A fully charged and extraordinary piece of writing in the form of a reverie which sweeps you into the atmosphere and symbolism of the Summer Solstice, whilst firmly placing us on the wheel of evolution  - Ed.

And as I freed myself from the tangled debris of my thoughts, sleep’s hand spilled me through the portal once more and I ran, childlike again, through the tall wheat of the Summerlands. Weightless, and as thin as the breeze that caressed my cheeks, I swept through the sun-swollen fields, breath as hot as embers, kicking dust into clouds and shaking the wheat stalks into crackling applause.

Love sick in the sun’s molten light, I ran at this shimmering, majestic colossus so full and heavy with life as it blazed its potency over the erupting earth. I wondered at the radiance of this distant star that aeons ago wove life into this world’s uncertain heart with threads of light that carried the pure geometry of the cosmos. The sun enchanted the soul of Gaia with a ballad of love yet unfulfilled and made her skin tremble in an ecstasy of revelation. She responded by sucking that supernal light deep into her womb and life flared with desire and will.

On I ran, a late and exotic product of that eternal union of sun and soil. The ballad of love became the rhyme of life: an ABC of my genetic heritage. A thousand stars, each a sun-parent to its own dear planetary nursery, whispered in my ear an intuitive knowing of my own evolution and the cosmic yearning for growth. My solar god is pure dynamic spirit and I am a divine spark of that ancient consciousness.

That same spirit inflamed Akhenaten who swept aside the fragile and needy gods of Egypt, worshipped, as they were, within tepid cloisters and shrines encased in stone, and dragged a bewildered generation out to survey his vision in open sunlight. One god, the Aten, the radiant solar entity, presided over the Nile’s clear skies and breathed life into the land. The Aten, light both actual and ethereal, spoke its cosmic truth through the pharaoh and became the spiritual heartbeat of his people.

My own heart throbs now like the beat of the celtic drum that welcomed the solstice light with fire and honoured rite. In me is the druid who patiently waits for midsummer worship to pick the sun-ripe herbs for his healing arts. The May children of Belenos now witness the climax to their potent prayers in June and sing out to the bountiful element of fire that stirs the rhythm of their life. They leap their solstice fires, eager to bless and be blessed with light, hearts free from winter’s callous famine. I too leap their blaze in my heart and bless the light that now seems to remain a million miles away from my sprinting feet, no matter how swiftly I chase it, yet it embraces me as intimately as a lover. Blessed be the light.

I wonder now as I ponder the mysteries of my close and absent love, if those same celtic cousins came to embrace the Christ with such enthusiasm because they saw the sun behind his miraculous ways. Was the Christ an emissary of the sun before the shadow of political righteousness was cast across the pagan world and the Holy Trinity of Father, Son and Holy Ghost became detached figureheads of a religion not of this world, nor of our nature or sacred symbolism but rather fashioned from the impersonal stateliness of cold Roman marble. So, is the true Christ-light of my nature-formed spiritual self, the same sun consciousness that nurtures my soul and breathes life, truth and redemption through my being?

Rome snags the flowing fabric of my mind, a perverse hook that leads on to images of triumphal arches, then paved plazas and onward still from dreaming spires to shopping malls and concrete jungles where nature is restrained and barren beneath the slabs of our hectic progress. A cacophony of deafening technology lies just beyond the portal from whence I came and its madness shatters my euphoria and leaves me reeling on arid dirt where no rain soothes the parched emptiness of this plentiful, modern desert. The sun here has long been quantified by analytical fingers that probed its core and hailed its heart as nuclear fusion. Those same frosty fingers dismantled the heavenly robes of God and displayed a naked universe devoid of mystic heart.

The atomic clock beats on, ruthlessly, obsessively dividing our lives into minute fractions of chronic time. Devoid of synchronicity with the pulsing, pumping melody of muscle and tissue, seconds drip into an eternal intravenous infusion that dulls our senses and mechanises our spirits. We have no memory of true time. That lies with the sun, the moon and the great cycles of a sentient, living galaxy. The ancient Maya charted the heaving energies of galactic time and knew we lived within the sensuous rhythms of a conscious universe that yearns to bond so intimately to each of its children and unlock the lost secrets of our cosmic genes.

The sun before me is liquid amber as it starts to set upon the desert. Its portent is lost on this sedated world.  What is about to occur will have great consequences for each and every one of the billions upon this planet but meaning for only a few of us. The Mayan wheels of time are completing their celestial navigation and their legacy is near all dismissed by the arrogant and fragile egos that cannot contemplate that the earth beneath us and the stars above have an imminent appointment with destiny outside of our control.  We too are meant to keep this appointment but we have long been absent children and few will recognise the call of the cosmic heralds above the noise of their own minds.

It is time for me to return before darkness envelops this place. I turn and, in the dying light, a wind lifts the surface sand to reveal a complete fossil record of our journey through time here. In this deep ossuary of sand, millions of years of traumatic change and evolution lie in bone about my feet as testament to the irrepressible urge of life. Throughout our time upon this planet, ours has been the gift of growth, the gift of change, and the wind breathes that this is the way of our sun-cherished kind. Beyond the confines of human heart and mind I hold a depth of inner knowing that foresees much that awaits this world and wonder at the magnitude of change that our dear mother must undergo.  A new sun shall greet a new world with its dawning light and hope stirs within me that somewhere, human eyes shall witness the energy of that rebirth.

©  David Hand 2009

David Hand is a psychic consultant and spiritual teacher. To find out more about his workshops, groups and services, please visit www.mysticklight.com