I am, of course, blaming your ‘extrusions’ for the silvery exudations that now make an argent tracery across my threshold. Slug Town? Yeah… they all seem to be coming in to see me the past couple of weeks and I spend my time evicting their squidgy little bodies every evening. And all since you started writing them into But’n’Ben…
Which begs the question, how much do we ourselves write our adventures and how much is written for us? Not in the obvious sense, of course… Are our speculations a response to a lived reality or do we define and call it into being by according it a Name and a Word?
In other words, is the current infestation of slugs really your fault?
The whole of the observer and the observed put into action…
Do we simply find the wonders we do because we intend to be open to them? I believe we do. We know they are not ‘ours’ at all… they are there for everyone, but intent makes them visible to awareness, not just to sight. Which is probably why we end up missing so much of what we have already seen until we are ready to See it.
And if that expanded awareness creates its own feedback loop of belief, given that our faith in the rightness of the day is always ‘proved’, it would explain why the ‘wonders and wounds’ of the hills and valleys are open to us.
I wonder what wonders our next adventure will unfurl?
It is going to be winter again before we can explore Stanton Moor, isn’t it? Sadly, I read a report the other day on more vandalism of the Nine Ladies circle… It just beggars belief why anyone would wilfully and mindlessly damage something that has stood for so many thousands of years. Do we have to carve our names onto everything we do not understand, just because we can see there is a value to it, even if its nature is hidden from us? Stamp the Sigil of our ego upon beauty in a vain attempt to possess and control that which belongs to no-one? And half the time, we probably do so unconsciously, and that is the real sadness.
Lunacy too, really. When you think of all the names carved into the Cow and Calf rocks at Ilkley… hundreds of years of them, parroting without understanding the ancient petroglyphs that meant something more than ‘me, me, me..’ Yet who remembers those who bore those names… except as vandals? The hand that grasps… seeking to grasp a formless eternity of which, did they but realise it, they are already a part.
Ah well… the Black Beast is in as much need of a walkabout as the Black Shade… so I suppose I’d better get the leash…
See you soon,
Wen and Anu x