Neal

A slow seep of water between stone carves the heart, transforming even diamond with the passage of time. Moisture gathers, forming drops, becoming rivulets, as subterranean lakes build in recesses, away from logical eyes and linear paths leading to the surface. Gratitude wraps my shoulders as a blanket against chill autumn mornings glistening with hoar frost. It is a spell of being home in the world, above ground as below. You have been a cave of unconscious dreams, a magic kaleidoscope where I believe deeper with every refraction. We all have totems, Neal, spirit guides, and shamanic talismans that form a bridge between the world of possibility and the material. When you appear in dreams, I climb back to waking, certain that I am stepping towards welkin. Like Gideon asking for a sign and waking to drenched wool and dry ground. I hope you have a signal like this, that your halls have a protector and a champion who comes to you and whispers, “Ultreya! See it through! Stay on the path.”