Holy Ground

My steps slow at the threshold of this little hollow around which two trees hold their arms like parents in a perpetual embrace. This space between, this sheltered cove, like their child, eternally living in the safety of their shadows. Wind sings through needles and boughs, and I bow.

History holds in her hands the tales of two classes of men. 
Those who have given their souls away to be used and abused by Darkness in exchange for a little gold, a little lust, a little glamor...
And those who have given their lives away so someone else could live.

Like a man spilling his life blood for someone paler, to find it filled again, or not.  

I press palms into mat of pine needles and press my soul into the door.

I want to be the second kind of man. I beg You to make me through and through, the second kind of man...

-    -    -

I rise, back slowly away from the place. Look down for my shoes.
I sit to slip them back on, and while I do, I steal a glance back towards the cove embraced by the cedars.

And that, is when I thought of you.

And this warrior in me, this fighter that is sometimes a stranger and doesn't fit in my skin, this thunder that must come from elsewhere because I don't have the spark to ignite it, it suddenly flashed and roared like the end of the world. And then it was gone. But it left a burn, a throbbing ache. And a breathlessness, and a racing heart.
And this prayer:

Let each of us find in this life ground so holy that shod feet never step there.  


Never, oh never be satisfied till you have found your burning bush.