choices

 

Once upon a dreaming time, where thresholds beckon freedoms too many to count and yesterday was someone else's sorrow, a maiden-child stands poised to choose a future. No path lays clear before her, no easy sign to follow, for she has reached a place from which all things are possible, all things new, and all things require a joyous choice.

She hesitates, readying herself for this new journey, for the crafting of a new world for oneself is a serious business. She tidies her self, making sympathetic magics for a life of strength and purpose, and she checks the few possessions she has chosen to take with her on this venture - innocence, brought out from some dusty corner and scrubbed until it shines like an infant's smile; courage, shaken from its crumpled and neglected disuse; a bottomless cup for joy; the clear strong voice she thought she had lost; an old, old key for the unlocking of hearts, shaped like the freedom to choose; and . . . is it there? Yes, there, peeping from the bottom of her bag; a dress of many splendours, its silk bearing the sheen of hours of loving work to restore to beauty; the tears that had been wept upon it and the blood that had been spilt in its ruin glowing like moonstones and garnets, the hopes and wishes she held like filaments of gold and silver woven into patterns that only the heart can see - and she allows herself to dream of a world which permits beauty and honesty and love, even for maimed kitten-childer like herself.

Does she want . . . to slink, sleek black and gleefully wicked, claws for danger and fur for pleasure and eyes for watchfulness? To cavort, acrobatic hilarity to topsy-turve her soul? To dance and sing, of mystery and magic, for the love of beauty and freedom? To be still, silent, peaceful, reaching for all the worlds along inner webs of oneness? To run and howl in passion, canting her soul to the moon, coming and going at will, ears for danger and eyes for fierce love and fur for hackling at strangers? To fly, soar and skeet and sail with the wind's tides, every feather alive with Knowing, eyes for distant sight, voice for screaming sky-raptures and solitude, wings for beating drums on the air?

 

Yes.

She hesitates, for the choice of worlds seems blind. Could some ancient demon from that other world follow, to cage her in despair again, to clip her wings or subdue or silence her again, if she should not choose correctly?

Only if she allows.

There is more than one Right Road.

She chooses, eyes closed to follow her feet the better . . .

What, children? You did not know that our feet can see when our eyes cannot? Oh, yes, children: there are more ways of finding your way in the worlds than just following where your eyes lead you! Your feet are closest to the soul of the earth, and know her ways best, just as your hands will know babies and lovers best, and your nose will know flowers and trees and silences best, and your ears know distance and time best, and your belly know mirth and comfort best, and your heart know love and songs and wishes best, and your mind know fear and plans and sorrows best. The soul, of course, knows all these things better than any, but our maiden-child, like many others, has forgotten how to listen to her soul's advice. She tries, though, to remember - listen to her . . .

She whispers a song-spell for seeking a life, as she walks a spiraled path around the centre she has found . . .

Feet; find me firm ground
Heart; find me warm light
Ears; find me sweet songs
Eyes; find me bright safety
Belly; find me good tales to tell
Mind; find me clear knowing
Hands; find me soft making
Tongue; find me fine feasting
Soul; find me my pathway
to freedom and knowing and love.

She passes many open doors, hearing them call her with promises, feeling them tempt her with soft breezes, but she is listening to her own songspell and will not heed them; walking around and around and around . . . until her steps become lighter, longer,

freer

and she is through to another world, feet searching for a path.

For a time the maiden-child wanders little, remaining close to that threshold lest she feel some need to flee, still searching for that elusive Right Road, the one made by angels and faerie to her own soul's design, the one which leads most surely to joyful learning. Soon, though, she stands still, head cocked to hear a distant melody, and discovers that she must forge her own path for a time, that she still stands at the crossroads and must venture forth to find the way she seeks. With a deep breath to call courage, she lifts a foot,

and steps onto a sudden path, the choice to move despite fear and ignorance granting a hint of life to follow.

She is wary, children, for of late she has seen much she would rather not - not least that which lay within herself - and done some she is not proud of, and lost and found herself in new guises several times over, an she is not sure of anything but the need to move any more. So she spins, a dervish of determination, and when old friends hail her in greeting she slows only long enough to say she cannot stop, poised to flee lest some word or gesture cast her back into old seemings.

I must move and change, friend; I may not stop even for a moment lest I lose my way. I will visit with you when I have found my wings: soon, soon; we shall find each other if we must.

To some she must warn that she no longer carries her healer's pouch, no longer keeps nourishment enough for any but herself; that all she bears now is a traveller's tack and storyteller's kit, and that she can no longer offer to hold for them old fears and pains.

Time, friend, time: I may return, but perhaps 'tis time you sought another Little Mother, another Wise Soul to shelter you, for I have no wisdom nor love nor healing to impart now. Time, in time . . .

The old badger she once befriended, she avoids: his anger and pain now frightens her. The Joker she once loved appears at her side from time to time, but she stops for him no longer and does not listen to his tales.

I have my own to tell.

There is another mirror within winking distance, and as marker for progress she smiles often to this friend, for they seek the same pathways and glories, and kindred souls are best kept close in transformation, reflecting back and forth to strengthen and succour both.


She is hectic and tired, our maiden-child, for the road to becoming is long and wearying. Though she has yet far to go, her heart turns to thoughts of rest and a gentler way, and she espies a memory of an old, old friend, a playmate from the dawn of time. She calls his name to see if he is near . . .

and he comes, walking towards her with outstretched eyes, cradling her in his smile: he offers a space for ease and she goes to him gladly. He is quiet, quiet, quiet, and her frantic heart relaxes in his peaceful care with joyful relief. They amble together a ways, and she finds

beneath her feet

an earthsong path of ease and sureness, a Right Road. She smiles her discovery at him, and finds
him smiling back, for the magic has smoothed a golden trail for both of them. They link hands and cosy along that beautiful way without fear, knowing only joy can come to those who follow such a path in free acceptance.

He shows her his home, fine and solid and beautiful, with windows of clear green glass like springwater and a strong fire within, a warm and comforting place to be, and invites her to shelter with him for a time: peering into a glorious window she draws a sweet breath, thinking she has never been offered such beauty before. She sighs a joyful question.

Oh! It's so lovely - am I truly allowed to come in?

He smiles, holding out a silent hand.

Come.

The maiden-child takes his hand trustingly, feeling a lifetime's ragged pain fall from her, and happiness lifts her feet toward the open door. Framed in the golden light rolling from his hearth, she turns and cups his face in one small hand.

 

Thankyou, dear friend, dear love.

 


Shall we dance?




I have a dress to wear . . .


choice ã by Kaliane, 1993. All rights reserved.