This thin grey rope is all that separates me from the past—but I understand. I won’t cross it. It is there for my safety, you see. Because if you get too close to the past, there is no turning back. The past is dangerous. It knows too much, and if you aren’t careful, it will teach you. Beware these lessons of the past! These standing stones might tell you something of yourself. Something you didn’t want to know—or wanted to forget. So keep your distance. Hold on to the consul of the present. And don’t cross the rope.
When you hold up a mirror to the past—
Make sure you hold it at an angle, and smooth out any wrinkles. After all, the wearing signs of time are not wanted here. Train your vines to climb the stairs of the altar of the gods—smooth altar—no bloodstains here. Don’t let your garden grow willy-nilly where it will. But make sure each petal is in place, each stem where it belongs. Then, when you hold up your mirror—hold it straight. Capture the domestic majesty of the planned wilderness. And if your mirror isn’t enough, snap a picture, take it with you, so can look more closely some other time.
“Come and dance with us,” call the stones, “come and dance.” Or maybe it’s the sheep. Either way, the pagans come and dance, come and dance, rings within these rings. And they dance and talk about why this stone is pointy-end-down and where the ley lines are and can you feel it? The mystery here. That ever-present why. The why sings out, echoes, bouncing from stone to stone. Maybe the sheep know. Somewhere, old souls are hiding and watching. Watching and laughing as the pagans dance. Laughing because they know what we have forgotten.