A Nomad’s Work

My online presence has been scarce in these waxing Canadian summer days, as I tune further inward, and shy away from the subletting of technological time wasters, what is being written must first be lived, all the way alive, without the nag of reporting it in the immediacy of experience. But I can say my mind has been busy, and desiring to write more, and when my body has finished its work on the land, and traveled many miles, then
I sit with my thoughts, and rewind through my memories. Reflecting on the reaping of time, like so much grain, processed and consumed. When a man returns to his familiar tramping grounds, he forms a circle, a point of contemplation, an opportunity of change, and a chance to clean away any detritus from the past. This diadem of becoming is now my heir apparent, as I return to an old place of being, a space of deed, like an animal on a well traveled game trail, on the hunt. I’m finding needs fulfilled in a new way, and mining beneath the facade of a cultured movement, and a way of life. What I refer to now is the seasonal work route that is followed, by those who are comfortable to wander, ramble, travel, and tramp. Those who remember an older spirit, and can see through the illusion of domestication. A Nomad’s work is never done.

New purveyance shall be sublimated from the poetic toungue into re-worked mythical activity. Old roots of knowledge and wisdom, in deseservance of being tested must be forged into new tools of working prowess. In the building of a man, somewhere halfway between an animal and a god, there is a responsibility I choose to assume. I will be opening up a new tangent here, call it the learned words of a seasoned traveler. For the forthcoming of this journey I will be making small offerings of mined life experience in the form of advices and the mechanics of a nomadic working life. Where to go, with whom to share the idle hours. How to raise one’s Idrottir (an old Viking word for skillset) through the world of trade and labor. Keep tuned, so that these missives may not go unnoticed. My seemingly modest array of ‘time in’ the world, earning my time on the road, treeplanting, fruit picking, farming, journeyman trades, volunteering, and gypsy trade, and community building will gradually ferment and expand into more international pursuits, and with any of my stored up luck will include other traditional endeavors; fungal hunting, pastoralism, animal protection, and organic artisanship. These may be released only ever in word, face to face, or through long winded prose via this journal or smaller outputs incorporating other works.

For the hammer gives me courage to BE, and the ravens confirm what i’ve always :k:nown.

WhiteWolf.

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