From the deepness and darkness of the midwinter’s depth springs forth new life, new hopes, new desires, new dreams. Out of nothing – the grinding down, the stopping, the heartbeat that trips and starts afresh – comes this. Just this.
Whatever it appears to be, appears and it is drenched in stickly-sweet sweat and tears, mud and grit.
The Holly springs forth new blessings, blood-red sentinels in the forest clearing, issuing new challenges, from hearth and home and I am pushing forth again and the year has changed, I have changed, life has shifted onto new paths.
Out of nothing bursts forth everything.
This life, this dream, what is it to me? What can it mean? When there is nothing left, everything is possible, everything is allowed, everything is part of a creation that never ceases. Out of a dream comes some kind of returning and this journey leads me back to the hearth, back to the embers that were burning here all the time, back to the home I have always know but never dared to allow myself to become.
When there is nothing left, when the turning year has ground down every cell, every atom, every breath, every thought, then there can only ever be a birthing, there can only ever be a renewal, only ever be a start. In each ending is always and ever a new beginning.
And silence.
This here, right now, is all of me; everything I am, everything I see. I stand naked before the essence of life itself, ready to receive the call of freedom and it whispers constantly in my ears, drowning out the noise of everything else. I am nothing and everything. To be or not to be, to rest then start again. Anything is possible and I know what I know I am to become, what I have already been for an eternity.
The winter’s cleansing, freezing, thawing. The fresh moon haloed in the forest.
You read nothing more, I take nothing less. There is nothing else to know. Following the path, dreaming the dream, nothing begets everything and I am it.
There is the end and here is the beginning.