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Ancient Past of Being Foretold…

There are times like now that my soul feels as ancient as there is time.

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I don’t know if it’s a sound in a melody I hear or if it’s a recollection to another place that falls upon my heart, yet I can sense its being. I yearn for that ancient place, to return to its simple existence, its firm timbers of form, with solid bedrock foundations. I don’t know where this place is; yet, when I reach higher terrestrial altitudes on earthly planes, I can feel a connection, as if a place I belong is calling.

To some, this may be more than a mere rambling thought while to others, it’s a sign of early senility. I prefer to think of the former; a clarity of mind that pre-exists all other.

The blaze of the midday sun on the cool autumn days brings about the crispness of eager ambitions, yet to befall upon weakened limbs. I trust these days are mere inclinations of predisposed actions yet to be fulfilled, yet I cannot dissuade their options of mind. I will undoubtedly bring myself to the steps of this endeavor, however great or futile it might be. Fate is only afforded those who attempt to step beyond the limitations of now. This is something that has never prevented my path before, and yet as now, will not stop me now.

Hindrance of thought cannot pull me down like the boat anchor to the soul, for it is merely something that is but of a side note. There was more than enough reasons to go boldly, something that spoke to me from beyond, yet in my mere limited ability to conjure on the process, it will be beyond what I know or can conceive of the future which is why it was done; something yet to be foretold. I must carry on in the hopes that this was more than anything I could have imagined, and yet, was led by a higher power, greater than the singularity of self could know.

The chorus of voices that sing of praise, his name exalted upon high, cannot be faint of heart. Like cascading water droplets on the torrent of waterfall from the precipice of God’s heavenly abode, they fall down to the earth enriching the soul of any who look skyward to their life rewarding embrace, falling upon risen faces, glowing and flowing into the life rewarding embrace they create. Love of God, life and the way toward the light. In these things we search…all of our lives, all of our being, all of our existence upon this we seek.

The drifting soul, gentle breeze of spirit, effortlessly wafting as the butterfly on the wind, carried from one moment to the next. We light upon the cusped of the rose petal, tenderly, ever so gently, and then move along as the light of an angel’s wing glows upon the air. Speaketh not of wanted muses, for today we dance as one with those gone before. Nothing carries us forward or back, nothing lifts us rather we walk on channels of energy that emanate from unseen sources beyond our knowing.

Warmth of enveloping love wrapped around the person, touching caring finger to hushed lip as the voice is quieted to speak not, yet watch as forever longing is removed. No more searching for what cannot be quenched. A spirit of fulfillment overflows so that no more hunger can ache in the stomach, no longer can the fainted breath of longing quicken the heart to reach too soon for the stinging touch of earthly realm. Beyond the pain, beyond the hurt, to no longer feel the reminder of the daily toil. This is where the Godly meets the life forsaken no more; Christ lives within. All is now sated…forevermore.

Recollection of recent dream…

The dream was of a mountain home, where there were two elderly people. I didn’t know who they were or even if they were related, but my visit was one of either research or investigation.

They were intent on showing me all the “old ways”. Everything from how to prepare for the cold mountain winters to how food would be best stored in root cellars. Then there was the mixing of herbal ingredients to be used in a tea elixir or as a snuff of sorts, both intent on curing ailments or providing for better health. I can recall the first being some sort of golden flower, which was cut into some type of tree bark tea. It was bitter but very good for you as a medicinal substitute. The second was a ground snuff, golden flaked in color that gave you a quick pick me up and provided for advanced seeing abilities.

I was so taken with these natural gifts that I went out to my vehicle and obtained two of my books that I signed and gave to these individuals, obviously assuming that they could read. There was a younger one, possibly an offspring of one of the two who was there with us. I also had a host who was there showing me around, introducing me to these people, but the further the dream advanced, the less this person or being became obvious until they were no more.

Toward the end of the dream, a large truck carrying equipment to a nearby bluegrass festival, lost a wheel off of their load. I wasn’t sure if it was from the truck carrying the load or from something on the truck, but it was a large tire, the size of a tractor tire, that came rolling off the back of the vehicle as it flew by the curve above the cabin in which we were sitting. I could see it come off even though we were still inside, and I immediatly warned the others. The wheel came crashing down the mountainside from the roadway, but nobody or anything else was damaged, strangely as it may seem. I could distinctly see the canvas covered load go by, missing the wheel as it sped on, with the driver unknowing to his loss. This was shortly after receiving the golden flaked powder from the two mixing it in the nearby old time store. I guess it worked, for it saved us somehow…of course this was about the time I had to say goodbye, and of course shortly before I woke up.

Unlike other dreams though, this one I knew was coming to an end…I was preparing for it to stop, packing up, and getting ready to go. Strange I know, but it was unlike most dreams which end abruptly either in death, tragedy or arousing surprise.

I really liked this place, its aged timelessness; ancient dwellings where I felt very much at home. This was a trip of preparation, I could feel it.

Was this the place a long for, the ancient place of my feelings, my yearning desires that I cannot place?

Perhaps….time will tell.

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Feet Bound By Leather Souls…

The image of hundreds of feet, dressed in fancy footwear, walking in some marbled concourse flashed upon the television screen the other day. Possibly the scene from some commercial, I’m not sure because I didn’t have the sound turned on; I rarely watch T.V. But in that brief instant, for some reason, the thought of how perhaps some of those feet, if not most, might not have ever known the touch of bare skin to soil. Some may have never known the fresh earthly embrace of the coolness when bare feet are allowed to explore the world around them. “Could it be possible?” I thought to myself. Then the verse below came to mind;

“The feet bound by leather souls feel not the humbleness of the sod. They carry the person without knowing the terrain below upon which they frequent trod.”

The whirlwind of life sometimes seems to put you on your heels, trying all the while to maintain your balance. When these times become too hectic, one place I find comfort is outside, on the farm. It seems whether it’s working with the cattle or in the garden, there’s an earthly grounding solace to it all. The smell of new turned soil, the feel of dirt under your nails all lend to a particular satisfaction of oneself you come to realize out here; working the land.

Recently, it was a long time overdue, I had to plow under the summer garden, or rather what was left that the weeds had not claimed as their own conquest. Knowing my neglect of visitation had led to this jungle of overgrowth, I gladly hooked the single blade plow up to my tractor to turn it all asunder. However, before I could begin I had to inspect the one recognizable item still growing therein; there was one beautiful cucumber vine that had volunteered itself to grow amongst the angry vegetation. It provided two of the sweetest little cucumbers which were quite rewarding since there had been none since the last vestiges of the spring garden had given up their sumptuous fruit. However, the vine being where it lay, in the dead center middle of the plot, I had no choice but to plow it along with the serpentine pestilence of weeds that surrounded it; another case of all or nothing in a world where singularity of beauty is often forsaken in order to succumb to the needs of the masses.

Once the soil was turned multiple times, the land was a dark, rich earthly aroma laying in rolled rows of earthen loaves. Then, with the disc attached to the tractor, we folded the land again, disking it into finer particles of dirt until it was a smooth precious tender bed ready for seed in which to impart. The growing storm clouds on the southwestern horizon made the project all the more satisfying, knowing the newly sewn seeds would be watered by the master’s hand. All that was left to do was to wait, for the new garden was all but done. One last item was needed, and that the good Lord would provide.

The gentle sound of rain on the rooftop later that evening provided a comforting knowledge of a job well done. Timing is everything in farming and when it all comes together, there is no better feeling. As I scraped vestiges of soil from underneath my grateful fingernails. The smell of earth was still with me…washed down the sink, but forever in mind and spirit.

Then returned the thought of all those dress shoes walking hurriedly to some destination…

“The feet bound by leather souls feel not the humbleness of the sod. They carry the person without knowing the terrain below upon which they frequent trod.”

Then again, it’s likely they never had the chance to even put their hands into that same sod, working the land with bare hands. Earthen soil pushed tightly under the fingernail, some easily knocked free with thumb or forefinger, other requiring the sharp edge of blade to remove. No matter the effort, there still remains a dark reminder of the hand that tills the soil, toils the land and reaps the harvest. No man knoweth like anything more than through what he has struggled or toiled, sweat laden brow, stinging eyes, weary aching backs that seem to lock in place only never to be bent back into their original youthful form. These toilsome folk only know the pain of unending labor to never sit at the master’s table until the very end. While the ones wearing the thick soles, who upon humble earth trod, insulated, cushioned from the realities of the torment by which they so freely live each day, take for granted so much. No thought, no pause given to the flick of the switch, a simple phone call, ordered food prepared by another unknown, then on to pursue frolicking enjoyment with mostly little or no care as to the wake they leave in their path. Then comes Monday morning when it’s back to the cubicled-office they return…wearing the patent leather loafers of life.

Perhaps one day, they too will find the satisfaction of a good days work in the soil upon which they trod, before it’s too late…in this we can only hope…

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