2009-12-11

December 11th

In Gaelic my name means little king. Though I am ANYTHING but little I was once a king. For a few short years I had my very own kingdom. I was the lord of the night.

I'd like to think I was a good and righteous king. Probably because I didn't feel like royalty at the time. I felt more like a wandering vagabond on a spiritual pilgrimage to a place I hadn't yet found. So for a time I remained.

My favourite part of being king was to tour the land. I would aimlessly visit every acre and wood, every hamlet and rampart, every port and bridge.

Each evening I would stroll by trees and homes. In the silence of the night I could the heart of the land speak to me. It would speak lovingly of how it spent the day. How children ran and played among its fields. How farmers would sing praises of the earth while they tended to their fields as long as the sun shone. How most people went about their daily business unaware of the beauty that surrounded them.

These stories weaved their way into the pattern of my heart. Into my heart where I now keep those memories safe. It was those stories that made me love my kingdom and truly desire the best for it.

There can be great peace found in quiet reflective solitude. For some it's meditation upon enlightenment. For others it's prayer to the divine. For others it means journaling the journey of their spirit, heart, and soul manafested in a physical life. For me it was the silent reflection found during strolls through the park alone at night. The time when, myself and all of creation, were quiet enough to hear the soft gentle whisper of the creator.

I may no longer be a king, but I still feel royal. I may not always have God's voice in my ear, but I will forever know what it sounds like. I may no longer be able to enjoy the quite stillness of midnight treks through the park, but the power of their memory lives on.
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