, but there is no time to rest.
The sun is setting fast and I need to catch it before it does.
I kneel before the altar with a new blade in hand. The banishing has done its chore, and now the summoner must finish the job.
At first, its difficult work. The line is far and I'm tired. At first it resists and I find myself speaking not in words but in sounds, the snarls and growls of an angry cat demanding obedience and submission. Finally, just as the sky turns orange, it does. Not with a force like a blow, but a caress and a whisper that races up my hands holding the knife to the sky. Not a shiver but a heady embrace, taking me in and pulling me close in the sinew and spaces from deep within, as if there are unexplored spaces between flesh and bone that hold something I have not yet tapped, something waiting to stir that only now rears its head.
It feels like a miracle and a battle cry, the divine and the war path.
Its like coming home.
Its never done this before either, but it recognizes me, whispers my soul's name and pay's homage to my presence there. The line is no longer a din of noise, but a singular voice in a quiet but raging river of life, one that does not try to drown or fill or destroy, but a presence of movement and possibility. One that is not malicious, is not threatening, is not dark or light or good or evil. It simply is. It is calm and it is pleasant, and it is honorable, and it is pure.
And it does not ask for sacrifice, or pain, or servitude. The voice fills my head like the pleasant sounds of waves underwater, the cascade of perfect movement, the push and pull, a rhythm older than time itself, asking only what it is I desire.
I ask to never doubt my beliefs. I ask for the strength to do what is right. I ask for vision that guides me in the direction of my dreams without straying for a moment, without taking two steps back.
I ask for everything.
I want it all.
I feel the spaces between stirring, shoving against the edges of the insides, like the gentle headbutt of a house cat, but far greater, far older, and far more powerful. She rears her head and roars proudly, a great thing of black and gold and white, neither purity nor darkness, but simply life and all it holds. Life is what pours from the shadows within, moving from the tips of my fingers to the ends of my toes as perfect and true as the water, as wild and free as the raging river, as boundless and deep as the rolling seas.
Promise is what it brings.