All about me is the hustle and bustle of discovery, the request for insight, the clamoring for more and yet I find myself incased today in clouds. Thick clouds that hold, not suffocate that welcome not introspection but inclusion and blanket the trees in an ethereal busyness.
The busyness isn't the hustle bustle that lives outside this space. It is the business of creation. The creation of what is to come. A recipe sits dangling from the outstretched arms of the birch moving precariously in anticipation of what might be hidden within the clouds. The pines stand as sentinels to the meandering of the soup witness to the regal ingredients as they march one by one towards their destination. Each ingredient carries its key to the final creation. There is a dab of whispering, a 1/4 cup of anticipation, never too much for that could spoil the final product, 1 cup of inspiration lightly warmed, 2 cups of wisdom sifted twice, 1/2 cup of joy, 2/3 cup of ancestral juice, and 2 Tbs. of valor. The rowan holds out its cauldron for each to find their place within. Slowly the Spirit of the Clouds begins to swirl the ingredients singing ever so softly lulling them into collaboration. Placing them within the enclosure what is thought to be the door is slowly closed.
Raven alights upon the enclosure standing guard awaiting direction. Soon he is joined by a flicker and more ravens. The murder begin to dance upon the enclosure to the beat of flicker as she moves first down one side and then the other. Abruptly the murder departs leaving the enclosure unguarded. From the distance a parting of the clouds is detected. It appears that the parting is moving through the clouds approaching the enclosure. Stillness comes as what breath is present leaves. Squirrel takes a gallant leap towards the enclosure and misses landing abruptly just beneath. In dazed realization, squirrel scurries off. The parting now reaches out towards the enclosure. Wrapping it deep within itself it removes it from the rowan branches. Gliding forward I watch from the corner of my eye, wondering what brings this cauldron to me. Taking my seat upon the floor I notice that the parting is not a stranger. No this parting I recognize. I have spent many a day, many an hour, and dare I say many a minute with this parting. What I think to be a parting is really my soul bringing back to me the recipe that has been deep within and is not a stranger to me. A recipe that warms and delights.
With a squeal of glee, I accept this cauldron of creation brought to me by my soul. I honor this gift through ritual and whisper my love of thanks.
The Soul Traveler