The Clean Sword

After a week of laughter and companionship with friends, a week of family comings and goings, time for chess and visits, city and seaside ... a quiet time, a time for reflection.

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Soul looked at the sword, the word, the wyrd, the way, the truth perhaps. Cleaned and sharpened, its edge catching the moonlight silver, the firelight gold. One last wipe with a soft cloth and she slid it fluidly back into its sheath. A fluid motion on entering and leaving. Katana. The mountain night air was chill, the fire's crackle warming. Food prepared and eaten. Utensils cleaned and packed. Time for the dreaming, then. To be alone. To savour the moment.

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We are all alone. In the beginning, in the end ... and in between. People come and people go. Some will not return, the numbers of the dead who pass, increasingly so as I grow older, and those tired of my way, but some will stay to share parts of the journey.

Now a time coming to cherish the beauty and flow of existence. To be without unecessary bonds, those ties that bind. Time now for preparation. To clean and sharpen, to wash and pack ... most importantly though to cleanse the spirit. To renounce need. To minimise the material necessary for comfortable travel.

It takes time. Time and patience and a heart full of wonder. Renewing the wonder. Let that be enough. Let it be.

'Singing words of wisdom, Mother Mary comes to me ...'

Peace.