Soon, Story Circles resumed, with Eva and her charge traveling west to east and east to west on alternate nights, forming a clutch of neighboring Maidens to share a truncated tale.

Like this one, as Eva drew its Story-stone from her satchel—etched with two circles: one large, one small:

The Birth of the Two Moons

All at once and long ago, our World grew large with expectancy. The Sun claimed sole fathership, yet Mother Earth held her tongue.

Two daughters spun inside her, one larger, one smaller.

The first born spoke her name aloud as she careened outward, launching into the welcoming sky: “Saelen!”

And indeed, Saelen, the Bright One, never touched the Earth again.

The second—Drim, her given name—hesitated, poking out headfirst, then turning around and sliding down, down, down.

Her sister called to her: “Drim! You are to join me in a dance around our Mother! Forever I will go ahead, and you can follow, follow, follow!”

Drim wouldn’t hear of it, and went down, down, down, below the ground, without a sound.

Saelen thought her lost, dimming a bit, but her Mother knew better.

Drim touched the deep waters before she turned about, drank from the ocean, spun the tides, chased the early dwellers to the far sides of the sea before returning to the surface. She wallowed there awhile, bathed in dew and soil, stayed damp for the love of it, inviting foul creatures to house within her.

Saelen, the Bright One, called her sister to join her in the sky: Follow, follow, follow me, Drim!”

Drim obeyed, and it may be the only command she has heeded ever since.

—

Then Eva grasped the Story-stone from atop the satchel and slid it back in, to clatter among the many other Story-stones within.

“Aww!” they cried in unison.

“Too short, go on!” said one.

“Tell us another!” shouted Sharladaye the Cook, a Fledgling Storyteller herself.

--

The very Moons from Eva’s tale—bright Saelen and dewy Drim—shone above, casting pale silver across the ridge and the fog-bound realm beyond.

image created by the author using iPhone camera and Inkscape software

.

“I Am”

These are the first words of Source.

.

In slow mornings,

I recall:

.

Stay lying down.

Take 3 slow breaths.

Stay with this feeling.

Say, inside or aloud:

I Am.

I Am.

.

I Am.

.

And I find that “I Am”

Means I Am

Before the dream,

Before the screen,

Before breakfast,

Before the scenes.

.

The first words of Source:

.

“I Am”

For “what is faith?”

go to Webster or ChatGPT.

Ask Alexa

And next you can

Say, “Hey Siri.”

But that’s all fact based,

historical hooey,

Stretched from Saskatchewan

To south of St. Louis.

.

No, let’s talk experience

Not expertise.

Save me from theories,

Haul in the queries,

The real, the kind:

How faith manifests

In the body and mind—

Sensation, elation—

Of feelings divine.

.

From a ledge of sandstone

I hung, years ago,

Kaleidoscoped thoughts

Led me up there, and so

I prayed to the Father

The Mother, the Son:

.

Get me out of this fix,

Lead me up and away,

Plant the seed,

Root my soul,

Lest I fall and decay.

.

A moment and then

Birds sang to my spirit

As if I were close enough

To them to hear it,

There above, in the bushes a-flowered,

Dawn met their song

in that precious hour.

.

A thought, clear as crystal,

Formed in my skull:

Carve yourself steps

And head up the hill.

.

I did as instructed,

Though then I mistook

The wisdom for mine,

A near-crucified crook.

.

I ascended soon after

To a perch made of moss,

The birds had flown off,

I sat with legs crossed,

And eyes and mind soft,

Heart in hands raced,

Ears abuzz, breath caught.

.

My lived faith, a slow waking,

Eyes wet, legs shaking:

In weakness is grace,

Save your soul, not your face.

p.s.
I hope you have a lovely day. And that your work is never done, if that works for you.

p.p.s.
Ketch was here.