The crunch of leaves under my boot is as gunshot, passing quickly through the fog and echoing off tombstones. Stench creeps up my nose, not the healthy wisp of nature in her glory, but a deeper, more visceral scent of rot. It surrounds me as the fog, snakes its way up my legs with a cold that enters my bones and threatens to alter the steady if heightened rhythm pumping through my veins.
I’m walking the valley once again in the dawn/dusk witching hour, and I am alert.
How do I manage to come this way so often? Why does my path continue to wind as down as up? And will I never wave a final farewell to this valley?
I have said goodbye to many old friends here. Left lifelong loads along this path. Bled into this hardened ground as chains were ripped out of the grooves in my skin and left in the past.
This is the valley of death and of dying, and I am familiar with it.
As the fog lifts I begin to see the tombstones more clearly. The shadows slanting off of them have weight, heft, memory, and they reach toward me, ever nearer. They sing to me, calling like sirens of the deep, tempting me to pick them back up and take them along on my journey. And though they are evil, my blood sings in return.
Anger is here. Bitterness, too. Grief and shame and guilt stand tall and proud together, their shadows joining the melody with a powerful bass note that resonates deep inside my chest.
I wept when I buried them, though they were each more poisonous than the asp. I know from sharp experience that if I but take a step in their direction, the song will grow louder and more difficult to ignore.
I keep my eyes on the road, knowing also that many stones, small and painful, lie on my path. I’ve tripped too many times by not paying attention, fallen down the slippery slopes of slander, gotten my foot caught in the trap of judgment, drunk deep from the muddy well of wrath.
To pass this way in safety I must place my vision where it belongs, because I also know one final thing. If I keep going the song will fade, the fog will left, and the slanting shadows will slink back into the ground. The sun will come up and blow the darkness back into oblivion.
It’s not up yet, but it’s coming.
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Slanting Shadows
Gripping words that describe our ongoing struggles, the same ones, over and over again. Yes we must let go and keep our eyes on the road: daily maintaining our focus.
It's not up yet but it's coming. Amen!!