Falling into Step…

Stuart France

*

… “Fiachna, son of Conga,” shouted Daatho, “there is a man here who wants a word with you.”

“Let him who wants a word with me, fall into step with me, replied Fiachna.

“Spoken like a true champion,” said Fin, falling into step alongside the old man.

“A name before a word,” said Fiachna.

“I am Fin, son of Cuill, son of Trenmore, son of Bassna,” said Fin.

The old man stopped in his tracks then and his hands began to tremble and to shake.

“Do you say this to mock me?” he asked.

“I speak truly,” said FIn, “do I not resemble my father?”

The old man looked more closely at Fin.

“You have Cuill’s eyes,” he said, “but if you are his son then you will know what mark he wore upon his sporran.”

“The mark on the threshold stone of the Brugh na Angus is on…

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Space for error

The Silent Eye

For five years, it was Steve who was the principal writer of the annual workshops. I don’t think any of us had really considered that it would ever be otherwise. We contributed, both ideas and certain sections of the weekend, but he had established a format and set a standard. All who attended knew they could trust him to deliver.

The morning of the first meeting after the River of the Sun workshop, Stuart and I had been talking about an idea he’d had for a workshop long ago…something he had been thinking about, on and off, for years. The Green Man had been coming up a lot in our lives…perhaps that was what had brought the idea to mind once more. We tend to trust the synchronicities that lead us along these odd pathways…especially when they go all ‘bells and whistles’.  You never know where they might lead, and…

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Unexpected Shaman (7, End) – King of Jaguar – Child of Sun

The Silent Eye

They placed him on a bier and tended his bruises and the flow of blood from his elbow. Bandaged and victorious, he was carried into the Temple of the Jaguars from where, elevated high above the level of the Ball Court, he  was invited to watch the start of the new game, below.

He wondered if this was just for him; wondered if his presence in this harvest of spirituality was an extension of the grace as witness… or whether the difference in time and place didn’t matter, that condition and readiness were everything, and, once fulfilled, the dawning horizon’s fingers of purpose would weave their anciently-spun magic, no matter what the era in which they were invoked.

They gave him water for his parched body, then a sweet liquid that contained a contrasting brew of bitter herbs.

In trust he drained the cup…

When he woke, it was…

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