"Sanctity of Life"

Thursday, 18 September, 2008
4:48:50 AM
"Sanctity of Life"
one chapter amidst the many

Without doubt, much can be said about the sanctity of life. In the ways of old our beliefs and teachings from our mentors are of living spirits within all things. As witches of old, we are not only gatherers but also preservers and guardians of such sanctity in as many ways. Within this realm of preservation there are always questions which need answers. For in preservation of this sanctity lies the preservation of balance. Within the preservation of balance there lies the varied relationships to all other sanctus forms. Witches of Old, as guardians, are so charged with maintaining the balance within the sanctus by whatever means of their powers as is necessary. At times, this charge may mean ending a particular "life-form", for the betterment and preservation of many others. And perhaps, there may be one other hidden bit of knowledge.
At times, the knowledgeable decision to end a particular life-form is quite visible and un-questionable, though it still remains a task not of greater desire. At other times, this knowledgeable decision is deeply hidden amidst a mire of a think thorns which must be gently pushed aside for its' attainment . As witches of old are in constant quest for knowledge of all things, this particular task is no more or less difficult than any other. The only difficulty is the final decision one must make in the ending of a sanctus life-form within the considerations of preservation, balance and meaning to all others.
***********

You have been on this journey for what seems like a mortal lifetime. Gently picking your way through the mire of thorns known as the mortals' realm . For ages, you've heard the cries far off in the distance. Your beliefs and constant questing push you along this path to locate and know of the cries. You feel their importance, their callings to you, though you know not why. About all you really know at this point in the quest and journey is that a sanctity of some sort lies at the end, and the cries come from that central point . Working your way through the mire of thorns you've noticed traces of that life-form substance the mortals call "blood". Reddish-brown in colour, slightly denser than water but unlike that of Freyas' Tears. It is aged and has lost its' own life source for being. How did it come to lose its' source? You ponder upon the many ways as you lightly pass your own fingertips over one of the traces. You seek within to know its' source, yet there is not enough left to it to be certain. Only more questions rise up from the aura of the trace.

The cries you've heard for so long are more distinct, have grown in volumn and repitition. You turn your attention and concentration to the cries. Why does it cry out ? What has caused these mournful cries ? What can be done, or, what needs to be done, about the cries ? Is a healing necessary ? Or are the traces from preys along its' way ? Will some act of maintaining the balance be at hand ? Questions. Always more questions. You push ahead upon this journey, this quest, seeking those answers.

You are nearly there now. The journey has been long and difficult. You have suffered your own wounds along the way and done your mending as such in your ways. Traces of yourself have been left behind, perhaps others will follow. The cries are loud and distinct now. They come from a single source. You can feel the pain emitting from them, so much so, you begin to ache. There is a mournful anguish coming forth, so thick that vision is limited. Though you know not from what, you feel within you a great suffering is about. There is much pain and a strong aura of mourning from the suffering. Already you know within from hearing and feeling all that is about you, that, at the very least, one sanctus life-form must come to its' end of time within this realm. You know it will travel to another time but your own sadness deepens in the knowing that it must be so. You also know that in this ending, knowledge of its' reason for being so must be determined, and attended to. If the ending was due to a force of negitive nature, then it too must be ended before it destroys more in its' ways. This day of this journey has not only turned to one of sadness but has now become heavy laden as the Spirit of Death also walks in your steps.

Pushing aside the last thicklet of thorns, the source of the cries is now before you. A somewhat familure life-form, laying in a crumpled up heap grasping Mother Earth for all that is left within. Clinging to that which not only gave and sustained the life-form for its' time, but now that which also soaks up and takes in the menstrum of what is left to the life-form.

You can see and feel that the ground around this life-form is sacred ground. You kneel and give honour to this sacred space, the area of this life-form. You know now the reasons for this journey. It is one of sacred honour. The sadness within you deepens even more with this knowledge. The knowledge that you were sent here to end a suffering and pain which should never have been. There is also within you an anger in having to do so, and in that anger you seek to know how this came about and where the responsibility lies. For most certainly, the crossing of this obviously sacred spirit in pain and suffering as you see and feel cannot go unanswered. The cause must be attended to.

Though the cries continue, there is time to consider all actions, and certainly time to give honour. Stretching your arm forward you find that you can enter this sacred circle, which means you are meant to be here, perhaps even expected to come here. Donned only in your own sacred cloak, stave in hand, you enter, kneel and give honour. Rising once again, you call forth to your own Gods, Goddesses and Spirits and make your offerings. Then, you give offerings for the crumpled heap before you. Reaching into one of the secret places within your cloak linings you retrieve a small bottle of sacred oil. Your magyk is strong. The weakening of this spirits' sacred space, you've now attended to and it too is very strong and protected. Taking forth your sacred oil, it is time to bless this fallen spirit. You know the strength of your own magyk. A single cast from your god-hand stave, and the spirits' pain and suffering will quickly end in this time. As you bless the spirit with your sacred oil, you feel the dampness of tears upon your cheeks, and vow that this crossing will be avenged. First the spirits feet. Then the knees which knelt before its' own alters as you do yours. The loins, the chest. In this doing, thoughts are also of that which is responsible for this spirits' broken form. Vengence for those responsible is growing within. The finality of this sacred spirt in suffering and pain should never have been so in such desolance and barreness. The blessings continue. The spirits forehead, and finally its' lips. Which most certainly must have uttered thousands of sacred words in its' time. You pull away now from the lips. The auras of sufferings and pains suddenly thicken with a density equal to that of the mists which protect and hide Avalon. You are the Witch of Old. The gatherer. The protector, the keeper of balance. The avenger of sacred spirits. The tears fall in torrents now, as you realize the crumpled spirit you've just blessed.................is your own.
©2008, Solitudeone