A writing for the season
I wrote this a few months back, and then promptly misplaced it. So, here it is; more on my views of this glorious season of autumn (also, you'll get yet another glimpse of how I look at people/life.)
The days are growing shorter again; today a steady rain fell as I road home from work. Gray clouds are roiling in. This can mean only one thing; that the summer, and all of it's illusions that are dredged from the back of the mind after too much sun, have heard their death knell.
August and all of her hot, sultry glory stretches before me. September, while cooler, still cannot quench my thirst for the turning of leaves and the smell of fires burning in the hills, calling the weak in from the forests (both concrete and wood)to the false security of their fragile homes whilst the wind cries at their doorstep and the rain hammers at their windows.
As a motorcyclist, I should be saddened by the first twinkling of the twilight of the long days. But, to be out in the weather as the leave's decay scents the air, as the fog rolls in from the Sound, aye, that is to live!
As the weak scurry about because of their ancient genetic fear of the howls in the darkness, I ride down through their concrete canyons, and then out through the woods that rise outside of the city and shout out my laughter. I laugh because once again I know who has risen to the challenge and dance the dance of steel with whatever gods would have me.
Listen to that inside of you that rebels against the safety of man made things - run free in the rain and grin like a mad man in the face of the storm. To be heathen, then be one with nature. This is my challenge to all of you.
Those who have known me for some time expect this from me.
Loki, Coyote, Pan, we are entering their season, for it is the one season that man cannot control. They can fight the summer with air conditioning and swimming pools, they can fight the winter with blankets and heaters; but when the weather changes on a whim, when frost in the morn can give way to sweat by noon, they are helpless to plan or anticipate. I say also that this season belongs to those gods because the Trickster plays in the shadows and trees, making grown men shiver and babes scream at nothing. Raise your horn to them, and drink deep or call yourselves anything but pagan
Sowin comes, make ready.
The days are growing shorter again; today a steady rain fell as I road home from work. Gray clouds are roiling in. This can mean only one thing; that the summer, and all of it's illusions that are dredged from the back of the mind after too much sun, have heard their death knell.
August and all of her hot, sultry glory stretches before me. September, while cooler, still cannot quench my thirst for the turning of leaves and the smell of fires burning in the hills, calling the weak in from the forests (both concrete and wood)to the false security of their fragile homes whilst the wind cries at their doorstep and the rain hammers at their windows.
As a motorcyclist, I should be saddened by the first twinkling of the twilight of the long days. But, to be out in the weather as the leave's decay scents the air, as the fog rolls in from the Sound, aye, that is to live!
As the weak scurry about because of their ancient genetic fear of the howls in the darkness, I ride down through their concrete canyons, and then out through the woods that rise outside of the city and shout out my laughter. I laugh because once again I know who has risen to the challenge and dance the dance of steel with whatever gods would have me.
Listen to that inside of you that rebels against the safety of man made things - run free in the rain and grin like a mad man in the face of the storm. To be heathen, then be one with nature. This is my challenge to all of you.
Those who have known me for some time expect this from me.
Loki, Coyote, Pan, we are entering their season, for it is the one season that man cannot control. They can fight the summer with air conditioning and swimming pools, they can fight the winter with blankets and heaters; but when the weather changes on a whim, when frost in the morn can give way to sweat by noon, they are helpless to plan or anticipate. I say also that this season belongs to those gods because the Trickster plays in the shadows and trees, making grown men shiver and babes scream at nothing. Raise your horn to them, and drink deep or call yourselves anything but pagan
Sowin comes, make ready.