Walk. . .
The drum has carried me now for almost seven years. I am an infant, crawling at the feet of the Grandmothers and Grandfathers who sat upon the hill with tear stained eyes and sang their prayers to the rising sun through lips cracked and parched.
You do not choose to walk this path; the path chooses you. And when it does, you cannot help but follow. It hunts you, draws you in, governs every decision you’ll make until the day you drop your robe and return to all that is.
You will leave a great deal of yourself scattered upon the road behind you as you walk. You will lose your friends. You will lose your family. You will lose the places you used to go and the people you used to be; but having paid that fee, you will gain your freedom.
These you will call upon for their counsel in the loneliness of your days: the River, the Wind, the Earth, the Spirits. And if you are worthy, and your reasons pure and unencumbered by thoughts of personal gain, they will answer you in a language beyond words.
Do not enter here unless you are prepared to bar the door behind you.
This is not a game. This is not a fad. This road is not a peaceful journey towards the gentle fields of enlightenment. It is hunger. It is shadow. It is fire. It is pain. It is humility. It is joy. It is truth.
The nights are wild and full of shapes that dance along the edges of your vision.
The mornings are dappled gold and sinewy gray.
You burn with the light of creation itself; and you weep for the pain of every living thing.
You will know the suffering of others, and walk between their nightmares. You will know their fears in ways even they cannot.
And for your labors you’ll receive a bit of fur, the occasional feather, and answers to the thousand questions of your life. . .and ten thousand more will rise to take their place. . .