Those simple pleasures of rural life now tied up with food safety legislation, fire risk, possible slipping, pointless bureaucratic nonsense, serving to remove control from the grasp of the individual, come to mother policies, nanny state nightmare.
Our own mysterious roads are fraught with such matters, but to ourselves we look to grasp that light, take those chances, for if we fall it is written, if we scald it will be known.
Dark nights gathered around bright blazing fires, sparks lifted upon the wind circle round, high and low among the stones and often come to rest on the clothes of the chosen, mostly unnoticed within the acrid smoke of the young flames until this holy marker finds its heat and the air around clears, tiny parts of the whole drift up to the heavens in mockery of our voyage. Thankfully, the polyester shell suit is not the desired attire for such occasions, cotton and wool do no generally combust under such circumstances, if such cares were a concern we could not focus upon that work, that common thread that brings family together.
Wind, rain, snow, sharp objects, precarious wet grass underfoot, a possibility of sunstroke, rare but to be considered. Tired hungry devotees, fixed in one purpose, turn and move as one being, long gown and feathered cloak within dangerous proximity of Prometheus's gift, but thankful for its warmth or hypothermia might mean another fall, we know we will rise, so why worry, if she comes to take us we are ready, there is no fear.
High hills far from the beaten track, inspiration takes us far beyond the ambulance's grasp as we ourselves reach to the sky, often alone or far from family, cliff climbing, cave descending craziness.
Comfort zone, Tish, what's a comfort zone to one who would touch the void, which of course could contain every nightmare, fear, failure, the monsters of your imagination and security, perhaps even those hopes and successes you have always dreamed of, imagine that, nice things in the places reserved for terror in the popular comfortable imaginings if those who never had the stones to take a peek,comfort zones are for pussys and we don't need them,ha ha.
To run with wild abandon along the tracks of our ancestors is our love, to share our meals, to drink from the same cup, I know, I can see the vicar now, sanitising the chalice as each confirmed approaches for that taste of blood, can there really be a faith in god if such concerns are considered holy.
To reach out to that which calls, and maybe discover why, where the fearful fool would throw salt at this perceived enemy from his "protective bubble of radiant blue light", we don't have one of those on our risk assessment code of good conduct, it blocks out all the good stuff, its a sanitised chalice for the child who is not allowed near the flames, wouldn't want to let him burn-Would we? Do we throw rocks at hunch backed strangers because we don't like the look of them, or the salvation army band for the racket and din it makes as twenty would be musicians attempt to produce a "tune". Crikey, if we could do that it might actually be worth watching the X factor, deluded morons, talentless proles, stoned to death upon live television,actually doesn't sound that far off, does it? It goes without saying that those rocks would have no sharp edges as the hurling crowd might injure itself.
So why in this madness, do we do what we do?
There is no reward without risk and true, honest, straight up, no nonsense Faith takes all fear from our hearts. It is a scathing world that looks at the mountaineer, the parachutist, the diver and asks Why? Why take those risks?
The truth of theirs is like our own, we do it because we must, choice is really an illusion, one granted to those who would make Charlie Darwin wince, and he was a spiritual man also.
Flags ,Flax and fodder. Tony.
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