“The breezes at dawn have secrets to tell you. Don’t go back to sleep! You must ask for what you really want. Don’t go back to sleep! People are going back and forth across the doorsill where the two worlds touch. The door is round and open. Don’t go back to sleep!” – Rumi
My neighbor is a Shaman, I see him out at night, he stands still while his spirits take dawn flight. The grass in his yard is never dormant; the leaves in his trees never die. The deep cries out for answers, the heavens drop their stars, the wind it forms creation, with the response next door, how bizarre. The dead they come from the living, sometimes they have no place to go, so my neighbor just takes their mind, and for them he whispers very low. He tells them we are together, the particles of the words, announced before stars were shattered, at the announcement of this earth.
The night it seems to gather, with swarming of lights above, a brightness this December, from what my neighbor does. The peace inside a city, of a great municipality, of those that have gone before us, it must be what my neighbor sees. What questions could be answered, what sharing could be done, if one could enter my neighbor’s yard, and know their soul has won.
My neighbor is a Shaman, I see him living in two worlds, the next and one in which we stand. He knits no self-made fortunes; his craft is simple sweet, and often times when evening falls, we talk of what one should seek. To live within the threshold, provided from all sums, of that which gives us voyage, on spirit in which we have come. To not mix with the magic, of that which would deny, to bring us all together, from the world in which we have died. To listen to the whisper, the ghost of a still, still night, to know that all creation has fashioned our destiny right.
It is the hour of dawn after midnight, the time when spirits rise; my neighbor takes his coat off in the mild December night. He looks across his backyard to the window where I stare, and I see that he is smiling, as he talks to the whipped-up air. The word it forges reason from one world when two is there, and as he mouths together, the lights fill all the air.
Our time left here is a short one, with breath and dreams we dare, but rarely do we venture beyond the veil of our air. What gathers in our backyards, what shadows alone not shared, will one day see a Shaman, and ask for another world to share. The late fall snow will fall soon, upon a December dawn, the angels will make indentions within my neighbor’s lawn.
My neighbor is a Shaman! – 12.02.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל