The thunderstorm moved through here in the wee hours of the morning when few are stirring except my ilk. I am transforming and well aware of it and at the courtesy of Mr. Rembrandt, I seemy vision of me in my tree house office and withdeference to Mr. Jung, I havebegun to slowly combine my hero image of my youthwith the emerging image of the wise old man in me. That’s mymyth and I’m kind of sticking to it. You see many archetypes are story characters and we all role play. Oh, the many games we play!
The hero in me I am finding more and more is guided bythis wise old man in me whoreveals tomy hero, moment by moment, the nature of thatwhich he was previously unconscious of as he drew his sword, mounted his steed,andsoughthisdragons& rescued his damsels whilesinging “Those were the days my friend. We thought they’d never end!”
Well they did. And in his quiet and sacred place while the thunder claps late at night in the beauty of the darkness, the wise old man is never lonely when he is alone forhe sits in the council of God and all the sages of ancient days. “These are the days,” he sings and I find that even my heroes have heroes.