Tonight I heard a song and around it dreamed a dream. It was from the song, but it was not about the songs. It began with a battle I the background, an ancient Israelite battle. A great warrior came to the house of a poor woman to be cared for and nursed from hi wounds. She cared for him, she argued with him, she ordered him around – “do this, or your arm will fail…do that or your keg will be weak.’ The warrior, or king, obeyed and thrived. Inside he smiled, while outside he glowered at the woman and threatened her. She paid his threats no mind. She brought him soup and she brought him honey, and he thrived.
And then the dream changed. The warrior was about to leave. He was now strong and whole, the woman who stood at the door of the house where he had lived and healed was weak, and retiring, and quiet, an she limped on a cane.
As the warrior, the King, was leaving, he gave her a gift. It was the sword of his father, a mighty man of valour. He laid the heavy sword across the woman’s arms. She could barely hold it and stand holding it with her cane.
“From time to time, I will pass this house on business or in battle, and I will look for you,” said the warrior, now the King. When you can come forth from this cause, bearing this sword in one of your hands, I will take you from this place, and I will make you my wife, and we will live together, strong and equal. And with that, the King, the warrior, rode away, and the woman waited in the dust until he had gone, and then she smiled. She dropped her cane, and swung the sword into he right hand, where she held it alone. Sometimes she leaned on it to walk, but mostly she swung it to cut down brush, and to make sure that no marauder came to her door. And she made soup and ate it; she gathered honey and she waited.
I dreamed, but I that about my journey, or someone else’s journey. It is about two people, one strong, and the other apparently weak and in need. Which one is strong? Which one is weak? How will they come together? Will they come together?
The day behind me was good, but hard. It was good in that I sat with relative strangers at Tim’s and talked with them of weakness and I did not feel trapped or panic. Earlier in the day, I had started out to walk an errand, and, nearly there, I knew it was too long. My long-unused legs were talking loudly to me. I rested in the Library on my way toward home, but of course, I stopped at Tim’s, my port in every storm. There I walked without, and even begged from a barely know couple, a ride home. They gave it, and I came home tired, but alive, if you know what I mean.
Tonight, I have slept well, waking only to yell you this tale, and then return to bed when my tea is done.
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