Face of stone - and when to kill and when not to kill

 A strange endeavour. A strange venture. A strange adventure, it seems, and a lot to learn for me still about life... and death. I was on my way to the ironforge, and thought I would do the hike down the Hohenstein crags. I wanted to shoot some photos to boast where I had ridden down with my bike... using social media can do that to your ego... ;-). But the hike started a murky one and turned out to be of grave importance.

 There was a light drizzle, but I liked the rain in my face, cool, but not cold. I liked the solitude of the woods, the silence and the signs of life going on everywhere.

 Deeper down the slope I ventured. Lightly I trod, even if my bag was laden with tools and steel alike.

 The gnarled beeches hold the ground with strong roots, infested into the ground with vigour.

 Mist-ridden was the dale... rising above the manor of Ahlhausen, which since the medieval ages was the domain of the masters of our ironforge.

 I went on more carefully, for the trail was quite exposed upon the crags...

 Funny, though... with a bike this feels more safe to me...

 I like this trail even more in the murky mood of a drizzle. It has some fairy tale aesthetics to it that is hard to describe...

 It is dark and exposed and unforgiving... but in the dark and gloomy weather it became an enchanted place.

 ...

 ...

 Down the crags the trail meanders...

 ..down into the valley, where the river sings.

 ...

 Halfway down there are some engraved rocks. The carvings are contemporary, of course, but to me they are no less interesting for that.

 It is as if this face of stone emerges from the rock... as if it keeps an eye upon you. Someone who meant no ill did that, and he did it surprisingly well.

 To my eye, the carvings add an air of mystique to the place. But then I am prone to an atmosphere of the mythical in the first place... ;-)

Ever down I went. There was something lurking in the atmosphere of the woods, something eerie and weird.

 And then I came across this youngling bird, apparently fallen from the nest, which I cannot even tell what kind it was, it was that battered. It was still alive, but barely so.

 And it was hard for me to see it suffer. I was contemplating to put an end to its pain with a blow of my hammer, but then it simply did not feel right. But on the other hand it did not feel right not to do so. Certainly I would not want to suffer in death, and certainly did I not want the bird to suffer. I thought long and hard whether I should put this on my blog, too. So spare me any hate comments, I do not feel too good about this in the first. This was a dilemma I was faced with I had never been faced with with that brutality, that openly. There are animals suffering far worse for our nourishment. At least this bird had had a fair chance for a life in peace in the woods. And this was the point where it occurred to me I simply did not have the right to intervene. The life as well as the death of each individual belongs to the individual. This bird belonged to death, but not entirely so. I could not help it any which way to survive much longer, without a wonder. My presence stressed it even more, it was plain to see that, but it was hard to go away. I wanted to help. I could not. Memory of the deaths of my grandfather and my father came up, they welled up inside me. Then it was I also stood beside their "sad height" and wanted to help-but could not. Even then did I want to put an end to their suffering, did I want to ease their pain, but could not. If you belong to death, there is no way you could escape. And noone can do anything against that fact. The strong survive, the weak die early. This bird fell from the nest, and this is sad in itself, but it is a way of life, not death. It is absolutely brutal, but it is the truth: That way it would be food for a badger or a fox, and feed them, so that they become stronger. Humans have detached themselves from that chain. We are the worst of the bad guys in nature, and yet we are full of fear and hate. This bird was dying. Everything I could have done, would have been wrong. So I did... nothing at all. I just turned away. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life, and the feeling of guilt will stay with me for  a while, but I hope the wisdom will come to me eventually and I will live to learn the lesson, for a lesson it was. No, I will not come to master death. Noone will, and noone can. Death is wild and cruel, and unfathomable. That makes it fascinating, but also fearsome. But it is an integral part of our world. There is no conciliation and no making fun out of it, but it should not be feared in spite of everything, for it is an integral part of our world. The death of the bird feeds the fox, the owl and the badger, the buzzard and the insects. It is connected to the whole process of nature. I know there is a soul. In everything, even the rocks, different to others, but still the rocks have a life of their own. They crumble, they change, they are ground to sand, and every rock has its own characteristics that contribute to the way they exist and erode. From sand over the aeons rocks are born. Trees are born, and live, and fall, and new trees sprout forth from seed and sapling, digging gnarled roots into the direst of places, and they crush even rocks to hold fast to life. Every tree has its own way, its own characteristics. Every animal has, every human. There is a power running through it all.

No, I still do not know whether it was right or wrong what I did not do. I have to live with the consequences, be they good or bad. Still I am not the wiser for the lesson I got. I know the bird´s soul is a part of the soul of the universe. Call it God or Goddess if you so will, it is not touched by your names. Death comes to us all, and He is not touched by the name you give "him" at all. Many are the names we humans give to what we cannot fathom. We hope to achieve that we can fathom the things to which we give names, but still the meaning of a rose far exceeds the name or even the description. Art is due to this, and philosophy, and literature, and, yes, religion. And yet, that we want to fathom binds us in turn-with the name we have given to it, so much in fact that these days millions and milliards of innocents will die for the quarrell over power and three names. 

I hope for this bird. I hope it is now part of the whole again, with no fear of the inevitable, an integral part of the law of the universe, the first cause of it all (names again, see?), unfathomable by man or beast. 

When to kill, and when not to kill? If it is that difficult a matter if you were not even responsible for this particular death, how much more difficult would it be if you were? If you aimed a gun at someone and tried to end a life willfully? Maybe because the one over there was told a different story? How can one tell it´s the "right" name one is fighting for? Without knowing more about?

I would be pleased if you all took no offence in the graphic photo. I just had to. I can´t apologize. The times need it, or so I think. 

Autumn-the dance of life and death

 Nether brush and thicket, by the sizzling creek, stems the path into the twilight like a branch from olden trees.

 Along the mane of ancient moss leads the trail to yonder green.

 Am I small or am I of giant breed, am I a seed beneath the rotting leaves? Am I waiting, dancing, circling deeper, deeper, lower still?

 Thus rise the star of sunlight behind my brow, awhilst I go into the realm of twilit trails.

 Spirit wood of treesprite realm, open up thy cold embrace, warm still in the sunlight of a fading year.

 Nether thicket, brush and tree, treads my foot light and free, into the realm and yonder still.

 And song and thought and tale and lore stay silent in the forest´s hall; silently I thread my way, along a path of ancient dance.

 Sing of the blossoms of spring hidden in their rout; sing of the autumn scent awaken in the wind.

 From beneath the deep and dark the spirit of the mycel is rising to nourish the beasts and man with the twilight´s flesh; thus like is death, and we are mushrooms blooming from the abyss of our soul.

 And even if the sun may shine upon our dance, so does the star in the abyss, the root of the mountain, ice-cold and brighter as a sun in its own right, our soul. And as the mushrooms rise violently in autumn, so does that soul rise up to life, blooming with flower and tree and beast and man, rising like waters from a broken dam.

 Death is not, so fear not fading. The mouse, fallen from the fangs of the bird of prey, hit hard the ground and fell into the sleep of death, and maggots will eat the flesh and get rid of mortality, yet life will spring up with a new time of year.

 Sleep well, my little friend, and dream a crystal tear, and may you be rested.

 In the Golden Halls beneath the ground, where the sun will sleep in winter, fairy tales are born anew.

 Dark will become the land, and yet not dark.

 For in the darkest of all hours, the light is born anew.

 Moss grows upon the warlike fox´s skull; may his spirit guide the little mouse into the golden caverns where hunt and feast reign eternal.

 Sleeping under the hawthorne, beyond my feeble humanity, I rise to see the sun sinking, dying for but an hour, for but a second, and smile.

 Sleep not under the hawthorn, they say, or alien you will be for your fellow humans. But the hornet preys on the dragonfly, and the hunt is eternal in this time of year.

 So may thou sink, sun, beloved of the summer earth, and may the harvest be rich.

And to all you out there:

Have a good harvest, a lovely autumn, and good memories of a great summer gone by.

And never fear the grey god´s disciples.

For the living and the dead.

For the living and the dead 

(and for someone I never knew, but sincerely wish I had)

As through enchanted woods I walk,

I tread the path of moonlight

Drawn out upon the water;

And I listen to the spring breeze talk

Of times so long gone by.

Towards the twilight woods I walk,

A track leads beside mine

And the moonlit snakewound path

It leads beyond and yonder.

And thus we listen to the talk

Of spirits in the breeze.

Oh shall they smile upon our ways,

Upon our feeble deeds alive,

And may love warm their spectre hearts

In the chill wind of the void...

Maybe cattle dies, and die may man,

And every thing be doomed by death;

One thing I know that never dies;

This is the moment set in time

As in a mountain range.

And as we pause to contemplate

We see - aeons we lived, we died our deaths

And still the soul remained.

Thus for the living, for the dead

And ancestry we sing our love

Into the gentle springtime breeze

To warm the spectre´s hearts,

And duly pay the tribute

 to the ancestors beyond.

One minute silence

November has come and with it time for contemplation. Nature is running wild at the moment, what with blackberries and apple and plum blossoming, but make no mistake, winter is on the way. I rode out to the grocery store to get some goods, and I decided to make the most of the fine weather having my lunch atop a hill rather than in some stinking living room. So I rode to the top of the Harkortberg near Wetter. There I rested and basked in the sun, hungry for the last iota of warmth. Soon ice will cover the trails. Forage will be little to nothing, and snow will fall. Maybe I will ride, maybe not. Maybe I will get fat over the winter, maybe I will go hungry. But time will go on without my saying so.

It is another year that´s dying, and nature dies with it. The light shines with a tired intensity, enchanting the colours of some waning leaves still left on the trees to fairy gold. Just as it has been all the years of this life. I was young once, and stooooopid, and a part of me will always be this way, but another part of me has always been very, very old, and tired, too. Just like this part of myself, autumn has a tired air to it. I feel that all is said and done in autumn, all the harvest is brought in, all dreams fulfilled or calmed off. Old age might be similar to autumn, but that old I am not yet;-). Yes, I am still hungry for this life. The real life, not the one the lords of our world want to sell to us. A life,

where there is still a place for winter, for spring, for summer and autumn, too. Not a grey and featureless existence in the name of God Mammon, worshipped by all. In this, I want my autumn, and I want winter, too. I want death, for I want life, and I really want it. Death is just a part of the package, and that´s only fair. Death is necessary for life being great, being lovely and joyful. No death, no life, it is as simple as that. Nature Herself goes to sleep. Raven and crows are flying now, gone are goose and crane and all the songbirds twittering and singing along. The woods get calm, and this calm is a solemn one, like the slow breath of an old and wise woman on the last, sad height. Her grandchildren have children themselves, all grown up, all the harvest is brought in. Around her bed her family gathers; trees and earth and wind and water, and the fire, too. Slowly she breathes, in and out, and when her last breath is done, that wind will rise on a wicked winter wind. The sun will go down for the unfathomed light... and when the year is at its darkest, the light will be born again. And from the bosom of darkness, when there is no hope left, the virgin maiden will  rise again and plait flowers into her hair, and spring will come. It is the way it has always been. It does not matter what names we call it. The seasons flow into each other like the tides, and our life flows older with them.

Older have I grown to write these words. I have made many mistakes in my life, and maybe have done some good, too, but that´s not mine to claim. It does not matter at all what names I have, what words I choose, how strong or beautiful I might be, how wealthy or proud I am. All I have to do is love the tide, love the virgin, the mother and the hag. Even the raven, maybe. For all is just a part of the Law of the Universe, the soul behind all words and names. It cannot be described, or better yet, the description of the sign never will be significant; therefore poetry and art is made possible in the first. Therefore creativity exists, and hence creation. I am therefore obliged to love the Soul of the Universe, that being beyond all description, beyond space and time, life and death, the light and the darkness, the being and the void.

Winter may come. Grey may come, too. But there is no victory over this. No human religion can ever fathom this, no human science explain it to death. It is not that one shalt not make an image of the deity, it is that one cannot.

I have the notion it will be a hard winter, and a hard time for the world might come, too. War, and hate, and greed, and violence, as it has been in all the aeons man has lived and fought through. But I want to never forget what light I was given only but recently, when all my hope seemed to have vanished. This time of year always sees me in melancholy and contemplation, and that is a good thing. For it teaches me the ebb and flow of the tides of time, and I now know that the light will never die completely. No matter how much preachers of hate might preach the ways of power over each other, the soul of the universe will not be affected. 

So it´s not that important what I write or write not, if I will get fat over winter or stay hungry, if it will get cold or even grey, how much snow will fall and whatnot.

Have a good wintertime and  never forget - hope is never far, even in a fix.