Delicate juxtaposition. Embers. Ashes. Scorched Earth. Reverie awakening the spirit of new growth. Teardrop scaled body armor chromed in azure. Gold kissed eyes and ivory teeth. Steam weaves from nostrils, promenading languid through morning air. Is it absurd that I believe in the existence of dragons? Long to befriend an untamed beast and climb above the horizon. Everything that makes these mystical beasts fearsome endears them to me. A majestic misunderstood being that owns depths of aged wisdom. The prickling appetite to travel into the deep, deep wood, carrying rucksacks and wonder in expectation to glimpse the impossible. Reality isn’t all it is meant to be. I believe there is more than meets the eye.
The memory of melancholy seeps in…drip…drip…drip…into veins, into marrow and sinew. Uncontrollable tide. Should each moment not be filled to brim with wonder? A broken world holds broken people. The rush, rush, rushing. The sickness. The heartache.
Darkness.
Then, there is the morning glory – a sliver of promise that breaks wide and covers even the darkest recesses. Birds carry their songs amongst naked trees, their cadence whispering ancient talks of wondrous adventures and great beauty. The air is crisp, dry leaves crunch underfoot. The insecurity blanket replaced by coat and homespun mittens. A hint of woodsmoke and meadowsweet softens the air. Tension begins to leave atrophied limbs as life expands desiccated lungs. The craving of expectation ignites as a cottage, curling smoke belching from its stone chimney, uncloaks. Is it mirage or solid certainty?
Solid certainty. This will only be a temporary reprieve. A moment to remember creature comforts, stretching stiff limbs upon threadbare rugs and creaking floorboards. The appetite for the unknown is too great. Adventure coursing through the bloodstream like a heady analgesic.
The initial title of this piece was, “Chasing Dragons…& Other Daily Chores.” The extraordinary in the ordinary. A sentiment I’ve pinned in many other writings. How can finding a dragon and washing dishes live in the same category of being? They can, because they are. The amber scorch of autumn is always my favorite in crisp glittering yellows, reds, and oranges. I’m staggered by the sheer scope of winsomeness this world can retain. I’m still pondering where these scribblings are going. Yet, I feel tethered to it. Unfettered. Unafraid. I want to soar high above the clouds, head thrown back and arms raised as my beast of burden carries me unbridled.
We fear unknown ideas. We want assurance and presence of mind – always! There are no guarantees. The established and true is what we have yet to see. The ancients sang of it. The indelible face of God so familiar, yet so dim through a clouded mirror. Faith standing in the solid unseen. Walking with the creator in the cool of the evening. The whispers of Jesus upon the wind masurating a weary tattered soul into solid embrace.
The unveiling, less trepidatious than before. The closer to an end feels more like a beginning. Hate cannot bury hope. Fear cannot shatter credence.
So, I sit and dream of being a dragon rider and hearing the Woodsman’s heartsong – laughing with abandon at the complex belief of his faithful creation.
Oh the wonder. All returns to what is true. Cool breeze kisses ruddy cheeks as I step a muddy boot on a curved path. The bend holds secrets I have yet to uncover. A scarred hand slips into mine and we step in time with a light feathered heart.
Chasing dragons…chasing Him…finding…believing…in the deep deep wood.
Reflection of Providence 