[I don’t know if this one is a poem or merely the incoherent ramblings of a mind lost in that place of not quite yet awake but not quite still asleep, but it was on my mind this morning…] In the days of King Arthur swords were common, at least among the upper classes, but there was only one that when freed from the stone called Arthur to be king. But what if this is not the whole story? What if Excalibur earlier took on the guise of a stick that Arthur took up as a small boy to play? And what if once he was crowned, each night when Arthur took off the blade it returned to the stone, though he could not see it, and each morning he would rise and pull the sword from the stone again? What if as much as the sword chose him, he chose the sword, over and over again, to face his battles and to shape his world? And what if Excalibur is not alone, not just a blade, but is found in the book of the teacher, the knife of the chef, the pen of the poet? And each day we each rise and pull the blade from the stone to shape our worlds the same. A legend and a myth not only of destiny, but of choice and of co-creation.
[No picture today as I wrote this one on my phone instead of in my notebook…]
Wow!