Post #29.2, Weds., February 2, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

         The sticks and brush I find are damp with melting snow, so the fire makes a fine wall of smoke to separate me from seeing the glutton, that very real blob of humanity. He’s expecting that his power to turn pagan myth into material sustenance also works on Christians. He reminds me of Christian superstitions, expecting tangible answers to prayer in the form of nourishment and healing, leaving me pondering what I know of God deep in my heart. I also consider the many human ways of meeting God and it sets me introspective and even in my own heart, there, is God.

         My plan is to follow the tribe tomorrow so that I will be a day behind them until they arrive at their village. Then I can beg the hunters to take me into the Vosges Mountains following after the Celtic monks. I don’t wish to travel with this thief. He will surely take my shoes and fleece and bag and now offers to switch out my love of God for material stuff he can take as well. So when he leaves the fireside for a moment I take the opportunity to go quickly up the rocks and out of site. I don’t want to lead him directly to my hidden cave, so I lurk in the rocks, watching.  He checks in the two caves visible from below, but apparently chooses not to climb higher onto these rocks by the waterfalls.

         He walks a short distance after the tracks of the tribe so I climb higher into the rocks, so that I can see over and see where that trail they left leads.  From on top of this precipice I can see the pagan tribe was following a smoother wider path around the base of these cliffs. 

         The solitude I was seeking wasn’t one purposed with evading a thief, but it is what it is. This nearly hidden cave up here higher than the others is a good place to spend tonight also. I take on the project of arranging rocks to hide the opening and whittling a bow from a greenwood stick. I ponder the question, how do the superstitions of prayers rob me of my love of God?

         Dear God, help me to find your love for this swarthy glutton who has gloomed onto me. I’ve been taught prayers of petition are holy and Christian. How is that not superstition? Guide me. So be it.

(Continues tomorrow)

Post #29.1, Tuesday, February 1, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

         I expected to spend a glittering white winter’s day in solitude fasting; but I was robbed of fasting by the find of fishes. Then, I was robbed of fishes by the thief who took my solitude.

         He says he makes his way by stealing from the pagans who believe in earth things too small to notice and maybe he steals from Christians who believe in the One who is too vast for human imagination.

         He tells of the pagan myths of elves. They sneak into hovels where parents prepare loving gifts for their children. The children are led to believe the elves were the generous benefactors rather than the parents. The children leave milk and cakes out for these stealthy elves and the thief eats the goodies so the myth is affirmed. The myth steals the parent’s love. The thief eats the cakes.

         “So how is it” I ask, “that you steal from Christians? Christians don’t leave out the cakes and milk. We make our gifts at churches.”

         “You are such a Christian to believe there is a distinction. I get my gorge from Christians the same as I do from the pagans. When Christians say, ‘sure you can’t see God, but you can see the mighty works of God, and in that way you know God.’ Then the Christians themselves do the kindnesses in the name of God.”

         “We are driven by empathy for the needy. We first learn of gracious abundance noticing God’s grace all around us. But that is probably hard to do for one who believes they are the most important thing in the universe. In fact God is the all of it. I can see how you miss the point. Without God it is hard to see so far beyond yourself.”

           The creek is cascading from the rocks once again, and the sun is piercing holes in the ice on the water just now with droplets flowing from fine tendrils of ice hanging off twigs and rocks all around.  The thief is sitting by this fire that was left and he has eaten all three of the fishes. Ice, water, mist, this fellow has no use even for the transparent waters that flow around us; he knows only the debris on the edges.

         Dear God, I know you are a truth that can’t be stolen from me, thank you.  I love you too.

         I leave the thief to go gather firewood for us both.

(Continues Tomorrow)

Post #28.12, Thurs., January 27, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

         My plan is to let the tribe of hunters move on ahead by a day and night, then I will follow them to find the Celtic Christians and their leader Columbanus. But apparently, this wood is teeming with notions of fairies and right here in front of me is this very tangible thief. He says he follows the pagans and takes advantage of their myths.

         “So you are a Christian,” begins the thief.

         “I follow the Jesus teachings, but I don’t adhere to the Creed, so I’m a heretic in these times.”

         “As though there were other times.” He argues,  “I believe in reality myself.”

         “Don’t we all?”

         “Not so. Celts and Christians believe in things that are unseen. Their entire view of the world is based on some invisible power known only by its signs regardless of the sights, and smells and tastes of reality.”

         I offer a defense, “I believe that the God who is God is Creator of all the earth and in fact the total universe, seen and unseen, and that God is love. I see Spirit through metaphor, and I feel the very real love of God. So I do believe in an invisible God but certainly not in pagan gods and fairies.”

         “Believing in things unseen is all one foolishness. It causes people to leave gifts to their wild imaginings in tangible offerings – fishes here, for example – which are now only for the pleasure of this thief. I make my way trusting in tangible reality and taking for myself those edible, spendable offerings left out for the unfounded fears of lurking troublemakers.”

         I choose not argue. I simply state my boundary, “I intend to keep my fleece and my winter shoes. You are welcome to the fish that were left here by someone else.”

         “You know what they would teach their little ones don’t you?”

         “I didn’t think they had any little ones these days.”

         “Serves them right. Even though none of them has actually seen a fairy or an elf, even among those who believe, they still tell the tales anyway because such lying and trickery seems to appease children. So the children leave biscuits and milk out for the unseen elf, who is really a thief in their own household, because the child believes it is elves that bring them gifts not their own loving and trusted parent. The love and trust of parent is stolen by the elfin lie.”

(Continues Tuesday, February 1, 2022)

Post #28.11, Weds., January 26, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

         Here in this silence of a winter wood newly snowed-in with even the waterfall stilled in ice I find a beautiful solitude. Every breath is visible. Every prayer – every thought – every little wonder – every little footprint of bird or mouse – everything important is deeply etched into the purity of this stillness.

         Psalms of thanksgiving roust through my mind, setting me to singing. I chant the call, and the music travels unbounded until it is received, maybe by some hidden fox or silent hare, and the response comes back to me fully immersed as quiet.

         Then this unabashed solitude is completely shattered as the smoke shifts and I see here at my own fire circle a human sort of forest creature, all in fleeces and furs for winter but with all the decorations of the festival, a crown of leaves, not thorns like holly or the Jesus crown; rather it is a flow of that weedy vine, the kind used to treat a cow’s udder, draped and woven into the unkempt beard still a youthful golden color. He is helping himself to the fish on my fire.

         “You caught me by surprise. Are you with the tribe of hunters that was here?”
         “Of course not! I thought you were with that tribe? They’ve moved on you know.”

         “I Know. I still plan to follow them.  I’m known as Ezra.”

         “Very fine to meet you Ezra; I am a thief, so I make it a practice not the share my name.”

         “A thief you say?”

         “Yes, and I’ve stolen these fish. There must have been a hook and line. That would be how they would leave it.”

         “So why would they leave it like that?”

         “You’re not a believer are you?”

         “I have beliefs. Maybe I seem a heretic in these times, but I’m a Christian.”

         He laughs with a strained and plotted guffaw. “A Christian isn’t a ‘believer.’ It is Christian sin to believe. But the hunters — they are believers.  They leave things for the fairies behind them, so the fairies will leave them alone. And it works. They aren’t bothered by fairy pranks. So it takes a thief to eat up these leavings the believers offer. Thank you for cooking my fish, and now I will have that line and hook, the fleece on your shoulders, your shoes, and whatever else you may have for me.”

(Continues tomorrow)

Post #28.10, Tues. January 25, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

         Snow fell silently all night and now it heaps across the entrance to this cave so morning light is just a dim glow through the snow. Guldilyn is calling, “Ezra.” I hear people right outside this cave looking for me. They aren’t even aware this cave is here. I didn’t really mean to hide from them but now I am.

         My long night here in sweet darkness was the holy blessing I needed for prayers and to listen back to dreams and thoughts all to knit together as my clarity of mind. I need to journey on alone now, but I also need direction to that place they saw the Irish father.

         Now I hear a rumor that I had been washed away in the river last night as I was on my way to the women’s cave with my fleece. Guildilyn knows I can swim, but she allows them to assume I drown. She probably believes I ran away and left no trace. Among the voices there seems a sense of loss, but it is like a possession lost, like the loss felt when a slave has runaway. It’s not grief. They mean to get an early start and decide not to waste any more time with this.

           It’s been a while since I’ve heard any voices, so I push the snow away and venture down the rocks to the abandoned campsite.

         Not only do they leave me behind, they also leave an unkempt campsite. The fire can still be rekindled and here in the icy water I find fresh fish still on a line with a fine iron hook. So now I have fish and a hook and a line.  I know this story, when the plan the followers had to fast with grief is interrupted by a feast of fish. [John 21] Thank you God.

         A whole tribe moving through fresh snow makes no secret of the travel direction. It will be easy to follow their tracks but I plan to let one day elapse between us. They seem to be moving away from the river we followed yesterday. And since they hadn’t climbed over the rocks by the river when they went on their way no one knew of the cave I found. Tomorrow I will follow them.

(Continues tomorrow) 

Post #28.9, Thurs., January 20, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

         Now I understand. I’m not really here to help with the hunt while these two men guide me on a comfortably furnished journey to find the Christians in the wilderness. The only thing that concerns them is the continuation of their own tribe. Guldilyn mentioned the insatiable appetite for personal power that drives men. And she did say this was about men. I listened to her then as though she was a woman and of secondary power; so for her, I thought, the lust for power was a gender thing. But that was not what she was saying. Now I know I should have been alert to what her words really meant. It is not about empowering one man, but about the survival of the tribe.

         Like a wounded animal with priority on survival, there is nothing a tribe won’t do to assure its continuation. Individual wants and needs are irrelevant. The tribe (or political party like the Sadducees or the Pharisees, or a national autocracy, like Rome) is more valued than any individual life. That’s how wars are made. Half truths, lies, trickery, and particularly ravaging the enemy would, of course be expected in the face of a threat from another tribe; but when the threat is from within, from its own shrinking numbers, it becomes simply a matter of finding more distant men or maidens for procreation. Of course this makes sense.

         I can see why Thole with his fiery soft hair would be preferable, and two of us more valuable than one. But I really don’t know what to do with this epiphany. I start back toward the caves, though my most pressing need right now is for a prayer in solitude. I climb the rocks by the river coated in ice along side the winter torrents cascading into falls. And there, before me, thank you God, is a third cave, tucked back into the rock. It’s solitude and maybe even shelter — a place for a day’s end rest as the shadows of night overtake all the sky darkening now, even the opening in the tree tops where the river below breaks through the wood.  Here is fresh water and shelter just large enough for one man with a fleece. I needn’t return until I have the spiritual clarity to know what to do.

         Dear God, thank you for this time and shelter, please guide my choices in your way of warless compassion. I await your guidance. Amen.

(Continues Tuesday, January 25, 2022)

Post #28.8, Weds., January 19, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

         It turns out when the boulders are rolled from the two caves this tribe’s stash of skins and weapons is revealed. Here is an abundance of deerskins and fleeces. I already have the fleece that was given me by Druid Largin, but it’s obvious I have no deer skin shelter or bow or quiver of arrows, and there seems to be no way for me to provide these essentials for myself. The tribe of hunters likely hid their things here so not to have to share with the Largin’s tribe; and of course there is no reason to share with me.

          Heinrique and Auldouff are pitching a tent made of a large hide of a buck that is the perfect size for two men, not three.

         I ask, “Will there be a sheltered place that I may lay my fleece?”

         They answer only with a chuckle between them.

         I mention, “I will also need a bow and a quiver of arrows if I am going to become useful to you on the hunt. Might you be kind enough to guide me in finding a proper wood, and then if you teach me your craft I may cut and clean such a branch so I can become useful to you.”

         Heinrique lays his monstrous arm across my shoulders. It feels like a fallen tree limb on my neck, and he guides me out of Auldouff’s earshot.

         “Ezra, boy, obviously we don’t need a third hunter to rustle in the leaves and frighten our prey.  Our sayer, Guldilyn, chose you for one purpose and one purpose only, which is to give babies to our sisters and cousins.  You may start now making your bed among the women in the caves.”

         “Have the women a choice in that?” I ask, knowing that I may not.

         “We all have our duty. When we feel starvation, we all starve or hunt. When an enemy comes down on us, we all die or fight. When our tribe is threatened to simply wane away, everyone must do what they can to save it.  We already have maidens, but they’re our sisters; now our leaders found us only one man. We thought the other tribe would have more, and when we learned of their plight they have no one at all who is young and fertile, so we thought the two extra young men should be ours. And now we have only one.”

         “I understand your disappointment but …”

(Continues tomorrow)

Post #28.7, Tues. January 18, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

         It was a long night and day and night again of celebrating this vague hope that generations may come and this tribe by the Loire may go on.

         On this new morning I am following the pagan tribe of hunters, though I’ve set my own sights on finding this Christian, Columbanus. I’ve been told he is living with his followers in the Vosges Mountains. The hunters of this tribe work in small groups of two’s and three’s, probably because, while thirty-some bowmen are useful for warfare against humankind, the deer hunt is more intimate.

         Guldilyn takes me to the two who were hunting in the mountains when they came upon these Christians living in the ruin of Annegray.

         “They are Heinrique and Auldouff. They hunt the distant places you want to visit and they will teach you the bow.”

         So Guldilyn has assigned mentors and I believe, from their expressions, I’m something of an unwelcome intrusion – a sprouting upstart with no possible good sense. At least my tonsure is nearly hidden now under the rough pattern of unkempt curls, and my unshorn beard doesn’t reek of Christian monk.

         This entire tribe is on a slow trek north and east, mostly men, but the few women among us are at the front of the pack with their Druid, Balfour.  Maybe that is so we will keep a woman’s pace, or possibly women have a place of leadership among these people. I follow behind Heinrique and Auldouff who are walking side-by-side talking to one another and make no glance or gesture at all to include me. They seem to have a lot to talk about but are speaking only in their tribal language leaving the Roman edges of the common tongue understood but not spoken. For a moment their shared story has humor. They both laugh, but then they glance back at me and I can guess I am the punch line.

         This wilderness is hardly a journey of new discovery for these two.  They seem to know this path well. Even the rest sites have been set here on an earlier journey. There is no wonder in it. We walk most of the day at a good pace so this evening we are in a place where the river we’ve been following cascades over winter ice. Amid the rocky ledges protruding in the woodlands are several caves and here we have our camp.

(Continues tomorrow)

Post #28.6, Thurs., January 13, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

         Great peaks of flames roll, each tongue rising higher, snapping and hissing then dissolving silently into the hot center of it all. As each finger of flame points deeper into the dark a spew of sparks escapes to eternity with the winter stars. Across the fire I see Thole rolling a log to a perfect spot upwind of the smoke. He carefully arranges a fleece and now he is gone again.

         No sooner does Druid Largin begin the ritual than Thole emerges again, this time he comes with a woman bundled in his cloak as though she were his most precious treasure. They sit on the fleece so close to one another they seem one thing. A bellow of smoke rides a wind shift obscuring my curious gaze. But I’ve seen it.

         I prayed that Thole would have empathy, so this moment is my heavenly flaunting.

         I suppose it’s only I who hear God speaking, “Lazarus, you don’t need to tell me how to distribute empathy or any of the other windows to love. I’ve already set it all out for humankind and yet you trip yourselves into it anyway, hardly noticing all the varieties of love until it tumbles you.”

         Thank you God. I will take care.

         The remarks of the Druid are of course, not spoken as heavenly blessings, rather as blessings from earth. He is both the father of the bride and the priest and this is clearly the nuptial. A long night and day again of celebration is toasted with a keg of ale. There is no coy secret of the phallus. The druid brings out a sacred white snake, as was gathered from the nearby grasses. This white snake is dancing and twisting as it is held up for all of us to see just how a snake moves. The imagery is clearly something that taunts woman, until the bride here chooses to make it her pet.

         It is the universal chant with pagan lyric, and the same tempo for dancing the world already knows.  The heartbeat of the Celts is no different than the Hora of the ancients.

         And now I see Thole’s bride has one fine dancing foot, and another that keeps the beat anyway. And they dance and dance.

         Thank you God, for all the tripings into love you’ve laid out in Creation. May I not loose sight of it. Amen.

(Continues Tuesday, January 18, 2022)

Post #28.5, Weds., January 12, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

         The leftovers of a huge feast with visitors and long nights of parties is old food, empty barrels, and contentious divisions between the tribes. The withering greens are set outside. The ashes are swept from the hearthstones and new wood is stacked. Ordinary tidiness is the best anyone can hope for, that, and the longer hours of daylight though any warmth from sun seems far in the future.

         Guldilyn speaks to Druid Balfour the priest of their tribe regarding the news that Thole won’t be joining them. She doesn’t even use the possible off-set of good news that I will be going with them. He is livid. He takes Druid Largin away to a distance out of earshot, but we can all see it is an animated discussion.  I try to ease the situation mentioning to Guldilyn that I don’t think Thole is a good hunter, and I know he doesn’t know how to swim.

         Guldilyn is serious and I’m making light of Thole’s flaws.

         “Swimming, why would you measure a man by swimming?”

         “I’m just thinking he was nearly lost to the river which would make this whole problem moot. And your priest might want to know that I happen to be a very fine swimmer.  So it’s not all a loss for your tribe, you know.”

         “Swimming has nothing to do with it.”

         “Well, maybe not, at least until the river rises; I mean, I happen to be a useful human being also. It’s not like your tribe is getting nothing.”

         “This is not about you. This is between our priests. It’s a tribal power thing. Lust for power is mindless. If there was ever any sense to a man’s need for personal power no one would ever have to die in a war. We would all just settle things like wise women chanting and dancing in the firelight.”

         They seem to have reached an agreement here with no blows between them. 

         I help prepare as the tribe that I will travel with readies for the journey.

         Druid Largin gives me a gift of one of the fleeces Thole and I had borrowed when we were camping. And he offers his gratitude for rescuing the woman from plague. I assure him it wasn’t plague but that goes unheard. 

         Tonight the Celtic blessings for our journey will be chanted at a bonfire with both tribes together in a parting peace.

(Continues tomorrow)