Honeycomb Moon

#6 Training Begins: The Sword April 6, 2020

Nothing is ever as it seems, neither in time nor space nor the threads of circumstances that make up a story or a life. No matter how it is experienced, there is a flow of truth that is related to perception, and another which is harder to define for it is not often recognized for what it is: THE Truth, the ultimate. We will not presume to lecture on the latter, for that would likely be fruitless. Most of us live in the relative truth that is our story, and it will help to keep this in mind as we return to find the girl beginning, or so it seems, her sword training in that once-upon-a-place-and-time that is neither here nor there …

The first time the girl felt the sword in her hand she was blindfolded. She thought maybe this was because her teacher was blind, so that she might share her experience, but the old woman assured her this was how they all started, each warrior in their lineage. When she felt the cool hilt against her palm, and the weight of the sword pulling at her muscles as she struggled to hold it steady, a tingle, a current of energy, like lightning, ran down the length of her arm and she let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“Just feel it,” the old woman said, “its weight, its power.”

The girl nodded. Even had she wanted to speak, the awe of the moment carried away all of her words on a soundless breath.

“Now,” said the old woman, “put one foot in front of the other; it doesn’t matter which, and leave some space between them. Good. Now turn the front foot out slightly so your feet are at an angle. Yes, that’s it. This is how you set a strong foundation.”

The girl didn’t stop to wonder how the woman could “see” her stance. She had stopped questioning the blind one’s abilities and knew that though her eyes were no more than seers of shadows, the old woman, in her own way, still had certain and precise vision.

“Hold the sword out in front of you. “

The girl again did as she was told, willing her arm and weary muscles to stop shaking; the sword was much heavier than she had anticipated.

“Shift your weight front to back, keeping your spine straight, your head high, and the sword steady.”

It took all of her will and resolve to do as the blind warrior instructed, but once again the girl complied. When the old woman asked her to switch her stance again, she did so, the sword growing heavier and heavier until her arm, against her will, began to tremble noticeably with the strain. Only then did the old woman tell her to stop.

“Rest the tip of the sword lightly on the ground,” she told her, “while I remove the blindfold.”

So the blindfold was removed and the girl, eager for a glimpse of the Sword of Wisdom in her hand, turned her eyes downward and opened them slowly: Her hand was empty! With this revelation, the feeling of weight that had been the sword disappeared and she couldn’t hide her disappointment, feeling she had been tricked.

The old woman laughed, though not cruelly. “We are all disappointed the first time,” she said. “But do not feel cheated. In order to wield this instrument properly, you must know and trust that the energy of the sword is as real and powerful as the sword itself. “

Though she was not sure she understood fully what the old woman had just told her (she was beginning to see there was much she did not understand), and the taste of disappointment was yet sour in her mouth, still the girl felt a growing excitement about this new discovery: pure energy as a source of power.

The old woman waited silently, feeling the girl’s dawning awareness, more certain with each rise of the sun, each time they met, that the sword had chosen wisely. Finally she said to the girl, “Your sun cycle threshold is approaching and your blood time will surely come soon too, I suspect. We must be ready.”

The girl nodded, certain of her desire (and her destiny) to follow the path of the warrior woman whatever that meant – to be ready — but felt a fiery fear burning in her gut. Her father still did not know of her trainings, and both her mother and her mentor were adamant that he should not. She thought of all the warrior had taught her since their initial meeting, and she kept their secret faithfully, but was young and still wished to please her parents. The old woman put her arm around the girl and began to speak as if the girl had spoken her thoughts aloud.

“When we are children,” the old woman began, “we depend on our mother and father and the elders around us for everything. This is as it should be. But sometimes those who love us can begin to fear for us, for our safety, for our happiness. This usually happens to people who, for any number of reasons, have their own places of hurt, pain, and anxiety. Your father is such a man. He cannot see you as anything but his precious babe in arms, suckling at her mother’s breast, and so, to him, you are still vulnerable and need his protection. And because of the stories he’s been told and the evil he believes to be always lurking about, seeking to take revenge on the weak and unprotected, he cannot simply let you go to follow your path. That would be far too frightening, and he would feel himself at fault if anything hurtful were to befall you. For sure, the path of the warrior is not without its dangers to body and spirit.”

“My mother,” the girl asked, “does not have these fears?”

“Oh, your mother has her own stories,” said the wise warrior. “But she was lucky, as a child, to be surrounded by strong, loving women who were able to set aside their own concerns and allow the woman in the girl to emerge. She does this now, for you. She is able to hold a vision of you as a courageous, wise woman, while your father, in his mind, will not let you grow up but must always keep you dependent on him …”

“So he can keep me safe.”

“So he can feel like he is keeping you safe. Safety is an illusion.”

“Is there nothing we can do to change his mind?”

The blind warrior chuckled deep in her throat. “Oh, my dear, people have been trying to change others since time began. It has never worked. Your father will either gain this wisdom on his own, when the time is right and he is ready, or …” She stopped, seeing the girl’s furrowed brow. “Do you still have your Cup of Creativity?” she asked.

The girl nodded.

“Drink from it often in the coming moon cycle,” the old woman told her. “and see what you will see.”

That night, the girl sat at her window, drinking from her cup and listening to her herbs singing. (You remember, earlier ,I told you this would be so.) The air was redolent with their sounds and their odors, distinct as notes on a scale, carried to her on a light breeze. It had rained earlier in the evening and the girl could smell the scent of rainwater mingled with wafts of basil, lemon balm, thyme, and rosemary. She breathed deeply, humming along with each exhale, wanting to preserve this moment, for she had a feeling her world was about to be irrevocably altered.

The next time they met, the old woman brought the actual sword, but instead of handing it to the girl, she used it to draw a circle in the dirt. “Step into the center,” she told the girl, who silently obeyed. As the girl did so, she felt a winding energy move up from the earth, swirling first about her feet, rooting her in place, before it spiraled upward, eventually forming a halo vortex above her head. The halo pulsed with light, like a prism, and flowed with a gentle movement that was at once relaxing and invigorating. She didn’t know how long she was in the circle, but when she opened her eyes the light had shifted and the old woman, looking pleased, seemed very intent on something the girl herself could not see.

“It is as I thought,” the blind woman said. “There are powerful forces protecting you. But that doesn’t mean we can be complacent. Powerful protection is only required by those with powerful enemies.” When she the look on the girl’s face she quickly amended her statement. “Perhaps enemy is too strong a word. Let’s just say there will be obstacles and leave it at that.”

Here, too, we must leave our story ‘at that.’ We have had a glimpse of magick at play, and sensed, perhaps, a bit of the mayhem to come. But only a bit. For stories must contain a precise measure of particular elements, and it is only in the telling that each individual recipe becomes clear … and nowhere is it written that we must like it. Only that we remain true to its essence and telling.

Copyright 2020 Linda Maree/Linda M. Gabriel