Isle of Rum

There's something about a place that is dominated by is is constantly in the process of eroding away, of attack by the elements. One has to keep their guard up when facing life or one has to hide. Yes perhaps this place is hostile. Did I feel this way in Indonesia? In some ways, perhaps, though the energy there was different, more feminine even. 

It seems that people (the Europeans) have touched this land everywhere and destroyed her (or altered her irrevocably) made her un-natural, much like they have done to their inner nature, and to us. What is the point of management? Nature doesn't need management, it needs relating to - ultimately, loving. Out inner nature, like outer nature, is a stranger to us. Naming it will never be enough because we have not asked or ever honestly intended to enter her inner longings deeply, to partake of her dreams, to become her rightful children. We sit here, arrogantly, still thinking we are in control, we are her guardians, her shepherds, her masters. Not at all. Outer nature, like inner nature, is always primary and inclusive of us, it is always larger and more powerful, it is her who protects, guides and takes care of us if we brave listen, who destroys us if we do not. 

If permission is asked, permission will be granted. If love is shown, more will be given. Love is already there, in the wind, the ticks, the midges, even the bed bugs. Love is already there, in the hard rocks of a steep, dark mountain. Love is already there in the shallow pools of the seashore, teeming with crabs. Love is already there, in the large round pebbles of the river bed, where nymphs flutter their tails to the clouds. Love is already there, in the tall grass and the muddy bog. 

Momentarily, the wind. The waves crashing on the shore. I follow my heart, I follow my heart.

The deer lifts her gaze and looks; who are you and why are you here? What will you take back of me to the world, oh Messenger of Love? Will my name just suffice? Will my chemical composition? 

What of my love affair with the fresh tendrils or the blade of grass? What of my power, my grace, my antlered silhouette against a skyline of ridges and peaks across the distance?

What of the texture and the color of the rocks, the red of Torridonian, the green of Bloodstone? Are you not called to kneel before these ancient testaments of Patience? Does their impenetrable density not move you, like this sky, to tears? Who else but Greatness could endure a thousand million years of rain? Be quiet, put your ear to their mouth.

What of our longing for the sun, whose rays we catch in rocky specks of light, whose kiss defies our stern predicament, whose love burns a mirror into the cliff-side? If not you, then who could bear witness to the Light which brings our own star-wrought alliance to submission of a worldly iridescence?


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