Remembering the Future

I was once told:
Remembering the past is easy,
it’s remembering the future
that’s difficult.

Those words have
haunted and challenged
me for many years now,
during which time
I have struggled
to come 
to terms with
the gift of triple vision – 
of seeing the now,
but always in the light
and in the shadow
of the then and the yet.

There is no
written guide 
passed down,
passed along, 
merely
stumbling along as best
as possible
hoping this technique
is adequate, 
knowing that it is not.

How is it
that I arrive 
at these places
of semi-understanding,
quasi-comprehension
out of my depth,
facing the breadth
of clear perception and
shaded sight,
opening 
like a giant maw
of uncertainty before me?

Questions 
unanswerable,
barely asked
as I move beyond
the mist held past
and toward
the fog shrouded future.

Home

Today is a special day for me. Seventeen years ago I arrived in the UK never to leave again.

After I fed the cats at a little after six this morning I went up to my study and looking out the window I saw in the field behind the house across the road a sight that brought tears to my eyes.

The Mists of Avalon – the wisps of misty cloud that rest in the early morning on the Somerset Levels this time of year. I was overwhelmed by the knowing, deep and resonate well beyond mere knowledge, that living in the house we moved to four weeks ago was finally home.

Feelings of intense gratitude swept through me. After living in places from one end of the UK to the other,from the Devon coast to the farther reaches of Orkney, I am a last home.

Home. The place of my deepest truest belonging. Home. The space to set down proper roots. Home. Where I will welcome friends from all over to share with me the magic and wonder of Avalon. Home. Where the dining table will see feastings. Home. Where I will at last know the settled rootedness I need to do my work. To write and to create. To be fully myself. Home. Haven. Shelter. Harbour. Anchor. Home.

Therefore, on this anniversary day of my coming to the UK and at last having come my settling place, I say to the gods, ancestor and spirits of the land who brought us, led us, here to this wondrous place: Thank you. I will endeavour to the best of my ability to fulfil the tasks you set before me.

There is joy. And there will be more.

The Ancestors

LISTEN! Listen. listen . . .

Do you hear them . . .
the whispers
screams
laughter
shouts
the weeping?

Are you paying attention
to the ancestors calling?

SENSE! Sense. sense . . .

Do you feel it . . .
the fluctuating of energies
the altering of dynamics
the shifting currents?

Have you noticed when suddenly
absence transmutes into presence?

WATCH! Watch. watch . . .

Do you see . . .
their memories hovering
over the water
as autumnal mist
drifts on a cool morning;
their stories lingering
on the air
as bonfire smoke
curls on a hazy evening;
their presence persisting
upon the land
as the teasing light
dances on a cloudy afternoon.

Are you awake?
Are you alive?
Are you alert?

For they are all surrounding
if they choose to be heard
if they desire to be felt
if they wish to be seen.

When they are ready
to reveal their mysteries,
it is for us to be ready
to receive their revelations.