| Subject: The Smithy's Fire |
Author:
Giovanna
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Date Posted: 08:34:21 01/24/03 Fri
In reply to:
Giovanna
's message, "Poems" on 16:16:14 12/14/02 Sat
Mythologies, the tools of growth and the mirrors of the natural world in story form. The ones who have gone before muse over the fire, deeply in rhythm with the forces of change and the chain of events that follow one to the other when universal laws are followed through their twists and turns, as they are wont to do when we make choices based on heart, mind and spirit moving on the waves like doves upon the sea.
So lovingly woven, the tapestry of myth shows nothing of their dovetailing detail, whereby an observer may see the work laid down by the smithy of that day. All appears to blend like a continuous sparkling thread woven into the breath of a windy net, set to catch the stars in the sky, casting movement within the soul in motion and within reach. Myth reaches into places to rest within the spirit of all it touches, where even the weaver of tales has yet to ponder its meaning. Catching the breath of the babe upon the path that holds it's course throughout the steps of her awakening, through to the depths of sleep she may naught awaken from throughout the course of her reverie.
Mythology speaks like a father or mother speaks to son or daughter. Holding us close to the hearth, where the heart beats out the rhythm of the stars and earth, whispering to us in our own tongue, "it is time, it is time"... thus we are lead, fortunate sons and daughters, where we are never alone, and always find sustenance within the cup of the plentiful. Thus, the smith puts the "ear" in heart, so close is the touch to our ear.
Ancients play like youthful children, and we are ever young within the timeless treasure house where the unending rapture of Shekinah upon her shining throne carries the hymn to the next sequence, sung from the pages of poetry of our journey with her. Consciously cognizant or sleepily musing we walk beyond gates, developing a rhythm between pillars of extremes.
Myths hang in the air, like ornaments on a fragrant tree, dazzling lights that sparkle so upon the braches of the ever green gown of Lady Venus playing with Mars to set all in order with each step we take. Fires burn bright within the shadowy world of the word smith, that casts his pledge within the furnace of sight, that he may be blinded to all but the pounding of the hammer of truth upon the anvil of time and place.
jan. 23, 2003
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