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Mists of time

What would you say to me, I asked her.

I would say, keep going, be different, do the work, make the changes you need to make. Your daughter in 2012 is depending on it.

This is a tale with no beginning and therefore no end, like the layers of mist that wove it. These mist sisters were suddenly just there – and surely too she never saw the moment that they were gone forever.

There once was a woman who lived between the mists of time. No one had ever seen her and indeed she herself wondered if she was even there, in the layers of grey and in the turn of the years.

I asked you if you believed in her, this not-quite-there woman of mists. “Of course” you said – “she brought me to you.” You might have thought she wore cobwebs, so fine was the cloth that fell about her in the pale morning light. But no, it was the dawn breaking around her in fine threads – dew drops trailing behind her, sighing…on that morning that was to change everything I knew about the world.

They had journeyed together many times, over many lifetimes. Always was it so. But always they forgot, and had to once more begin over – back on the road that would lead them to each other once again. At these times the mist woman would wrap her shrouds of grey around them, as a mother would a child, and they would be held in her mists and veils of time, held in remembering.

There was a young woman whose wild landscape may not have had the fables and myth that she wanted it to have. She hadn’t seen the jungle wet with rain, or planted her bare feet in the warm red earth of a foreign land as the sun rose in the East. She hadn’t stood and shouted her defiances with sisters. But there was something that she had. She had the magic seeds of transformation, of change, planted in the richest brown earth in the fields of her mind.

But at that time the young woman didn’t know what treasure she held secretly inside her, and she hadn’t yet remembered the one with which she always journeyed.

The mist woman knew this. She parted those grey veils that hid time, just enough so that we could reach our precious hands through to that young girl, so lost and crushed. Those hands were these – a sister, a faery godmother, a daughter and myself.

Hands, those most precious of story keepers. We held her up, that young woman. Our hands folded into hers, gently moving her towards a different landscape, the true, wild, season-turning landscape that was waiting for her.

She felt us, and though she wouldn’t know us for many years yet, her young ears trusted our voices that whispered to her from a place in time where she was healed and whole.

And that is where this story trails off and is lost to these mists of time.

For there is no real beginning – and the end? It is yet to be written….


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