It was rare indeed that anyone came down from the holy mountains these days, through the old forest to approach this village from the west. For long and long those lands were held sacred by all who knew of them. Those who dared enter the forest rarely came out. If they did they were forever changed choosing to live there rather than return to the village. It was a mysterious place, the home of the most ancient forest, and one best left alone. Another reason why SahRa was as attentive as the stranger approached for it certainly was a sign of changes to come.

“Someone’s coming from the West”, she called down from the tall rock pile on which she stood.   “Who?” Andrew replied. Her older brother wanted to make sure it wasn’t just a trick of the light, a mirage caused by the late afternoon haze. 

“I don’t know but they will be here in a few minutes.” SahRa said.  So Andrew quickly took off, running to the village center crying out as he went “Stranger coming from the west, all gather at the meeting place.” 

The children, the young sprouts, sprinting quick-quick like small deer before hungry mountain cat hunting. They arrived first with much giggling and whispering for this was news of the best sort. Followed were they by their older brothers and sisters, the young saplings, willowy teenagers frisky in their liveliness, all the while trying to look unexcited while asking:  “Who is it?”  and “Can you see who it is?”  SahRa shook her head for she could not see who it was for the glare.

They all wondered, for it was rare to receive visitors from that direction. Everyone knew that it foretold changes for the village, the place they all called Heart’s Home. Ever since the Great Shift, the one that changed everything and everyone forever, had it been called thus for it was a place of living from the heart in harmony with the land and all who lived there.  This community was a resting place, a haven for everyone.

The adults who worked to sustain the village, the strong trees, the hunters, growers, makers, and creators came swaggering in from their tasks of the day. Wiping their brows, they laughed and greeted each other in the old way: “Well met. How goes the day?” and responded “Blessed.”  Happy folk for the most part were they, robust and gentle in their ways of working. Reciprocity was the way of giving and receiving amongst them, in this way they maintained the cycles of sustenance for the community. Those who had gave generously to those with less so all lived well. Such was the way of things in these days; a far more gentle way to live that ensured that everyone cared for each other.

Finally, the wisdom keepers those serving as Elders, the towering trees, came two by two dressed stately they came, these keepers of memory many layered in and radiant exuding harmony and peace.  Last yet not least walked the pair of flowering hearts, the lord and lady responsible for carrying that most sacred bundle of mystery that nourished the heart of the village. When they arrived at the old Grandfather Tree, they greeted him, giving an offering and prayer of thanksgiving as they knelt and gently wiped clear a resting place at the base of the tree to receive it. There they placed it reverently snuggled close within the exposed roots twisting out across the green like snakes seeking sunlight in the dawn of a day. There, the heart of the village waited like a baby snoozing in swaddling to be fed with sacred food for the spirit so the village could thrive.

This Grandfather Tree, was older than old, no one knew how long he’d stood there collecting the stories of the village like an ancient old man all ears for news after a long hard day.  So old it was that its tough skin trunk seemed made of many trees rolling and rippling around, providing comfortable places to lean into. This old tree’s ancient arms reached up high up into the violet sky, giving refuge to many a bird, some branches so heavy they spread out along the green ground like benches.  It was the time of New Green, the quickening time, so he was covered with succulent green growth, with large orange trumpet flowers calling out to the buzzing bees under the heavy weight of the season.  Some of the black coated sisters, the crows, peeked out from under the eyebrows of green, laughing like children, yes indeed, for they loved gathering old tales and bright bits of lore more than anything…

For long and long, had this stately tree on the western edge of the village been a gathering place, longer even than the village itself had existed. This Grandfather Tree stood tall and stately towering in the breeze like an old gentleman caller dressed in fancy dress tails. No one knew how long he’d stood, yet everyone knew he was more ancient than old, his spirit born in the first forest of the long ago before the two legged people came be breathing. They called him Methuselah, the ancient of days, for if you sat beneath him and leaned back relaxing in the silence, you swear he was whispering tales into your heart of hearts, muttering of the here now and the far long ago. You see he was a storyteller tree, a keeper of tales and the history of the people. Oh, how they loved their stories, they did, for they spun them high and low all the same.  And in the twilight, if you looked closely enough with an open heart, you could see him step out clearly as he walked out of the tree to ramble among the village listening to life rustle about. 

The westward wind sang as it danced through the leaves, whistling of what was to come and what had passed, and dreamings might be. One by one they all found places to lie down on the grass covered earth as they waited for the stranger to come. Yes they all waited wondering and hoping if it was her, a wandering tree of a woman, a walking legend who carried stories from the westward hills.

The dust of the road began to settle as she approached their meeting place. “It is she” SahRa cried, being the first to see her up from where she stood on the lookout.  Although she’d only heard stories, for she was young in her days, they knew of only one who carried an aura of light about her. She came striding forth into the village green, old yet ever young, her eyes flashing with a white light that blazed like lightening crackling across a summer sky before a rain. SahRa sprang down from the lookout, as word spread whisper to whisper to those gathering beneath the old tree. Now she knew beyond guessing that it was a special day indeed for it had been many a season since she’d came down from the mountains to visit them.

The old grandmother had walked a long way to get to this village, over three days on foot on a long dusty open road, traveling as the Sun tells time to the Moon. Her clothes were old style leathers, flexible yet sturdy, dusted with the cinnamon haze of the old dry track for the rains were late this season. She knew the old ways she did, being one of those who lived wild and free. All roads were one road to one such as her, the old ones said, for she knew how to walk the between.

No matter how still the wind, her hair stole out of the braids that held them, gently moving in a breeze no one else could feel.  Some said she was born of the westward wind, some said in an otherworld or ever changing borderland, though some said she was born just like you and me, but restless and rambling from place to place. She wandered most of her days following Spirit for she’d learned to twist her hair long ago, braiding it up with the hidden bits of lore rarely heard by more ordinary folk. It was part of the mystery that cloaked her like twilight for no one knew where she came from, nor where she called home. 

Indeed she was a mystery to all of them, even the Elders, and some said in whispers, even unto her self. Her memory was so long it went back to the far long ago, the time when the world was born and the first people walked the world into being. Her dark skin was painted in fine wrinkles, weaving like a river delta after a rain, rich with the loam of a life well lived.

She shook off the dust of the road and began unbraiding her hair, so long it was that it flowed like falling water in rippling waves to the sea.  When the unruly wind tugged at it, you could see odd bits woven in here and there, old white hollow bones, tri-colored beads, small hag stones, along with many a feather. Sometimes when you looked at her when the light was just right, her head seemed more that of a fox than a woman. Then you’d swear she was one of the immortal ones, the old forest spirits, more spirit than human. Perhaps she was, then again perhaps she wasn’t. Only La Madre, our sweet mother earth, knew for sure and she was wasn’t telling, for she is a keeper of secrets to those that know not how to court her.

A young sapling, her skirts tinkling with the bells of her flowering, shyly brought her a glass of water from a bright spring sparkling clearly out of the nearby ash colored stones. The old grandmother drank deep with pleasure, giving the old thanks “May you never thirst.”  The dark leaves overhead whispered amongst themselves as she approached the old tree, rustling in the winds of remembering. Even the crows settled into silence eagerly awaiting what was to come. She rested her hand briefly on the old grandfather’s bark hide in sweet greeting, silently conversing with him of tales long spent but nary forgotten.

She sighed as she sat down to rest her weary bones against the tough old skin of the ancient tree.  It was comfortable there for it was well worn by many a story’s telling over the seasons of this world’s turning. One by one, the villagers quieted, leaning close so they could more easily hear Abuela speak. No one remembered her name anymore, though everyone knew who she was when they saw her. Her presence was legend among the people for long and long she’d been coming to this village, always knowing in some uncanny way when the people needed her most, when they began to fall into a deep sleep of forgetting.

For such is the way of the wild walkers, the old curanaderas, the healer shamanas who walked in and out between worlds as they wandered the old tracks. As they wandered, they walked with Spirit, following the old leys singing the land up into being with their healing songs and stories. Their ways were their own, mysterious and hidden, for they lived differently according to ways unknown to most others. Not unknowable mind you, only unknown, for most were not willing or able to leave behind the comfort of ways more commonly lived. Although most of the walkers stayed in the wild places, on the edges of the borderlands between the worlds, from time to time some still walked the open roads bringing news and renewal to the people.

For the people always had a way of forgetting, of falling asleep when times got tough or feelings too intense, or more often when life got too easy. Such was the way of the two legged people, forgetting then remembering, then forgetting again especially in times like these when all was plenty. When she’d heard the call from La Madre, sweet mother of all, she picked up her bones, and came to help them remember their relations and the sacred ways of the heart of the earth.

“Do you recall the old meaning of that word, remember, the original meaning of it?” To remember as in to re-member, meaning to put back together again.  When one dives deep into their heart of hearts to discover the mystery, to remember who they really are. Those were some of the ways she kept close yet shared with those in need.

For in our heart of hearts lives a mystery, one we each carry, a long record of who we are, or more clearly stated of what we are and why we chose to be. It is a sacred place where we can discover all that we need, the answers to all that we seek. For living is an art, one best practiced from the heart.  Most of the people lived that way these days for everyone knew instinctively that all life was sacred and everything that has a form has a spirit living in it. 

These people had remembered how to live that way, ever since the Great Shift that changed everything and everyone forever.  Oh there had been shifts before this one, at least seven cycles, held in the memories of the people. They always occurred when the people got too big for their britches, too full of themselves, too dependent upon external things of their making for that which could be experienced and known directly within. When it got too out of hand, La Madre cried out “enough”, and the cycle was shifted from what was into what is now - a new dawn of a new turning wheel, a reset of life as they knew it.
 
Abuela spoke gently “Do you remember…?” So softly she spoke with presence, letting the silence hang after her words, waiting for the gift of the present to unfold in the hearts of those who sat around her.  For such is the way of the great storytellers, a part of the art where they opened the way in the hearts of those listening to receive the seeds of old knowing. It was an old way of imprinting body memory with stories and lore, an old art of speaking memory into being.

The children cried out “No Abuela, tell us a story!” It was a time honored response, it was indeed, an old call and response they delighted in giving. She chuckled, she did, the laughter rippling up from her belly full up with pleasure, for she loved all people. And they all laughed with her for how could they not, so infectious it was, that soon everyone was rolling and bubbling with it bouncing around like rich bits in boiling stew. They all laughed so hard that they eventually wept as everyone came together again. Then one by one, silence descended among them as they wiped their watering eyes and leaned forward, craning their necks to hear her.

And so she began to tell a tale that began in the last cycle, the one right before the Great Shift, the last one before the current turning of this world. It was a tale of a time before the people began to remember themselves again, a time of forgetting.

“Long ago as people used to tell time, before they remembered how to count the seasons in their bones according to the dance of the sun and the moon, everything was different. Do you know how different it was?” she asked.

“No Abuela tell us how different” the little ones chimed in, their bell like voices ringing in the sweet high tones of birds courting as they squirmed with excitement. The older ones nodded their heads to let her know they were listening. She waited while the last stragglers came near, for that was how you weaved a story in the old way, weaving all of the fibers of the village together, from young sprouts to the towering trees.”

“Well now, I’ll tell you how it was back then and how we came to be where we are today. So listen up. Hear.” She said. Silence descended again like a warm cozy blanket of comfort, cradling them all in a cloak of connection. Even the wind seemed to stop its sighing and the ever present crows rustled overhead as they preened, their eyes bright with a knowing to deep to be seen.

“Long ago before the Great Shift, the last one that changed the face of our mother earth and all of us forever the people were different.  The young ones, as their elders who kept the old ways called them, left their homes in nature to explore and to make things. They left the land of their Ancestors and their ways of living in balance and harmony, moving out over the land like a horde of restless locusts. So many were they that it was hard to see the earth in some places; so ravenous were they that many went hungry.  It was a time of pain and suffering for most, though they pretended that they were caring well for themselves. They felt lost and alone in their efforts to hold onto a way of life they’d created that could not be sustained.”

“These lost ones, those who left their home in nature, grew to be so many that they covered the face of much of the world. They covered the so called civilized places with cities and hard oily roads crisscrossing and scaring the grasslands and natural tracks. They created toys to play with, machines and many so called labor saving devices to distract them from what they were feeling to make their lives easier.  They became fascinated with making and owning things, they went even so far as trying to possess the skin of La Madre, she who can never be tamed.”

“Yet the more they made and the more they hurried, the less satisfied they became. Day by day, they had less time, less freedom to feel, to touch, to laugh, to share with each other. Oh how they suffered, these lost ones did.  This went on for so long, that they forgot who they were, became lost in their senses numb to their links with Spirit and nature. They even taught their young to live their heads, to abandon their hearts where the most precious gift of the present resides.”

“During this time, the people were rushing here, rushing there, here, there, and everywhere, trying to get things done in a never ending competition with each other. They created a false god they called Time, a great slave driver being clothed in watches and clocks, full of deadlines that they  forced themselves to meet. It was a game that no one could win, that battle with time; for there was never enough minutes and seconds to get everything done that they wanted to do.”

“So they forced themselves to be what others wanted them to be, to listen to others expectations rather than to their own sweet souls in an ever maddening dash for lessening resources. They created money, which created haves and have nots, and competitions which made everything worse. And they labeled each other with job names and numbers to indicate their worth. There was never enough no matter how much they acquired. All of it was an illusion they’d made up to entertain themselves, so much they believed it that it became real, the outer world they’d convinced themselves into seeing.”

“Oh how they suffered, they did those young ones born into the grand tribe of forgetting.  Yes they did, I tell you they did. For in the hustle bustle to catch up with time, to acquire more things, to be safe in their fear of the future, they forgot what made life worth living. They neglected La Madre, each other, even themselves and their kith and kin. It got so they forgot that we’re all related, they forgot how to care for each other, the four leggeds, winged ones, crawling ones, swimming ones, and the natural green. They even forgot that the Oneness, the source of all life, animates us all in our breathing. They forgot, and in their forgetting, lost themselves to themselves if you catch my meaning.  Like a plague of forgetting it was and all of the people felt it.”

“So they forgot who they were and fell into a sleep of forgetting, into a dream more nightmare than real. Such was the world back then, before the Great Shift, a world of harsh angles and rules and complex meanings. The consensual world became so complex that Fear became huge, bigger than Life, stomping its way across the hearts of the people. Then Loneliness, Rage, Envy, and Greed sprung up like contagion in their minds eating away at their essence, leaving Grief, Sorrow, and Pain in their wake. Many fell sick with dis-ease and soul loss as they tried to be who they were not to avoid feeling their feelings.  As things got more and more complex and false Time sped up, many began to notice that life had become like a house of cards, one that could collapse in the gentlest of breezes.”

“Yet in hard to reach remote places, the old ways of harmony and joy still flourished. Ways of wisdom that offered a healing balm to all people, handed down from mouth to ear through the nighttime of our world. The Elder wisdom keepers saw what was happening in the so called modern world. They saw how La Madre, the people, all living things suffered under the burden of it. One by one the light of those who remembered went out in the night of our sweet mother earth until only these few pockets of remembering remained.  The Elders cried out for guidance and healing for all of the people as the prophecies came into being.”

She paused in her story to allow time for reflection, a gathering of attention for what was to come. And the people of Heart’s Home grew sad as they recalled how the young ones suffered back then. Yes, they reflected how sometimes even now, they’d watered the corn of similar things in their own hearts of late, comparing themselves to each other, creating hurts with their words rather than joyous connection. Some of them shook their heads as they reflected on this, resolving to turn away from fear of lack back to practicing love and kindness.  Abuela continued to speak, weaving a tale of memories easily missplaced.

“When many thought all was lost, that the young ones would never awaken, fearing that La Madre might collapse under the burden of all of this excessing, just when the night was darkest and all seemed to be lost, miracles happened, as some of the young ones began to wake up. The Elders in their wild places saw lights of awareness coming up like new candles to shine in the vast darkness of the world’s dreaming. The young ones began to question what was happening, what life was about, who they were and why they existed. But rather than running around lost in their heads, they decided to dive deep inside to discover the wisdom that lay waiting, like bright jewels in their hearts along with everything they needed.”

“By then, the time of the great purification had begun and La Madre was shaking and writhing in her birthing pains to bring forth a new expression. The young ones began to notice what their actions had done, the hole in the sky that burned the land, the absence of life in the oceans, the dirt growing less than before, and the air stagnant with fumes from the oil they’d released. The old grandmothers did what they could to stave off the Great Shift of her rebirthing, to allow more people to awaken. For they knew from cycles before that if enough woke up then all would wake up and the world would renew in her being.”

“Still many of the young ones refused to listen, to take note of what was happening; stubbornly thinking they were fortunate for having more money, more things, that they were isolated somehow from what was coming. Yet they grew ever more fearful of what they might lose, no matter how much they gathered, there was never enough for them to feel safe and secure. There was never enough to satisfy the hunger of the Fear that ate away at their minds. So they spun yes they spun around in their heads chasing their tails like a squirrel spinning in circles, ever more stressed than before in fear so great that it was almost their undoing.”

Abuela paused in her story to take another sip of life giving water. So pure it was now that one could hardly remember how barren of life it had been before the Great Shift. What a difference love and gratitude makes she reflected. What a difference it makes to simply focus on creating a positive dreaming. The leaves rustled overhead as the crows shifted their feet to gain a better view point. A beautiful orange flower the color of sunset fell into the hands of a small one who caught it in wonder, a promise of renewed hope and healing.

“Back then they were unhappy. The funny thing about unhappiness is that when it gets too deep, then things start happening. Well, La Madre continued to shake, and the people began to quake.  Some of the young ones, those with souls older than old, began to question, to point out the heart that was missing in a lifestyles focused on material greed. So they chose different roads, yes they did, as they took a decision to live differently and dream a new gentle dream. Then here and there, more and more began to awaken, to quicken with that mystery called life. To the Elders watching as a new dawn approached after eons of darkness, the light of awareness was beginning to come on again in the world. This wave of awakening was contagious, passing from one to another as more and more turned inward to listen and follow the soft voices of their souls.”

“Enough they cried, enough. Like a seed cracking wide open, they each began to transform, to change from who they were not into what they are. They began to follow that still quiet voice speaking from the source within them. And they opened their hearts to help each other and began to take care of each other, coming together in clans to support each other’s dreams.  As more and more began to awaken, the outer world began to change to reflect their new dreaming.”

“The grandmothers and elders kept helping our sweet mother earth and all who lived on her keep living. They began to open their ways to outsiders among the young ones, those whose spirits were more suited to preserving old ways, passing on their wisdom to those who’s hearts were wide open and listening. Those hearing the call, that came humbly to learn, went deep in themselves to listen to the silence growing within. And in listening, they changed more and more as La Madre kept changing along with them.  They chose to live from love and not fear. As time went on, they became bridges between the elders and the modern day people as wave after wave of spiritual energy flowed transforming the world.”

Abuela sighed, this time with sweet satisfaction for the people were listening, remembering the gifts they’d been given since the Great Shift that changed all creation. They remembered the sweet gentle rains, clear breezes, rich food, and loving relations, the peace that blessed their minds and the love that filled their hearts. They recalling more deeply what really matters, not matter, not things, but each other and nature. They remembered our world is mirror reflecting the choices we hold in our hearts expressing an ongoing creation.

Oh how precious life is, what a sweet and rare gift, this world that we live in, a place unsurpassed in its beauty. A wondrous place where each one experiences exactly what they choose to experience moment by moment. The choices we make in each instant determine our fate in this perfect reflection, this green holographic garden we call mother earth.

SahRa smiled as she thought of those times they’d all shared, kind words, gentle touch, joyous singing sweet free expression in the gift of the present moment. Feeling that precious thing beating, back and forth, the heart beat of life connecting all people and the lands.  Through all of the changes, they’d never wavered in their faith; trusting La Madre to provide for their needs, and La Padre, the sun to keep shining the light that guided them onward.

The villagers hugged one another and laughed recalling their folly of forgetting back in those days before the Great Shift for they were the young ones reborn. They chose to let go of old hurts as they relived their joyous translation from young ones to a people with hearts wide open present and feeling.

As the sun dipped down low in the sky, they stood and helped each other stroll toward a magnificent feast that was waiting.  They laughed and they sang that they did on this day. And the wise ones knelt down to pick up the sacred heart of the village, grew tender and tearing as they lifted it up to receive the light of a rainbow steaming down from the light of the sun.  Their change had been great, from young ones lost in forgetting to a people who cared now for all their relations.

Abuela stretched as she reflected on what had occurred before and since the Great Shift, of how our mother earth and all life had utterly changed. Yea, what would it feel like if we could dream our world into being? That with each breath we take, we can choose to feel peace and love for all our relations.

Well now, we’ve remembered before and we’re remembering again.

We are awakening what we are and how precious life is for all nations.

“So what would it feel like…?”

© Worldwide Copyright 2009 Wendy Luckey

Published in the forthcoming book:  The World I Dream Of by Curt Butz in June 2010.