Isn’t the Whole World Your Comfort

 

Tell me, ancestors, who now see with clear eyes
from the bright mountains where you now live,
are you no longer afraid?
Isn’t the whole world your comfort
splashed in the light of things,
and the clear mountains where you now live.
The valleys lean toward you, and
the Great Milky Way is your pathway
and soft sand underfoot.
I would walk the long road to the village at dusk,
the sunset behind me, knowing I’d find you.
Now you live in the Soul of the World.
Be near me in tenderness: humankind is not made for
too much aloneness. I have nothing to hide from,
do not turn me away; take me into to your firelight.
I am not always the hazy-minded kind of my species.
At what point does one come to know what is sacred?
Grandma, I ask you with an aching heart,
do not hide these last days from me.
Poetry by Gentle J. Pine

Laughing in Mountains

 

 

Beloved, Beloved,

come out from within things,

as you look out from within things,

from the eyes of your creatures,

from the spark of creation

as from the inside of a tree

there comes fire.

Come down, o love Divine,

and complete my half-written words

for your glory, my love,

for your beauty, my love,

so that all creatures

may seek you and know you.

Most beautiful!

The One who is love incarnate!

Follow my heartbeat, as I follow yours,

tracking your footsteps in the land.

My face, sometimes it is sorrowful.

If you may look upon me in love,

even in these times,

not turning your sun from me

even in these times,

then surely not a sparrow falls

without your swooping down

on mother-bird wings

to comfort and carry

each home.

You lead me

through vine thickets and brambles

to see the great stag leap

from his cavern!

Most beautiful Lord,

friend of plants, laughing in mountains,

draw from my mouth the good words

for hearts sorely in want of you.

 

 

 

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Cordillera

I have dreamt the mountains are so close to my house in the city, the whole long range spanning the Cascades down to the Sierras, huge and magnified, their icy caps leaning over small neighborhoods in primeval protection. American Cordillera. In my dreams, the mountains spell the nearness of God. They are the mother mountains where clean waters come down and angels go to live in animal bodies a while. From the car driving by the foothills it looks sometimes like you can jump out of the car and run up there to catch fish in clear waters. Glitter white-gold sand, burnt-sienna Ponderosa pine needle trails, my California; wet Western Redcedar mossy deep green curling ferns, my Cascadia– I turn to the great land and the land turns in closer to me. A banner of turquoise in lakes, Milky Way trail of spirits –Inland Pacific! Lands of my birth! And the Range of Light is always at the edge of my mind, moving mountains in dreams.

 

 

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Candle Battle in the Haunted Mountain Teahouse

I dreamt of a Japanese-style teahouse built of wood and stone jutting out from the side of a darkly enchanted mountain. A harmless old woman lived there, the Keeper of the Keys. I and two friends were greeted by her in the tea parlor where we were served fresh-brewed strengthening potions in ceremonial cups, to carry out a mission she needed us for. She clothed us in vivid turquoise for spiritual protection. “The ghouls of this mountain have grown unexpectedly restless,” she says. “I need you to help me clean house.”

Deep into the side of the mountain tunneled the caverns behind her teahouse home. Burrowed chambers of abandoned vaults gave way to spider’s webs and the remains of small, dead beings. We came to an empty well that was a hundred feet deep, and twenty feet wide. In the middle was a hanging rope –for swinging across to the other side?

Suddenly, there appeared a monstrous humanoid skeleton thirty feet tall, swinging on the rope over the well, slashing at us with its claws. It was a terrible sight with it’s big, hollow sockets for eyes and its sinister grin.

I drew out my candlestick from my sheath, the one I have dreamt of before. In these dreams I carry it with me when we need light. The monster swings at me, but my wax candle, as if it were diamond, meets his furor with solidity and he falters. Quickly, my friends lay down a plank of wood across the well and I run out to where the menace dangles, momentarily bewildered on his rope, and I cut him down. He falls back down the hole to be seen and heard no more.

Returning to the parlor, all the little dead beings whose bodies were trapped in the tunnels become alive again, and give a cheer for us. The old woman robes us in rainbow-quilted cloaks of rejoicing designs detailing our particular powers gifted to us on our quests. The balance was restored to the mountainside and the Keeper’s tea tasted better than it ever had before.

 

 

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Wolf Boy and the Sacred Tattoo Girl

I’ve been keeping a dream journal for almost a year now. Usually my dreams consist of totally boring things, like flying and doing exorcisms and turning into animals. There’s also aerodynamic weightless martial arts and bopping around the cosmos and the usual nightly grind like that, but every now and then I get a really exciting dream that’s about getting my homework done or doing errands. I mean, sometimes when I’m flying and fighting dragons and all that, I feel kinda left out of the fun…

A dream.

Walking a sunlit path in the mountains, I meet a little white-gold puppy who comes bounding up to me happily. As I walked by him he sat adorably on one hip, as puppies do, whimpering lovably for me to stay and play.

After cuddling him I continued walking, soon emerging from the trees’ thickest part to where a fence was the only boundary between me and the ocean. What is an ocean doing all the way up here in the mountains? A sign read, “WARNING: THE DEEP.”

I turned and there was the little puppy running to me. At this age he couldn’t have been bigger than a large house cat. He seemed of wolfish ancestry, with a pretty husky face and pointy ears, his eyes a brilliant clear blue. His fur was not white, not gold, but like silken, liquid sun on a clear winter’s morning, and feeling to my touch as thick as a sea otter’s fur.

In his mouth he was carrying a disc-shaped toy with luminescent patterns of stars glimmering brighter and dimmer. His toy is a map of the cosmos.

I knew that because of his smallness he wished for me to to carry him upon this frisbee like a boat. I lifted him to it and he adjusted the compass of the heavenly map with his paw.

We were back at my cabin now. A human friend was there, and as I introduced my canine friend I marvelous telescopes and similar instruments in my lodgings, pointed to the skies.

Suddenly, my pup transformed into a human –and how lovely he was! He appeared a boy not much older than his young teens; his face with slender eyes and high cheekbones, and the color of his eyes still blue and they were while a pup’s eyes, his hair the same liquid gold of his prior fur.

“The Inuits sent me to you,” he informed me with a bow. “I come bearing good news and great joy.”

Surrounding us now was an orchard of pink and white blossom trees in full bloom. A little girl appeared to me then. She was about six or seven years old, but very muscular and big for her age. In her hand she held a longbow, glowing with strange light. On her chest were intricate, sacred tattoos of humans and other creatures. There were blue, angelic markings of complicated circles, and the same glowing constellations as on the wolf-boy’s disc.

“She must not go outside without them, these marks of protection,” the wolf-boy told me.

“They are looking for her, and they will send a great tidal wave if they find her. They say not ‘if’ but ‘when’. Do not believe them. If these markings are with her they will not be able to see her. Yet it is also the only way they would know it is her. But they will not find her this way. Yet, if they do, the wave will devour all the blossom trees, all the mountainside, the high cloud-capped peaks, the villages and I and you. Guard her, for she guards you first.”

The girl smiled at me warmly and confidently, readying her bow. In my hand I saw I now had a bow, and I drew mine too. We looked toward the darkening sea.

 

 

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Fata Morgana Mountains

I dreamt I was looking out over an ocean, to the west I was looking, and the ocean stretched into infinity, but something lay between. There were the jutting outcrops of small mountains to my right and left, framing the eye’s sight as one sees when looking out from a bay. Not very far there appeared to be great mountains like the Sierras reaching into the skies. From the distance over the water I could see the details of their snow caps and hidden forests, and I knew at once that this was a land where no one on this side of the waters had been. Was it a Fata Morgana? A fairy’s mirage made to lead me into a trap? But my eyes were fixed. “It is the spirit mountains.” Said my friend behind me -behind me, where I could not see! Like a ghost. She whispered into the back of my skull. “Are they there, or are they not? They are there, but they are not you on this side of the waters to touch.” I remember her words clearly.

Soon others gathered around me, friends with hidden faces. The fragile docks undulated quietly on the banks of the dark sea. Night was coming.

 

 

image source: public domain