Unbroken Path

 

Ah, my child, listen well, for I shall weave for you a tale of wisdom, passed down through the blood and the breath of the ages. It is the story of an ancestor, a great king, whose presence was vast, whose spirit was mighty. Through him, a lineage was forged, and through that lineage, I too have come into this world.

I remember well the simple joys of childhood—how my heart swelled with contentment as I gazed upon my father’s two-acre field, the steadfast presence of a rusted barn standing within it. To the eyes of a child, it was a place of stability, a shelter against the winds of time. Yet, looking back, I see now that I was not alone in that gaze. The mind through which I observed the barn was not solely my own; it was his as well—peering across the ages, looking through my eyes to witness the lives of his descendants. We were vessels through which his sight extended, his presence enduring beyond the bounds of his own mortal years.

His spirit was vast, and he bore a great gift—a power not easily named. I, too, bear it, and I believe it lies dormant in many, waiting to be awakened. In the days of old, our people knew this well. The wisdom keepers, the seers, the druids—they guided others to nurture such awareness, to sharpen their sight beyond the veil of the ordinary. Yet, when he first walked with me in my youth, when he showed me these things through living experience, I did not grasp them as I do now. The understanding was there, but in a different form. Only now, in the fullness of years, can I weave these threads into words that others might understand.

Consider this: if you were living in the tenth century, would not a barn of rusted steel, built in the twentieth, seem as strong and enduring as a stone hall of kings? The very metal of its roof, though weathered by time, would be to them a thing of wonder—a marvel of distant ages, as strange to them as the castles of the stars are to us. And yet, for all its humble rust, it is a palace compared to what most who have ever lived have known. It is dry, it is open, it is built with ease, and a fire can burn within it without choking those inside with smoke.

It was in such reflections, in such quiet conversations with my ancestor, that I made a choice—one that shaped my path for the whole of this life. I have never found ease in the structures of the modern age. Though there is a beauty to the comforts we now possess—hot water at the turn of a tap, the luxury of a warm bath—there is a price paid for such ease. We are not as hardy as those who came before us. Our bodies, once tempered by the seasons, now grow frail beneath the rule of central heating. Our spirits, once shaped by struggle and endurance, have grown soft in the absence of true hardship.

And yet, even as we have gained much, we have lost much. The witches of old, the wise women who once safeguarded the health of the people, would look upon us with knowing eyes. Our cleanliness has improved, yes, but our resilience has waned. Our ancestors stood as strong oaks against the storms of the world, while many now bend like reeds at the first harsh wind.

This is the weight of wisdom carried across a thousand years. It is the sharp edge of a blade honed by time, revealing the truth of what it is to be human. And yet, so many around me do not see it. They have not struggled as our ancestors did; they do not know the fire that forges strength. And so, in their blindness, they would call me mad rather than face the depths of what I speak.

But I am not mad. I am a keeper of the old ways. I walk the path of my people, even as the world around me rushes toward the new and the fleeting. This is my battle—not with sword and shield, but with knowledge, with awareness, with the sacred duty of continuity. It is a battle against forgetfulness, against the slow erasure of all that made us who we are. It is the battle of bloodline and civilization, waged against the shadows of ignorance.

And now, to the descendants…