Monday, 25 July 2016

The Spaces Between

The spaces in between.

The brief moment that falls between the thinking and the doing. 

When all the thoughts have been had, words have been said, and decisions made, the transfer from thought to deed occurs.

Not always is it a long deliberation nor yet an epic feat. 

Sometimes it's as simple as deciding to get up from one's bed, getting one's feet upon the floor, one's legs to take the lift of the body shape, and then do something with the potential of the new day.

At other times it is the big choice, the point of greatest change and the manifestation of that change into a new world order, even if that is your own personal world. 

What is often lost on many is that space in between. Like the twilight of predawn or the day's dusk, the waxing or waning of the moon, the turn of the tides, or the shift of the season.

That sliver of time, the fractional space, that liminal moment, where what was has come to an end, what will be is yet to begin and all of the energy and ability of the person is gathered in a totality of their potential.

That space is our greatest moment and, on occasion, our hardest challenge.

In that space, all that we are hangs in a state that could almost be considered divine for its energy and possibility. All the knowledge and experience, all that power and passion, held right there on the threshold of change. 

There, is power.

Few there are that can pause for more than a heart's beat upon that threshold and overcome the challenge.

Most folk step up and across the space without even the smallest awareness of its existence.
Action follows thought in a seamless process, like stepping from one room to the next, changing from one state to the next, chasing into the next moment and then the one after that and again after that until they have used all of their moments and their story ends. 

These are those people that do. Rightly or wrongly, rashly or carefully there is no gap between thought and deed.

Some there are that never reach the threshold. The deliberation, the thoughts, the emotions, the consideration, the words, the process, the plan.
This becomes their endless world and they too use their allocated moments. These folk are those of thought and no action.

For even though they do not chase or indeed act, their moments do not stop and wait, and again all in time, their story also ends. 

Then there is the challenge of the threshold itself.

Here you can find those who are able to see the threshold and stop for its offering of respite bathed in their own potential. 

There are people with awareness who chase this space, choosing to stay and not move on, calling it things like enlightenment. A place of clarity and completeness where all things are finished and no new things start. 

As they work to remain upon the line between what was and what will be, full of that personal energetic potential, the world can slip by, its moments moving ever on without the benefit or detriment of that individuals action. Neither thinking nor doing, they are neutral to the process and remain separate, for good or ill.

The test, is of oneself when confronted by that potential. That near divine state where anything can change beyond the point of action. All of the power of potential entwined with all the responsibility.

Come the moment, gathering the potential to you, and then completing some action, any action.

Manifesting the Change and owning its power and ripples....but difficult it can be to face one's total potential, to face that awareness of self that comes in the moment in between.

To accept all that is yours from the good to the bad, the strong to the weak and still act. 

Doubt, of self or of others, is a human condition. The concern that there are variables that haven't been considered, possibilities that could ripple outside of ones ability to control, or just pain and failure as that which is manifest does not match that which could have been.

All of these things are true, and none of them, suspended in that moment between.

The threshold gives a lot, but it also takes a lot to comprehend the gift of that moment in between, even those gifts of pain and darkened weakness. 

He was at home in that In between.

His deeds and accomplishments flowing for the total potential of giving all to the threshold, building it there to a singular purpose, then releasing ones hold to the thought and creating the manifestation of the Will. 

In the predawn half light the Dagda looked once more at the floor of his room.
That small space beside his bed.

It was right there, so close. He had lingered long on the threshold, allowing his thoughts to delay the potential of the day should he but put his feet upon the earth.

Rolling on his side, he pulled the covers up around himself and lay there in silence and apathy. 

Today he did not choose the challenge.
 Yet as the saying goes, tomorrow was always another day.

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Sunday, 24 July 2016

Patience of a Patron

It was overcast and heavy outside. The wind huffed its way through the trees, setting their leaves all a fluster. 

Somewhere a dog was barking. Shouting his scorn in words falling upon deaf ears. 

People moved too and fro on their journeys, passing one another with hurried defensive strides. 

He spent many days at this window. Warm within his comfortable home, running his gaze back and forth as the world bustled on by. 

The world had gone and gotten itself in an awful hurry.

The broad features were rich with care worn lines and as usual a slight frown drew his heavy eyebrows slightly closer together.

It hadn't been too long since the last visit from the little story teller, but still he felt the creep of that loneliness return. For so long he had existed without companionship and had, so he believed, been quite content. 

Now he wasn't so sure.

There had always been change, for to change is to grow, but now the change was building and he felt the shifting energies as if it were an ache in his very bones. She was at work, He was sure of that.

There were Big tales to be told. There was work to be done and change to occur, but even the little storyteller's life was full of its own bustle. 

Shaking his head to clear the clouds within he turned from the window and roamed his gaze about the room. The table stood with papers strewn across its surface.

Moving over he glanced down at the words scrawled in print. Here a sheet describing a battle against a worthy rival. 
He smiled to recall that great day and reaching his big hand up to his arm, stroked the scar there under his loose shirt with a callused thumb. 

 It was a good fight that, he thought as he returned the paper to the pile.

His eyes roamed across the sheets and scrawls, the sketches and the drawings, coming to rest on another pile as yet unfinished. 

The smile became a smirk as he recalled the storytellers blush.

No prude them-self, they still turned quite red as he began describing the encounter at the ford. This work will be completed like the others, the story teller just needed time away from that particularly heated topic. 

Stepping past the table he moved towards his chair, passing the wall where he fondly kept all the postcards he received from those all around the world who took time to remember him. There were not many, but he cherished each and every one, and always enjoyed a happy smile when another one arrived. 

Settling into his wide comfy arm chair, he glanced at the phone. It had been a long time since it rang and once again there were no messages. 

Blowing out a hefty sigh, the Dagda picked up his book and turned back to his place to read. 

The Scéalaí Beag would be back soon. Who knows, maybe there would be a call for help with some work or other once the stories get around. 

He smiled at the memory of the big busy days, then got back into his book.

He was nothing if not patient.

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The Warriors Path

He waited.

It was the hardest thing he ever had to do but he would do it. Time and again, he would do it. 

For respect. For pride. For love.

He waited.

The next blow was a sweeping cross and though her feet carried her far, the weariness of the fight was taking it toll.

Catching her spinning form in the side it drove the wind from her and sent her tumbling to the ground with a sound that could only be ribs breaking.

With a warriors reflex she threw her weight with the impact and used its energy to roll herself clear of the follow up strike, which buried the weapon in the dirt. 

'Will you not help her?'

The question came from a warrior somewhere beside him. Whom it was who questioned did not matter and he could not, would not remove his eyes from her.

Rolling up to a crouch, she spat her blood upon the soil, and smiled a fierce and wild smile at her foe.

The warrior paused, confusion on his face to see her so unbowed by the pain she no doubt felt. 
Sweat streaked the fighters face and his breath came heavy to catch as he recovered his weapon. 

In his hesitation she struck. A lunge and roll had her close, pain fueling her rage and setting speed to her strikes.

On the back foot her opponent retreated.

'Will you do nothing? She might die?'

The Dagda's eyes never left the combat as his rumbling voice replied.

'She has chosen her fight and she is capable of seeing it through.

If this is the time of her death she will meet it gladly as a friend, unbroken by the world's tests. Resolute and dominant to her last breath.'

'Do you not care for her pain and hurt?'

Dagda's grip tightened to a white knuckled fist about the shaft of his deaths head club.

'Do not mistake my inaction for apathy. Should she fall this day then by my word, ruin will ride quick upon the heels of her last breath.

Until then, she has chosen this fight. Its challenge and consequence are hers alone.'

The warrior staggered backwards under the flurry of the blade dancer's assault, doing well to block many a killing stroke, yet taking many small injuries, set to sap his strength.

Dagda had seen her do this many times. Her skill turning the tide of any conflict, her stamina outlasting all but the must fit, her mind quicker than her blades.

Blowing out a big breath, the Chieftain relaxed his grip a little, as the Morrigan asserted her dominance over today's fight. 

'She walks a warriors path, and I wait because I believe in her.'

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