Posts Tagged ‘depths’

It was a grey and windy day, and only the first memory is a memory.

The sound of layers of jackets smacking in the wind, the moisture of wind-torn eyes on my cheek – or was it sideways rain? No, the sideways rain was with the Cailleach. She and the red haired kid in shorts looking sideways at the fekkin toorists were a day still far away, yet to come.

Another time, maybe. Here it was only me and the wind. And the tears that were not tears.

A grey and windy day, and I’d already waited five minutes.

Will this be the last time for me at the Hill of Tara? The last time I will stand upon the Mound of Hostages?

Only the first memory is a memory, all subsequent memories are memories of the memory, and now I am not standing upon the mound, I am cowering within it.

Cowering within it, with only the shaft of the sunrise once a year to tease me with thoughts of freedom and of me.

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Imagine the Dagda and Lugh and Ogma journeying across Ireland to find the oak of two blossoms. To regain their sovereignty. The harp. The music of the land.

They had no insurance. There was no store. They could not just make a new one. They had to regain their sovereignty. The music of the land.

High stakes. Life or death.

We  are on that same journey.

Journeying through time. Through our souls, we are journeying to recapture the harp, the music of the land from the Fomorians. We are journeying to recapture our sovereignty from ourselves.

High stakes.
Life or death.
Up to you.

Sometimes, in my mind, the gift of voice and word of Ogma are still powerful. Sometimes, he tells me the story:

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So now, let us prepare our boats and let us set out to sea. It is time for us to leave. But what am I saying? It is time for me to leave. It is time for you to leave. This journey must be taken alone. We are our own crew. Our entire Self must accompany us. We must undertake this journey fully as our Self with all parts. No more. No less. Be aware: any part that we take into our crew that is not truly part of our Self, will not return.

This is the journey to the depths. There is no safety.

We must sail the sea of glass. The sea of clarity. The sea of honesty. The journey to the depths demands clarity. Demands honesty. No easy thing. We cannot hide from our Self behind parts not of our Self. The journey to the depths will be one of cleansing.

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Sometimes, being human is too big for religion.

Sometimes, all I want to do is listen to Fionn tell me about the sweetest music of the world.

There has been a lot of ruckus going on lately. A lot of growing and outgrowing. All around me I hear people saying the same thing… I’ve outgrown this or that, I’m in limbo, I don’t get it anymore… To some, both those who say it and those who hear it, this is a cause for dismay, to others amusement. Some, like me, silently nod their heads in empathy.

All I can say is that maybe I’ve outgrown the need to know if I have outgrown anything or even if I have grown at all.

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But for now we are in trouble. We have been raided. We are dead. We find ourselves in the paradoxical moment that is both death and birth.

Do we need a book of the dead?
Do we need a book of the living?
Could the book of the dead also be the book of the living?

This great book could show us the way into life within death, death within life. What wonders await us?

What perils?

Is there such a book? Is there a book of the living and of the dead, or should we leave the dead to the dead and seek a new way of living? A way of living that arises out of the death. Where is the way to move from this terrible moment where we are not dead yet we do not live, where we have perished, and have been birthed? Is there such a book to show us the way out of this terrible moment?

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It happens, doesn’t it?
The day comes when the world pushes open the door we have closed against the world.
-John Moriarty, What the Curlew Said

It does happen, doesn’t it?

That fateful day of the door crashing in on us, pushed open by the world, different levels of the world, that in one way or the other, we have been avoiding.

The fateful splintering of the door of denial, escapism and addiction. The door shattered by a reality that is larger than we imagined, larger even than we can imagine.

Thus shattered, the floodwaters of Reality come rushing in. A Reality made not of reality that we might know something of, but a Reality that is far beyond anything that even reality knows anything of. A Reality that includes, transcends and integrates. A Reality that has suffered long enough in its exclusion, an impatient Reality, a Reality needing to be on with its work of transformation, its task of becoming, its labor of emerging through us, into us. A Reality that, in actuality, amounts to little more than boundless Potentiality.

A Reality brimming with Potentiality already crashing over the edges of our perception, already straining the hinges of the soul.

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