Laptops gone, yet feeling fine
drunk upon the Story wine
as we pound and pound our feet
back again upon the street.
Here we share a faerie song
keys of dark and white
for the Emerald people
full of sacred Light
We awake early and head into the Emerald City of Eugene, leaving the dysfunctional laptops behind. I strap ‘Heaven’ the handpan I received on the Isle of the Gods, upon my back, intent on making passage deeper into the realms of the bardic.
“The Quest demands everything” I tell Yeshua, as we drop off the white steed, thanking the Divine for assisting us in passage to the Emerald City. Now without a vehicle, we walk along the streets with barely $60 to our name.
I grin. These are beautiful moments on the Quest. When one is faced with the Street. Without transport, their wallet nearly empty. Here, one’s mettle is truly tested, the physics of the quest their only real foundation in an uncertain future. As we walk along the path, we encounter a woman, her shirt emblazoned with the phrase ‘Still, she persisted’.
“Appropriate” I say, smiling to Yeshua. Sixteen years into the Quest to track the journey into the real magickal World, persistence is all I know.
These are beautiful moments on the Quest. When one is faced with the Street. A rush of inspiration fills me then, and I cast lyrics out into the winds. When one is on the street, the only place they can go is up.
The Streets of Emerald
Moving onward, we pass a coffee shoppe. I enter, transparently letting the barista know that we are down to our last $60 and ask her, as she opens the store, if she will donate us a pair of coffees.
She smiles. “Of course. I know how that is.” And hands us some of the steaming liquid. It is a sign of graciousness on the path.
I ask her name. “Dorothy” she says. I grin. How apropos. Dorothy, giving us coffee in the Emerald City.
Intent on converging with Jesse and Raven, we make our way to the bus stop, intent on passage to the Country Fair. As we do, a sound calls to me.
“Do you hear that?” I ask Yeshua. Across the street, a piano awaits us, it’s keys singing across the station.
Scrying my compass of the underlands, the tones of the bardic pulse in emerald harmonies. Such is the nature of the law of reflection, that we encounter our own essence in the hologram of our sacred path. Here, our own inner vibration has led us here to this synchrony of moments, to embody the myth of the traveling bards we are in it’s modern incarnation
“Yes”, I muse. The olde ways. The streetways. Once more on the ground floor of the World, I busk, offering Story and Song to the people. ‘King Niekko would be proud of me’ I think, as I scribe the glyph of Opening in the air and begin playing the piano intensely, invoking the wielding out across the plaza.
As I do, an older gentleman turns our way, asking us where we came from.
I grin. “We came from Faerie” I say.
“Between the raindrops.” I reply. “She’s a place between places.”
I can feel the vibrations resolving within him. I love telling people the Truth.
To play the music is deeply healing for me. I have been so involved in the constant architecture of the Mythica there has been little inspiration for music. To dive deeper into Story and Song was the promise to my self, a personal reward for building the temple of the Mythica for the people. Like Yeshua, I had worked intensely on my voice to release my inner Song. It was a thing we shared, journeying together through the underlands of the shadow and redemption of self-expression.
Soon after, Yeshua and I walk to the people, asking for the coin of the realm in appreciative return. One of them scoffs and turns away, while others step forward.
“Into the Mythica, eh? I’ve heard of you. Checked out the website once.” Says one of the people, handing us a dollar.
This is not a small thing. To me, the recognition of our Quest and the offering of money is a sign, an affirmation from the Universe that we are moving into the realms of abundance through the bardic.
I smile. “Realmsign” I say, turning to Yeshua. In the telepathic harmony that we share, he feels it, the recognition of our efforts reflecting back through the circumstances of our path. As we do, a woman walks amongst the people, carrying a basket full of prophecies.
“Please take an omen” she says, and Yeshua reaches in, pulling out a slip of paper. It reads “Your challenge is to be a freedom fighter and a buddha at the same time”. How apropos, I think, as we share an appreciation for the Divine play.
As we have no tickets, we cannot ride the bus. Inquiring into another means of reaching the fair, I am told there is a bus line which heads in that direction about a block away. Here, we board an emerald bus which takes us out of towne, intersecting with another stop where we are to transfer.
Inspired by the energies of the bardic, we are undaunted in our transmission of the Quest, shooting photos and documenting our journey through the evernote. A sense of perseverance and resolve, that of fellowship-through-trial hangs in the air between us, warm and comforting in the shifting fields of our reality.
The bus drops us off near a shopping mall. Checking the schedule I see that the connecting bus won’t arrive till the late afternoon. I share this with Yeshua, and we resolve to walk the six miles or so to the fair, trusting that we will be given a ride by some good samaritan on the way.
We do not walk for long. Within a few minutes, a truck pulls up, offering us a ride. As I sit in the back, I sense a familiar energy in the field. That of Scotland and the realms of Faerie.
This is no surprise to me, confirming once more the physics of the quest. Part and parcel of Avalon’s emergent remembrance, avatars of Scotland have always shown up through the underlands of the Mythica.
I feel led to communicate to Yeshua. Part of the lines of the Great Story, the causality of our circumstance on the World Tree.
“Yet another appearance of Scotland on the path. I have seen this all throughout the Journey Home, reflected in many of my Faerie kin. I see her as part of the Great Story of our unfoldment.”
As we land, the driver comes out. I mention Scotland and he smiles, revealing a series of tattoos honouring the Land. Eager to share the bardic of the Mythica, I share a bit of the Faerie Roads adventure, where I had taken McLain and the Yanderling.
The driver nods his assent, and shares a bit of the lore of the people of Scotland from his vantage. “I feel they are much more in-tune with the land there, it’s part of their heritage” he says.
“Absolutely, I recognized this my journey. We ended up at a place called Findhorn where the gardens grew much larger through their connection with the Deva and Faeries. The land there told me something important, that we are the Garden. We and the Land are One.”
The Country Fair
We walk forward. The scents of the Oregon fair, the energies of the Green play across my senses. We approach the Market, the gathering of craftspeople and storytellers that dots the edge of the Fair.
“Ah, many times I’ve walked the market. She takes many forms, but the essence remains the same.” I tell Yeshua.
A splash of colour defines our entry into the outer territories of the Country Fair. The scents and sounds of the people are intoxicating, thick with the energies of life. It has been many years since I have felt the timbre of the Emerald City and her inhabitants, flush with the nexus of the annual event.
I love the markets. The places where the people gather, and engage in the sacred commerce of the Land. Dependent on where one travels through the Mythica, truly magickal items can be found.
An energy draws us in as we wander the Furtherside. A mask maker named Duck and his clan. I adore such crafts. In the subtlety of my gaze they unveil, weavings of elegant vibration wrought into form. Masks have a particular magick to them, one of transformation, of changing one’s face and manner. I had a few myself, crafted by the masterful hands of Carl Bridge, one of my fellow avatars of Faerie.
Duck greets us, welcoming us in the manner of the sacred market. It is a thing of fellowship more than solicitation, where we meet each other as travelers on the Path. Such is my favorite style of interaction, honoring the humanism that lay beneath the trappings of commerce.
We sit with them, cooling off in the hot Sun. I offer a melody, pulling my handpan out of it’s case and thrumming along her surface.
As my fingers move across the harmonies of Heaven’s metal skin, a wash of inspiration moves through me. I feel the bardic, stretching across my vocal chords. The tones of talkstory dancing their way through my movements. It is a beautiful, angelic thing, bringing the depths of contentment to my soul. A sense of my Heart’s desire, blossoming into the World. Despite the hopefully temporary loss of the laptops, I am grateful for the circumstance and our movement deeper into the realms of Song.
Yeshua has an encounter with a wandering wizard, and I feel led to step away from my handpan for a moment. Subtly, an intuition tells me to pick her up and place her back in her case, yet I fail to heed it, and wander off to share his latest experience on the Quest.
A disaster awaits when I return. Innocent and unknowing, one of Duck’s chidren sits on my handpan, the weight of his body crushing into the metal. Regretting my inattention, I rush to her aid, hoping that she has not been dented, further sending her out of tune.
I tap on her skin, experimenting. A dull thud echoes back. My heart breaks. As if the loss of both Yeshua’s and my laptops and my cracked harp were not enough, yet another test arises in the field, asking for my side of our shared invocation of surrender.
Despair moves through me. A silent sob that yet another aspect of my expression feels denied. The handpan is a rarified instrument whose shaper lives in Bali, the Isle of the Gods. For a moment, I feel the harshness of judgment rise, my rancor at my own lack of mindfulness. Yet such will not serve me, and certainly not serve Heaven’s repair. Consciously, I adjust my inner asana, drawing strength from the deva to balance my inner alchemy. There must be something I can do.
For a moment I consider McLain. With the powers of his Aspect he could bend it to shape. Yet he is not here, and I must call upon my own gifts, to hold the pattern I feel within the akasha. While my experience with clearing the subtle impressions within the body is extensive, to bend metal back into shape is new to me, a healing the likes of which I have never done.
Thankfully, the matriarch of the leather crafter’s clan is a silverworker. Within the structure of her self lay the Talent of shaping, a familiarity with the nature of metal and it’s resonance.
I see now what I must do. Drawing upon my siddhic Gifts, I listen, past the surface of what things seem to be into the substance beneath the seeming. Her talent shines there, a glittering threadwork within the matrix of light that defines her surface form. Here, I shift, allowing that aspect to penetrate my substance, shaping the subtleties of my range of abilities to match.
It is a delicate magick. One where I am dissolving the rigidity of my own self-definition to draw upon the threads of her talent such that I may hammer Heaven back into shape.
“It’s amazing that you can do that” she says. I can feel the shared resonance between us. The Knowing in the space between. In the field of my awareness, the swirls and gravities of her Aspect are seen. Breathing, holding my attention clear, I invoke the asana of opening.
What follows is as close to being a surgeon as i’ve ever been. As she brings over the mallet, I am to hammer outwards from the inside, such to bring the metal closer to tune.
The wielding exhausts me, yet Heaven’s tone sings in resonance. I am deeply proud of my facing of the shadow and the witnessing of the dissolution of the impression in the akasha through that steadfastness. Though tired, inside I can feel movement across the rainbow bridge, moving us ever-closer to the Commonwealth.
The day begins to wane around us, and I consider, perhaps we can still connect with Jesse and the rest of clan Wynden at the Fair. To that end, Yeshua and I walk the path deeper into the fairgrounds, amidst the throngs of the people.
As we do, I feel a tension within Yeshua. A wave of irritation radiates from him.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I’m just .. i’m just hungry. I don’t know where we’re going..”
I nod, his longing for stability and the comforting safety of food is a palatable thing. I feel him so deeply. To be on the Quest, proving that, as Michael Beckwith suggests, that we live in a Friendly Universe that seeks to support us, is most challenging when one is on the road, without food or finance, forced to face such shadows and questions within.
“Have we not always been provided for on the Quest?” I ask him.
He nods. I can feel his noble effort, facing the shadow of question within his self.
Around us, the sunlight laughs, teasing with flickers of vital prana.
“You can always draw i from the deva” I say, breathing into the ambient field to replenish my own inspiration.
He winces, subtly, garnering his strength.
“We have to hold to brother. Remember the physics of the Quest, we are always supported by a friendly universe, despite how it seems. Breathe into the Deva and draw on the prana. Sometimes this is what we must do as pilgrims on the path.”
We enter the outskirts of the Country Fair. A dry heat hits us, and we are thirsty. Ahead, I see a yellow and blue tent, a barrel of blue Water sitting beneath it’s fabric boughs.
“Perfect” I say, witnessing that we have been led to a tank of drinking water, exactly what we needed. While it isn’t what Yeshua truly wants, I have the experience of temperance through the many long years on the Quest.
“Sometimes we just must accept” I say, feeling into the field. Such are the real questions and answers that we must divine on the Path, exploring our relationship with the deeper causalities of the Creation. What in the Mythica we call the Physics of the Quest.
It’s in these moments that we have to hold our stance. An inertia strikes me, and I feel to communicate this to Yeshua. “As we hold the proper stance of an inner asana it facilitates the clearing of the shadow from our consciousness.” I say, shifting my own inner texture to better embody what I am saying.
“I see, so this is how we cross the rainbow road to the abundance.” he says. I can feel deeper understanding dawning in him, the Treasure gained through one’s trials through the realm.
“Exactly, our circumstances reflect our vibration. By clearing, our iris opens to access more of the abundance that’s already there, waiting to be revealed past the shadows on the looking glass of our self.”
“Right, this is why our energy opens and inspirations come to us then, the synchronicities are revealed and the way is made. But we must do the inner work to clear the patterns.”
“Yes. This is the great alchemy of shifting realms.” I say, feeling the space resolve.
The Road to Wynden Keep
In the sky, the Earth continues it’s turn away from the Sun. Dusk approaches, and there is no intuition to search for Jesse. The festival is closing. It is a pity, I had hoped entry of some form would manifest in the field, such that Yeshua could enjoy the majesty of the Fair. Yet such was not meant to be, at least, not this time. Resolving this part of the journey, we begin to long walk towards Wynden Keep.
I am barefoot as I walk the roadway away from the festival, feeling the aina of the land moving through my form. As I had suggested to Yeshua, I drink prana in from the atmosphere, holding the inner asana of receiving as I walk down the road. Silently, I cast an intention into the field, that we receive a lift to aid us on our journey.
Once again, synchrony is with us. Within moments, a truck pulls over, offering to drive us to the intersection close to the Keep.
As we ride back, I feel the deva of Wind, kissing our face. Visions and perspective move through me. I gaze across the akasha, witnessing the ringing harmony of threads that were untangled during the incident with the handpan. I feel the energy of Story all around us, the subtle ambience of the Mythica and her context moving us across the land.
They carry us forward, all the way to the intersection a short distance from the Keep.
Yeshua turns to me. “Peter, it is such a blessing to be on this adventure with you through the magical World.”
I smile. In the distance, I feel the Keep radiating it’s timbre of fellowship and free.
“It is my honor to be here with you”, I say. “I am so happy to bring you to Faerie. Soon you will meet the bards and good family of my Homelands. I know we’re hungry. Yet it’s about really feeling the textures of the Aina, the sacred Land in a natural tantra, allowing our awareness to fill us with the Sun, the Green of the land, the touch of the Wind.”
He considers before he speaks. Listening. Always listening. “To become One with Nature through the medium of our awareness”.
I nod. Awareness is always the basis of all the yogas of change.
As we approach Wynden Keep, I feel the membrane of Grace, the boon of Faerie that holds the realm in it’s bubble of light. The dogs greet us, barking happily at our return.
True to his technique, Yeshua sits and prays upon his laptop, hoping to resurrect her from falling into the pool. Nothing happens. I feel his inner resolve come to bear.
I breathe in deeply, feeling the timbres of the Wyndenwood behind the keep. It is clear that such is a test from the Universe, that we may see the physics of the quest in action. A sense of hard-won faith and experience rises within me. We will find a way. The gift of the Mythica will unfold for the people. i am steadfast in this, and share it with him.
“This is the perfect opportunity to move forward with the tablets,” I say, “After all, I designed the Mythica so that we could.”
“Absolutely,” he replies, “Let’s do this.”
Inside, the bright souls of clan Wynden gather at their table. Not knowing what awaits us on the morrows yet thankful to have made it thus far, we enter.
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