Ancient Souls Answer the Call of Wildness.
You will know the Ancients when you meet them. You will recognize them. They are the ones who lead by their example. They are the courageous ones. They are the furious ones. They are the singing ones. The ones with otherworldly eyes. The ones who make you dance in their aliveness. The ones whose faith keeps you afloat in dark-womb waters.
You will know the Ancients when you hear their voices rumble through your mortal coil. You will know they are near when the downy hair on your forearms stand up in a salute as they enter the room. Some Ancients like to make an entrance. Others slip silently through the back door. But they know you. They know that you are there.
Some come wrapped in furs and skins; bones and animal heads adorn their crowns. Some wear feathers in their hair. Some come dancing in with jingling swinging hips, in waving, silky fabrics from the Orient.
The Ancient ones smell like campfire smoke, or exotic flowers. Some smell like the sea, briny and wild with sand on the scalp. On others yet, the scent of pine needles. Some burn hot, like the lava that made the land your stick house sits upon.
Even in the most gentle of Ancients, is something fierce and mighty. It keeps them humble. It keeps them true. It liberates the extended family from the bear-trap lie, and the caging of the mind.
Most Ancients are not easygoing. They died brutally too many times to take the medicine they carry lightly. They do not throw their diamond tears to those who dare not weep themselves to the rivers of peace.
The Ancients are deities-in-training, soon to be in practice. They are the new gods and goddesses emerging from the primordial waters of the red sea. Most of them insist that they are human; they do not want to frighten off the children they have sacrificed themselves to heal, to feed, to love. Hundreds of thousands of lifetimes over, they have died to help you now. Today.
The Ancients are a dignified lot. They may be young or old, fat or skinny, beautiful or terrible in their appearance. They wear an invisible mantle of Divine Authority. They are spiritual royalty, and to them your suffering is an insult to the Kingdom to which all of us belong. It is too small for you. It is unnecessary. It is no longer needed to make you see the truth. But you insist that agitation is the only way to learn. Are you sure?
Are you sure?
What might you learn from being loved correctly, just one time? What might you learn from the fields of lilac-spattered joy? What might you learn if you put down the armor, the sword, the bounty of your suffering, for even just one moment? What would happen if you stripped down to your nakedness, opened your arms and your chest to the wind and the sun?
The wind remembers. The sun knows you. Wind has been the Breath of Life since the world was new, and Wildness was all there was. The Ancients remember, and they follow this great out-breath across time, across space. They use the sun as their North Star.
You’ll know the Ancients when you meet them. They are the ones leading by example. Keep open your eyes; seek them out. When they show themselves to you, make your offering, and see. See what it is they have been holding for you, until this high and holy, ordinary day.