Ancient whispers beckoning from a dusty corridor in the closets of our minds. Subtle fragrances of loam drifting from an unforeseen avenue. When the hair on your arm pricks to attention on the gust of a breeze, and the pattern of rain falling creates a rhythm to a song that is on the tip of your tongue.
There is a sibling, cast out and forgotten. The blood coursing through our veins holds their memory. There is another side to us, the feral side. It is aged and archaic. It sends reminders, whether we pay them attention or not. I hear them when the creek whispers secrets as it babbles over the rocks and against the banks. I can fathom their existence as a thunder stricken cloud casts its impending nature over the horizon. It calls out from the mists, the medium of souls.
Mysteries to us as we interpret them are just forgotten languages lost to the tongues of the domestic. This language is the song of the birds and the force of the wind. No books contain the key to interpretation, but our senses know them. Not as strangers, but as a call to return to roots and connection.
We have created the divide between the mystery and comfort. At the edge of the realm of complacency and the fallow of the untilled mind there is a gateway. The key is lost and our quest to find it rides solely upon our own shoulders. Trials of discomfort upon discovery are guaranteed on the path to breaching the boundaries of this portal, but promises for answers loom heavily from within. They cast moving shadows on the walls of our consciousness from the firelight of their persistent existence.
Embracing our other self is to embrace our past and our heritage. It requires learning their language. It requires learning to walk with purpose and grace. It requires listening with ears that have lost their sound. It requires acknowledgement and reverie.
Verdant images will cross the periphery of our thought. In those moments, if we listen, we will hear their voices. We can see the wildness of their eyes, and the chaos of their informal dance. To dance with them is to know freedom and purpose, but we must first hear the music. Listen to the wind and the rain, the snow and the rivers. Hear the song of the hummingbird and the cacophony of crickets at dusk. The color of sunsets and evening skies beckons. Embrace the artistry of the universe around you and find your way home.