Tuesday, 2 July 2013

A fool's errand

A Fool’s errand.

It is a fool who would think, that to know the many names of god would grant him dominion over the crowd, the high seat at the table and an honour among men.
For the divine she is known by so many names it would choke the mind to know them all, cloud the water and blind the eyes to the vision said fool might seek, a thousand epithets and yet none would truly suffice, for in truth she has no name and yet is all names.
The Sword she cuts both ways, a severed cord as we draw our first breath into the world yet, poised above us she waits in judgement of our being, our conduct through the Wyrd, Death stalks us at every moment, from the first light of dawn upon those innocent eyes until tired and weary of life we are weighed and measured.

We live our lives upon the point of that blessed steel, pursuit of the hare leaves us not as hunter but the hunted, chasing our tails in an ever circular motion until we melt into the Lethe and forget who we are, why we are here and how we are to break this cycle.
These names we seek, are but breadcrumbs in the forest, easily forgotten when the servants of wind find sustenance in the bounty, the paths are still there amongst the arboreal home, it is distraction that renders the traveller lost, laden with so many words, burdened with so much weight it becomes a chore to move, she would bid the wanderer to remove this cloth and feel his way through the trees, feel the wind upon his face and move without the hindrance of useless knowledge that will afford him nothing in the final swing of that weapon. It is mastery of the self and not over others that will make the case for the defence within the bounds of that final Thing.

It must be said, that to fully understand the destiny of one’s life, the journeyman must know what it is like to be lost, to realise the delusions and to find that thread that his own kin have layed within the labyrinth to enable the return. For to be amongst one own, is to have a shield, not to protect from the piercing blade, but to better understand that tripartite edge, to perhaps wield it’s hilt and serve its master. It is only ever a poor man who could ever really appreciate what it is to have wealth and only when he comes to recognise his own poverty, for there are many who would count their riches yet few who would take that coin.

Truly blessed are those, who behold that light of day, those who can spot the thread of gossamer that has been placed before them upon the morning dew, glinting bright web of silver spun from the blood of the ancestors. To then gather it in, wind it upon one’s own wyrd and take that leap into the unknown that is known. Delicate at first, the more that is taken in the thicker it becomes, dense hemp rope that would tether a great ship becomes as wolf’s folly, Fenris bane, unbreakable. Thus the fish becomes the fisherman, the hunted becomes the hunter, the thread becoming a tapestry of much Wyrd woven together, the Rainbow bridge itself that will carry us to our ancestral home, to the very halls of the gods themselves.

We are born to this blade, we live by its law and we will be slain by its edge.
A grim tale it might well seem, yet one shared and rejoiced, to know ones end is to embrace all of ones gifts, that is our blessing and also our curse. Yes, to ride upon the shoulders of Giants is an honour indeed but slaves to their need we are, willingly by our own free will do we make that promise, sworn oaths at the point of the law bring both tears and laughter. Ignorance and deception, the lies and arrogance of the “would be” usurpers, become as grist to this mill, tighter those bonds become and far stronger for it becomes our merry band.

This Ship she sails with a chieftain, the embodiment of the law and all that it carries with her, that steady beat of wood upon skin that drives us through the rising oceans of the year, the sunstone of the ancestors will bring us home, a thousand bright jewels perfectly stitched into the dark blanket of night which call gently to our inner being, whispers in the abyss that remind us of where we are and where we need to be.

All this I see twixt the horns of our Stang, this is our holy child of arte. The family gathers, fire meets ice above the sacred Rose as brother and sister become as flames to the heat of gnosis, a favourable breeze that carries us to our destination, out of space and out of time.

Through life, love, severity and mercy we must all die, as certain as the tax collectors demand, yet within the weave we choose how we are to embrace this gift. That is who we are, that is what we do. Dispense with the many names of god, for there is only one word, it lives within the beat of the heart, the rising of the chest, the foot as it treads along the paths of this world. It is seen within the night sky, the rising tide and the flames of our holy fire. Born upon the wind to those who will listen, whispers that flow into the soul, I choose to listen, I choose to do so in the company of my brethren.

Perhaps one day we shall be carrying others upon our own shoulders.

Fags,Flax and Fodder.