1) Toward Innesfree

1) The Warp and Weave of Wonder Even the most carefully laid plans contain moments of magic. They appear in the interstices of the very weave of our tapestries, such that the light reveals sight and meaning afresh, each time we revisit our intentions. Such is the sense of excitement despite their disposition as we five knights each prepare, from our different vantages, to journey to the side of Sir Simon. Disease interjects. Death overtakes. It rears as unexpectedly into the warp and weave of our ordinary meanderings as to take us by surprise, and yet we each know it is an indicator of the end for each, as indeed for all. With the sad news of Sir Simon's imminent demise there began a mustering of the possibilities of attending his side. We were knights on quests of our own. We each are so involved in the daily grind of ordinary expectations that magic itself, sometimes, has to be of our own making. So it is with the warp and weave of anyone's tapestry. Without a sense of wonder coming from within there may soon seem no wonder to be found without. The moments pass us each by, and if years be the pictures by which we might recognize our passage of progress, and months be the paragraphs by which we might describe their progress, and weeks be the sentences by which we might build the images, then days become the very use and choice of colors that go eventually to thread the whole of one's life together. Magic, wonder, surprise, and even amazement attends the moments in-between. Hours and minutes are indeed of our own makings. The Kingdom of Oz lies far off across vast oceans. Even those great and goodly knights, Sir Anthony, Sir Mike, and Sir Rob, who live within its very boundaries are put upon to re-organize their schedules, rearrange their plans, and make ready their hospitality for the arrival of Sir Justin and me, Sir Who. Five days, five knights. Five men who are friends and brothers all to Sir Simon, who awaits our company. We shall arise and go now, soon, soon enough, and go to Innesfree, where sadly Sir Simon, like a poem, awaits the presence of men such as thee and me, momentary though it must be. It is a place in the Black Mountains. It is a place to be placed in memory. To be set free. It is not that the journey be secretive, nor concealed, nor clandestine that so dictates this somewhat esoteric missive, but that its sense of specialness be preserved. There are so very many contingencies attendant upon the journey that the complexity would become overwhelming were the numbers to increase. We men have known each other since boys. Well, if not known, then known about each other. We are all of the same age. We were all schooled together. We deeply identify with the culture and the history and the colloquialisms of a common country. Hamba Gashle is an understood wish. We go carefully with each other as we grow old, for we are alive to the sensibilities of what it is to have friends who reach back into our childhoods and see us for the men we've become, not so much despite the battles we've overcome, but because of them. We have nothing or little left to prove, except a commitment to our connection to each other, and with that a giving of ongoing care. It takes effort. It takes action. It takes constant communication. And it takes love. Or whatever else one may decide to call this feeling. Soon. Soon we each shall arise and go now, and go to Innesfree. 'Tis a story for thee.