Wind and Waves

I came up with the story below late last night. Actually, images and words came flooding in and wouldn't let me sleep until three a.m., until I got the story straight and right. I'm relieved it's out of me, over and done with. Right...if only life were that easy. But, at least, I'm having fun.



I open the iron doors to a castle that belongs to my forefathers. I set down my shield, remove my helmet and armor. I’m wearing an emerald green dress that hangs a few inches above my knees. My skin is as white as snow and my hair as black as night. Like outside, I feel cold in here; nothing but stone walls envelop the interior of this place. A storm is coming and not one produced by Nature.

As I walk along, I can hear faint celtic music echoing through the hall from a nearby village buried somewhere deep in the forest. It must be loud to penetrate these walls. Room after room, I find no one. The bedroom to the right of these majestic stairs, where I will surrender this night, hasn’t been slept in for what seems like days, maybe even weeks. There is a cup filled with water that sits on a table underneath the window. I’m so thirsty but I dare not drink from it…not from this cup.

I remove my clothes and set my dress to the right of the bed on a wooden chair that looks like a throne passed down from generations. I’m aware of a few scars on my body especially the one that extends from just below my rib cage down to my right hip. I also notice the nick above my left shoulder. I'm filthy from my travels, from the merciless wind whipping against my skin like tiny razors, from the galloping of sand and dust in my hair and eyes. I'm surprised there's warm water in these vessels because I can't take another drop, another inch of winter. When I'm done washing away the memory and stain of this day, I turn the sheets over and find shelter underneath. I’m a fighter, a warrior and fazed by nothing. My eyes wash over the ceiling down along the walls across the foot of my bed and over to the window. The moonlight shines bright, the stars sparkle across the midnight skies.

A vision flashes before me, a light, a warmth. His head is buried deep in my neck, his right arm outstretched across my chest. My left shoulder and arm are cradled tightly in his hand. I’m somewhat detached. I’m caught off guard. He’s every man and then, maybe…no. I know him but I can’t make out his face, can’t quite place him like a long lost dream tucked away in some dark corner of the earth. And just like that, the image dissipates. I suddenly notice my sword is lying next to me. It’s always been next to me, ever since I can remember. I may be in a fortress but one can never be too safe. I roll over to my right side with head resting in hand and walk my left fingers along the edge of the sword all the way to its tip. I feel a slight sting due to my carelessness but a drop of blood adds some splash to an otherwise dull room. It’s been nothing but blues and grays for days…

I assume my position once again, my head resting on the pillows, right hand over heart and the other over belly. A deep sleep comes over me and I’m consumed by dream. I hear a voice, the sweetest voice to ever reach my ears. And the dialogue begins.

You mustn’t use the sword at the expense of your heart.

It’s my shield, my protector, my way through this world.

Why you insist on burying one of your most beautiful and cherished qualities is mind boggling.

Well, that’s easy for you to say, isn’t it? You were all heart.

And fire.
I thought you liked identifying with the Princess of Cups. She’s gracious and generous, loving and giving.

So what? What good does it do to bare my heart like that? To dwell in Romance? To be a helper? What is so noble about that? I mean, really? I’m what Nick Cave refers to as those people scribbled in the margins of a story that's patently absurd. I belong nowhere.

To love, ultimately, is for the benefit of others, not for yourself.
I know you’ve been wounded and bruised but I assure you, and I know that you understand, to love is its own reward.
You make attempts to repress that which you feel, which is all encompassing, isn't it? And larger than yourself, no? Your feelings are reflective of every colour in the Universe and beyond and yet, yet you fail to see how that sword leads you right back to your heart, to that overflowing cup. In fact, it's your heart that has power over that sword and not the other way around.

Why can I not keep this sword?

You don’t have to part with it. But use it for its rightful purpose.
You reach for it when you sense your heart needs protection but I tell you, it's a waste of precious time. Your heart needs no metal, no steel. Your shelter lies in your capacity to love.
That sword is a tool you must use to cut and clear away the density of the mind, of your mind. Then you’ll be able to see truth from illusion. You can manifest all that you want but you must first decide what warrants wanting, fighting for or surrendering to. Your sword carries great power and strength but it must be used correctly.

I’m lost in nothing but wind and waves. Throw me some flames, some earth.

Take up the sword and do it yourself.