Detail, action, clarity, success, hierarchy, fruitfulness, facing shadow, making choices, spiritual warriorship, integration of paradox, designation of priorities, division of land holdings


by Teresa Wild

First, there is this world as we think we know it. Things are growing according to Nature’s plan, branching out fractally, in pathways that are familiar to our senses and felt in our bones. As we grow with it, we come to rely on it, experiences pile up and resemble a sense of knowing how it all works.

Then lightning strikes, and everything changes. Even though we have heard about this phenomenon before, the result is always something new, and it hurls everything into a state of being where everything is strange, unpredictable. There is a conflagration when the combustibles catch fire. Smoke blinds us, and we flounder for a footing in the burnt-out landscape. It is impossible to see anything clearly as we search for something familiar. We can’t even see our own feet, and the ground they touch feels undetermined.

We are alone, wander aimlessly, looking for other survivors… We surrender to the mystery, because there is no choice. Fear urges us onward, because there is no staying there, in that dangerous place. Everything is dynamic, so we push on, and find ourselves being swept up in swirling eddies of spent matter in the fresh air coming from somewhere further on. Our senses hone in on the scent of something we have never smelled before, knowing it offers us something better. Our bodies are irresistably drawn in a direction, and pathways open themselves up under our feet. The air becomes clearer, the way easier, and we see other souls in the distance, all going the same general direction towards a brilliant light just over there…

The Mayan glyphs are carried with hope by some people, as lanterns in the mist. Some others carry the I Ching, moving with conviction. Some faithfully carry crosses and rosaries, others chant mindlessly on japa beads. A few struggle with arms loaded, full of everything. Even fewer carry nothing at all except small lamps or candles.

I catch up, walk with somebody, help them pack their load for a while, pass it back, walk on.

The light I carry always is a small star captured in a stone. It won’t, by its nature, ever blow out, even though its light is barely discernible. It doesn’t illuminate much of the area up ahead, but it is enough to show were I must place my feet, step by step.

The lightning path is the trail we follow.