River’s edge

I fell asleep at the river’s edge

in the rain and cloud.

As the river tumbled down.

I dreamed a dream

unmarked by time.

memories, people, places,

of Gilead.

A restful dream.

But I awoke to cloud and rain

and time flowing on.

I awoke to sadness

yet a peace resided deep

within.

As though the river left

me something as I

dreamed by the river’s edge.

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Jormundgundr and the world tree

It feels like the division within is much like Loki’s daughter– Hel.

One side, decaying, dead, a withered eye, flesh decrepit as though hung from a tree for weeks or frozen in the snow and bitter cold.

The other side brimming with life, pink, blood flowing, feeling it flow within. The vivid green eye glimmering like a jewel.

It feels like Jormundgondr poisons life and burns the living flesh that yearns to live and thrive. Pressed between stones unable to move, the poison dripping and burning.

A part yearns to live; the other wishes to die, ending suffering and misery.

But the world tree lives on. The tree of life.

Not life reoccurring in cycle, but continuing on forever, world without end.

But death will be destroyed once and for all. The yearning for death no longer present, not even a flicker of a thought. The “game of the gods” will not continue. But a union and life in full will be.

The half-dead smile of Hel will no longer be. Only those fully alive present. Can Hel be made whole? Or will it be destroyed forever? The second death of those brought to justice. Hel does not know, neither Jormundgondr nor Loki, the all-Father, the Trinity may. But we mortals can only hope that Hell will be empty at Ragnarok. The end of all things.

As some live divided lives– heaven and hell battling within– the poison of Jormundgondr burning and blinding, the dead half of Hel awaits your death, but does her living side hope for your eternal life?

She declared Baldur was the most beautiful thing in her kingdom and wished to keep him, though no blood flowed in his veins. His skin pale and dead. Within Hel’s green eye, did she imagine the pulsing life of Baldur returning to him?
Did she witness the Christ, a living man, storm her gate like Frigg. Yet Christ was able to bring those dead back to the land of the living. The kingdom of death unraveling.

The promise of the tree of life. That death would not reign for eternity.

In this tension of life and death we struggle onward.

Baldur

Baldur the beautiful is dead

is dead.

Nothing in all of creation would kill Baldur–

not disease, stone, metal, weapon– anything

but one: Mistletoe. The plant that is a parasite to trees.

Baldur’s brother tricked by Loki to fashion a dart of mistletoe

expecting it to do no harm.

But the dart slew Baldur. All the world wept his death.

Every rock, tree, even the metals in the earth wept. Every animal– every creature, every god. But one: Loki.

Baldur sojourned to the land of the dead, Hell’s kingdom where there was no dawn.

She thought him the most beautiful creature as everything and everyone did.

All the world trembled at his loss in the land of the living.

The gods sought to retrieve him from the kingdom of the dead, but failed.

Only one as wise and adored would break the chains of Hell’s kingdom.

Life itself sacrificed for the Life of the world. Life slain that all may live again. A rune written before the worlds were made, a promise from before the beginning kept and fulfilled. Written in the earth. Written in the cosmos. The death of God to redeem the world and all that was in it. All that wept for him and all that despised him.

The dawn finally came to those in Hell’s kingdom. His flesh was not gray or white or green or blue. But life pulsed within him. That the dead may live again. On that first Easter morn, the dawn pierced the land of the dead– hope rising where it had never been.

Baldur was beloved, but could not rise again even with the gods power.

But the Son of God would rise again and the dead in his train, rising with him, no longer pale ghosts, but made whole.

Baldur the beautiful is dead,

is dead.

But all will rise again,

again.

Bonneville Salt Flats

I found the picture of the Bonneville Salt Flats. It’s where world land speed records have been broken. It was windy that day and you could taste the salt in the air. There is a rest stop where you can climb an overlook and see the flats and the mountains in the distance.

The ground crunches under your feet. The salt breaking underfoot.

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Not a very impressive picture. But a neat area.

Hell– yet, a hope

Loki had a daughter named Hell.

Odin brought her to the deepest, darkest part under the earth and made her the ruler of this place.

Those who died in childbirth, old age, in their sleep, all manner of death besides those of battle came to her in the darkest part of the earth.

In darkness– darkness their home. No light. No light of hope. Light of life.

The Greeks have Hades.

Those who died, disembodied and decaying. A half smile with dead eyes, rotting flesh or decaying soul. No hope for an embodied existence again.

A place of death that has no life again. A mass of shades.

The chains of death bound the dead for all time.

Until the end of the world. One harrowed this place of death. One who died and conquered death by death. The one who was resurrected into fullness of life and gives the hope of the same to us mere mortals.

Only the gods would live again– but the Son of God makes mortals like God that we may live again– theosis.

No longer bound to darkness or death. Only light and life. All ablaze with hope.

blue waves

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The blue Pacific beckons to me–

calling in the night– the quiet, dismal light.

Not a Siren’s call, but a call to contemplation

a tranquil, purposed leisure– that remakes, renews.

The cold blue waters, sobering — awakening the wreaked soul within.

Pulling from the depths that which was lost and salvaging the good and piecing it back together again.

Drowning in the frigid waters is lifesaving. Only one God can bring the dead back to life.

The Pacific blue beckons me to its roar and crashing upon seashore.

Cresting waves and renewing waters. Not chasing each wave, but setting out to sea, to the hope beyond the horizon.

The desert

The desert’s silence,

the endless horizon. The painted sands.

Reds, oxides, browns, white, ignatius rock.

Pictographs. Revealing hidden things within. You cannot hide yourself in the desert.

Arid.

Cliffs and plateaus. No strength to climb.

Mirages. Burning thirst. Unsatiated.

Coolness in the morning; scorching at midday.

Spirits in the undulating waves of heat against painted sands. Promising with empty hands and sands cascading through fingers.

No friends to be found. Only temptation that promises more than what actually is. Promising emptiness– impossible fulfillment.

After wandering for years, a tuft of chartreuse prairie grass is seen ahead.

And a golden sunset amidst gray cloud.