Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth passed away, and there is no longer any sea. (Revelations 21:1)

Children of Earth and Sky

Now. Right here.

They remember what went before as one remembers a dream that fades on waking but leaves its flavor behind. They do not even remember their name. Maybe there are other worlds, other lives, but all that matters is here, right now.

Beneath their feet is earth, wide and rich and black, stretching toward the horizon in every direction until it disappears in a haze of mist or maybe mountains. Above their crowns, the sky opens wide and rich and black, stretching out to infinity. Flowers blossom among the stones. Stars in the fields of night.

There is nothing to move toward, or away from, so they wander in place, lost in the dream of earth and sky, speaking to themselves, listening, ending up where they started. They wonder why they are here, how they are so, what comes next.

They grow bored and drowsy, sleep and dream. The dream is no different than the waking, the same earth, the same sky. They grow hungry, and hungrier, and find nothing to eat. They thirst, and find no drink. Finally, there is not any more sleep, and they say to themselves, “What will we do?” When they hear the answer, they do so. And this is the story of what they do, and what comes to be.

Walking in Circles Sunwise

They gather themselves, all together, between earth and sky. When they are fully present and paying attention, they stand a moment in silence, and then begin to turn, all in a circle, until they come around to where they began.

They breathe, tasting the air. Around them, the world wheels one second more, and a new star rises over the mist or mountains.

A sudden breath fills the lungs of the one who sees. The outbreath opens their throat, slides over their tongue, parts their lips, and comes out with a sigh of delight. Then words come out too:

“A new star! There is time here, too. Dawn is coming. Here we begin.”

They stand, breath sharp and clear in the air, waiting in silence, thinking. They draw a sign in the soil, marking the place where the stars rise.

Almost without noticing, the horizon is starting to glow, first pale, then pink as a baby, blue as its eyes. A wide-winged bird moves without moving across the face of the lightening blue, turns its head toward earth, and cries loudly, “LI—I-I-F-E!” as dawn opens its golden eye, and the world, seen clearly, comes alive. Stars, fading from the sky, are reborn in dewdrop on flower.

“Something must change. We are starving, thirsty. There is nothing here for us. One shall go toward the rising sun, toward the place where the bird appeared. It is the sign. Watch for me here; I shall return.” And one, who saw the star rise, follows.

As they walk, they sing, to make the walking pass easily.

O Star that stands in the gates of the morning

  Star that heralds the ending of night

  Lead me through the gates of the dawning

  Open my eyes with gifts of the light

And the birds sing, too, in a language clear to those who understand.

*******

The sun stands high in the south. The stars are gone from the sky, the flowers bright, the earth drying. Serpents, rising from dark holes, shimmer in golden ripples through the flowers, which open wide eyes to the sun. One, standing broad in the heat, feels the rising desire to move, to act. They dance a design in the earth and say,

“I am hungry, and my spirit is too hot to longer stand still. One shall go toward the south, toward the sun at midday. My desire shall guide me. Watch for me here; I shall return.”

As they walk into the face of the sun, they dance with the heat-waves rising, with the sway of the hips, with the belly’s hunger, bright joy in their eyes. And the serpents dance too, with the steps of the goer.

*******

The sun reddens and purples the sky toward evening, painting its light over earth and sky with waves of colors without names. The flowers are closing, sleepy and replete with life. The sun, setting, ripples, and on the tides of the night one, sitting still and quiet, hears the far-off crash of hooves. Many horses, making the soil rumble, and the wind bears the scent of the sea. One, moved with great feeling, marks the last light, and says,

“It is thirsty work, waiting! One shall go to the west, seeking water. The hearts of the horses and the sea-breeze are calling, calling. My blood answers. Watch for me here; I shall return.”

Wandering, they walk among the flowers, and the horses go ahead. Their heart is full, and they sing without words, a voice rising and falling in melodies without names, harmonies heard only in the heart. Somewhere, the sea answers, moaning, and the horses echo through the twilight, great hearts reaching forward, nostrils wide for the scent of hidden wells.

*******

It is dark, and cold. The sun is long gone and the stars once more map their mysteries on the black fields of the sky. They lie on their backs, bodies sunk on the earth, half-asleep, half-alive. One remains standing, feeling their feet and the weight of love, like the ram that watches the herd on the hillside. As if to themselves, they stamp quietly in the dust, facing the heart of the darkness, and say,

“Life goes on, but not forever. The earth holds many secrets, and the night is cool walking. One shall go north, seeking food, seeking shelter. Watch for me, dreamers; I shall return.”

Their steps are heavy with sleep, a steady beat on the earth’s soft hide. As they go, they sing, or chant, as one who dreams,

  Life life earth is life

  Sweet the living, sweet the death

  Feed me earth and give me life

  Let me feed what gives me birth

*******

And so the day comes, so the day goes. And among those who wait and watch, there are three who come together in the circle’s center. One opens their arms to the heavens above, praying. One kneels, face down on the earth, praying. One, eyes closed, stands in circles, praying.

A day comes, and goes, and the goers return.

Finding the Others

One goes east until the earth ends, a cliff above clouds. Far off, a tower rises, in its window a light. And an Other comes, winged and robed, walking on rainbows. Hands signal greetings, and words are exchanged.

“Would you walk past all knowledge?”

“My mind is made up.”

“Where one does not know, one sets foot on faith.”

“I understand.”

“I will bear the news ahead.”

One doubts on firm ground until one decides to trust, and steps forward. Faith bears one up, and the beacon calls. Lighter than air, fast as thought, one doubtless comes to the tower to which no way comes. What happens there is told when they return.

“It is One, winged and robed, who watches from the tower, and sees all the ways. They know my quest already, and how it is with me. They give me this: I see it, and return, reflecting.” It is a blade like a mirror, strong beyond believing, sharp as truth.

*******

One goes south where the naked ground burns and dances, following mirages, and at nightfall comes to a great hot forest where beasts pant and hiss and howl and cry. The way is thick and warm. No road leads into wildness, but still one goes, driven by hunger, drawn by desire. In the distance, drums. In the darkness, fire. One must keep seeking until they find. Who they meet there is told, returning, sun-burnt and skin shedding.

“It is an Other, in the form of a fierce beast, very wild, who drums by their fire. I wrestle with them for my meal. All day we strive, rising up each time we fall. In the heat of our striving, we are consumed entirely and are utterly spent. Now one appears transformed, bright as desire. I have a seat by the fire and am fed in abundance, receiving what I ask. Beyond desire, a gift. They give me this.” It is a strong wand, wrapped in the skin of a serpent, hollow, bearing fire.

*******

One goes west, walking in darkness among dry hills, and comes at last to the sea. The horses have gone ahead and are lost in the breakers. The moan of the waves maddens the heart, fills it with yearning, pushes and pulls on the spirit with wordless force until something breaks and the tears well forth, salt water to salt water, sobbing. A storm comes, and one shelters in a cave and screams into the rain. The storm passes, one is quiet, washed clean. Among the tide-pools, ten thousand colors swim and breed. And who comes out of the sea is told by one returning.

“It is an Other, strange and wonderful, beautiful and terrible as life. I am embraced by strong arms and dragged under, taken to where gardens grow beneath the waves, and all who come there grow young for wonder. I am changed; I forget what brought me, but nothing is lost, for the One who holds me gives me this, and sends me back.” It is a pearly shell spiralling, from whose depth runs a stream of water, sweet, without ceasing.

*******

One goes north, counting endless flowering herbs and the tracks of beasts in the dust, and comes to a place where the earth rises up like a rampart, high beyond climbing. Here a cavern yawns, and the tracks of the beasts going within. The heart quakes and trembles before it, but the feet, as in a trance, walk on until it narrows and one must crawl, then lie on one’s belly in the tight blackness, until even the lungs are empty and one slides through. What lies beyond, and who is met there, are told by one who returns.

“It is an Other, familiar to me as myself, long forgotten, old as the world. They show me their storehouse in which are kept all seeds, and the bones of all beasts. Where a gift is given, a gift is received. Having nothing, I give of myself, and they tell me to reach deep and draw out what I find there. This they give to me.” It is a nut, hard of shell, of curious workmanship.

*******

The Others are gone, and only the goers remain. Thus they return from four directions to find only themselves and the gifts they are given.

In the Meantime

One lies upon the ground, ears down, heart open, among the flowers. There are many things to see here, a forest already. The bees come in the morning to bathe in dew-wet fragrant cups; in the hot sun dragonflies alight on wide golden eyes. The mosses, a tinier forest still, are moist and warm all day. Ants and beetles leave their burrows, wandering wide in the world and returning well fed. One can hear, if one listens, the worms turning the soil. The slow pop of seeds. The deep rumble of breath that is earth’s breath. Something bigger stirs below, strong fingers opening stone. It is warm and wet and alive within when the listener at midnight dreams and drops further, into inner infinite skies, where burns a secret sun. And who they meet there is told in soft, low tones on waking:

“It is One darkly shining, who holds me close. I give my fear to them, and they hold it in strong hands till it softens, becomes warm. And hearing my weighty wish, they shape it like clay, and give me this.” It is a ball of black stone, rough and heavy, still warm from the forge at the black heart of earth.

*******

One gazes long into the upper beyond, head thrown back, looking beyond dragonflies and little birds and the sweep of the owl who opens the sky, beyond thought. They are lost in the skyways, along roads of stars that wind beyond time, far from home. The sun, rising, sees them already well beyond the day; they do not blink at its noonbright eye, for the star that leads them onward still is brighter. They are blind with sight, enrapt in the dark at the heart of the light. Something moves the heavens, and sight returns as the stars come out, and a parched mouth cries,

“It is One cloaked in glory, who finds me there, who catches me. I tell them my story, and they take it. I ask them my questions, and they give me this.” It is a feather, star-forged, light as any heart in the sky.

*******

One in the center goes deep within. What happens there is not told, nor who they meet, nor how. They stay where they stand, and return to themselves. When one is present, the goers return, bearing gifts. One in center gives to receive: an openness, an empty hand.

In this way, all that is scattered is collected again.

What Is Done Is Done

One who stands with empty hands sees the gifts laid before them: a blade, a wand, a shell, a seed, a feather, a stone, and all the world besides.

Still, they are hungry. They dig a hole, and plant the seed, and cover it over. Gathering dried leaves and brambles, they pile them up. Gathering stones, they raise a circle around the spot. With the blade they cleave the wand, releasing the fire, and while it burns hot and strong above the seed they make offerings of flowers, and dance, and drum on their bodies and on the earth, and sing.

Children of earth, children of sky

  True and connected and free

  Children of dreams, children of time

  It’s time to dream what we can be.

  Take what is given, give what we have

  True and connected and free

  Gifts that are given come back when they can

  So giving, so we shall receive.

  A blade and a wand, a shell and a seed

  True and connected and free

  A stone and a feather and a real need  

  As we dream, so let our world be.

And when the fire embers and the seed is warm, they place the shell in the soil to water it, and they mark the place with the feather and stone. And they lie down in that place with their heads together around the circle, and they sleep.

There is nothing else to be done.

In the House of Dreams

How long they sleep cannot be told, for there are none watching, and time passes strange in the house of dreams.

They live many lives in sleep, and when, at last, they catch themselves dreaming, they return to the place where their bodies lie. They have become strange to themselves, and to each other, after their long wandering. Each spirit sits down upon its body, and they take council to know themselves again.

This is the story of the first sleeper, who returns from the east:

I dream that I am a house, full of light and windows, made of a living tree, and full of the scent of flowers. My branches are full of birds, and each bird tells a story, and each story is a life, and each life is a book, and each book is a tree full of birds. All these stories are mine to live, and every way is open unto me, and to me is given the naming of names. My name is Tree Full of Birds, and this is my dream.

This is the story of the second sleeper, who returns from the west:

I dream that I am a house, full of feeling, safe as home, rich with singing as the inside of a bell. A well springs up in me and runs in seven rivers to the sea, and the sea is the source of the well. Who knows that spring never thirsts, who drinks from those rivers runs over with wisdom, who bathes in that sea returns to their home as a babe from the womb, reborn. All life is mine to feel, and to me is given healing. My name is Deep Waters, and this is my dream.

This is the story of the third sleeper, who returns from the south:

I dream that I am a golden house ringed about with flames, and in my hearth burns a star unceasing. Who steps into that fire comes forth refined and renewed, shining, transformed. My gardens hold beauty that does not grow stale, but always changes. Every form is mine to inhabit, and to me is given the granting of heart’s desire. My name is Living Gold, and this is my dream.

This is the story of the fourth sleeper, who returns from the north:

I dream that I am a homely house, full of good cheer and the laughter of children. My cellars are full, my roof is strong, my warmth inside. Seasons come and go, and children grow and have children of their own. The old ones who pass grow as trees about me. Many are my people, and all are my kin. To me is given the planting of seeds and the baking of bread. My name is Born of Earth, and this is my dream.

This is the story of one who takes the high road:

I sleep but lightly, and hear the voices of those who dream. In me, all your dreams are one, and more besides. To me is given the vision, and all possibility. My name is Heart of Heavens Above. As we dream, so let it be.

This is the story of one who takes the low road:

I sleep deep, without dreams. My strength is full, my life my own. To me is given the power to make all things real. My name is Heart of Heavens Below. As we dream, so let it be.

Thus speaks, at last, the one who stays:

What happens between sleep and waking, in the gap between thoughts, or where the outbreath and the inbreath meet? I cannot say. I have forgotten my name. Mystery, beyond mystery! Sleepers, wake, and see what is.

Awakening

Then each spirit lies down within its body, and the sleepers stir, and stretch, and rub their eyes, and sit up, wondering. For the world, on waking, is made of the stuff of their dreams. In the circle of stones where the seed was planted, a well appears, bubbling with fresh water. In the middle grows a tree, as tall as a person, with boughs of gold. And here is a house, with strong walls about them. In the center of the roof is a hole to heaven, and the sun shining through.

There are four gates.

From the north come the people of the north, strong and hearty, clad in skins. Among them comes one, very old and parent to them all, and behind them are carried great tables of gold, heavy laden with all fruits and rich pastries, and all good foods of the earth, wide enough for all to have a seat.

From the west come the people of the west, beautiful and plentiful, clad in shells and pearls. Among them comes one, strange and wonderful and wild as the sea, and behind them are carried countless cups and drinking-horns, chalices and mugs, goblets and pipes and strange vessels, and to each drinker is given what draught does them best, to drink their fill.

From the south come the people of the south, tall and fierce, clad in bright silks. Among them comes one like a wild beast, delightful to eyes. And behind them come torches and drums and flutes, pipes and viols, tambours and harpers, and many dancers.

From the east come the people of the east, proud and graceful, clad in robes of feathers. Among them comes one, with wide wings, full of magic, bearing a book. Behind them comes a mighty choir, rich in harmonies, bearing sweet incense.

So the feast is laid. So the toasts are made. So all the house is lit and warmed, and when the tables are cleared there is dancing. When the drums lie silent and the songs are sung, cushions and blankets and pillows are brought, and they lie down like a heap of many puppies, and the book is brought forth. “Hush,” says one, “and close your eyes. It is time for the telling of stories.”

The Last Story Told

I stay where I started, and I tell my tale backward.

At midnight, when the house is dark and all others are asleep, I wake and find myself in the garden, all others being asleep. Below me, the rich black earth, above me wide fields of sky. I have all that I desire. What keeps me restless? I have forgotten my name. Heavens and earth, help me to remember. I make of my breath a boat to carry me swiftly back to the beginning.

There was a feast with four guests, and waking beside a well and a tree. There were sleepers in houses, and many dreams. Before that, what was done was done, and we planted a seed. Before that, I was present, hands open and empty, and there came those bearing gifts: a feather, a stone, a seed. A shell, a stick, a blade. Before that, I was alone, all others having wandered far. Before that I was with others, moving in a circle. Before that I was alone, and the others came to me hungry, from lives they remembered only as dreams which leave only their flavor on waking.

Breath, bring me back.

Breath, bring me back.

Breath, bring me back.

My name—my name is Nobody, and I remember my first birth, before this story was dreamed into being. Earth is my mother. Sky, my father. I am older than my name.

I have been here from the beginning, though there were beginnings before me. I will be here at the end, and begin again.

None of that matters. There are lives and worlds without end, and in all of creation, not a single breath is lost. None of that matters now. I am here with you.

Here. Right now.