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I am Marghana

Author - Marghana

Written on - Sunday 2nd September 2012 (06:15am)


I am Marhgana. I am trace-elven. I hail from a tiny, distant land, of dazzling beauty and cruelty beyond belief. All my long years I have felt the earth shake, and blood has spattered my every day. Fire pours from the mountains, and evil festers even among the sculptured flowers that live and breathe for one day in the forests of mists eternal. Though I love this land, only my spirit finds belonging, for my fair flesh is often the prey of dark swarming usurpers.

Bits of song and pictures have drifted to my hands, hungry for brethren- and mother-lines, and I sing alone in small happy corners… then other seekers are drawn to me, and for a while we revel and send up wisps of grateful smoke perfumed. How came this far strain of your kind to root and grow, scantily, in the far south and west of the world? Verily, the underside, the other side, once unknown, should have stayed so. Men and women have not been happy here, mostly, since long lost days. Perhaps some odd stray dreamer could slip unseen unfelt through these fragile ways, but such has not been. Iron feet have crushed open pathways through holy forests, driving before them the ant-people of old: themselves predators as well, though in a manner more subtle and aware of the Powers.

Of the Powers, yes, but not of the complete cosmic structure. Not of the oneness of us all, that drags us each one through endless lives until even the last has completed the lesson, and we can all return to the fountain from which we burst free… once, so very long-time gone, as droplets flying out furiously from an idle splashing of divine feet in the sacred pool of nothingness dribbling over into beingness…

They have fallen, then, so far that they now remember only this, sinking, fearsome, lonely feeling of falling through the void. Alone. In danger. Contesting. The illusion of others became the truth upon which all was settled and built up. Others which we must placate, or conquer, or come close to, or get away from, or destroy, devour, bind to ourselves, banish from the land… never seeing that there are no such others, that we are flesh derived from spirit, spirit derived from light, light sparkling, one only total light, one Fire Unperishing… This we are and always are, and any else is only in passing, a moment’s fancy, a sigh, a snort…

Have I been sent here in exile? Have I once offended and now must redress? Have I wished for this and been rewarded? Did I long for the hot suns of the southwards, for the seasons of rainshowers long and short, for the tiny flower of all colours in one? I do not remember, I do not recall… though I could, but why should I? Where I am going now, I may not know or not entirely… but where I will go, this I know, and I rest easy in knowing. Will I return to the roots of my father-tree? I could, I would… I may… I might… If you want me there, shadowy ghosts of the síde, bring me to you and I will sing at your barrows for your peace and contentment. I only wish I could sing for your freedom! But this is still much beyond me, I, who can only amuse and move to feeling… it has not been granted to me to cause to fly…

Love has shown me its bitterness. Love of a man my own, once I thought to reach there the highest mortal state, mortal love, gateway to the light… so they said… As yet I have still to see even the first modest hilltop at the foot of the great range, and my flesh tires now more easily... and so I seek in the footsteps of another far-thrown seeker, a castaway of third generation. A sage, a kind teacher of difficult ways, a gentle master of power both crushing and healing. Much have I learned at his table about the Art of Living, the art of being...

He has pointed the path for me to return to forgotten skills, the arts of meditation, the strengthening of the will, the culture of balance: sweet and bitter, hot and cold, hard and soft, swift and slow... tensing and releasing. Not in words and ideas, surely, do I begin to remember, for those ancient memories belong not to the world of now; in feeling, alone, do I find traces of homecoming, to myself, my closest link to the eternal: a tiny portrayal, and again the only way back.

The prizes of this world are within my reach but not rooted in my heart. I want not riches of stuffs and counting, nor cries of wonder from the masses. I want to do my part as a Warrior of Light, aid in the final triumph over darkness and ignorance, sad and ailing children delivered into the Garden.

I fortify my gaze upon the Way to the Light, aware of so many side paths to go lost on, as some which I have taken at another time and have sent me through circles of pain and fear, of loss and hatred. I have returned, resurfaced, because that is the Way: because the Fountain is calling us all back and will continue to call us until the last one has come home, and these our efforts will always be rewarded.