“He’s in you, He’s in me…The gentle breeze rustling through the trees and sun kissed rain falling upon storm tossed seas”

The open road can be very long when you are weary and have travelled way too far with a heavy burden of baggage of life slung on your back. I see by your eyes you are tired and alone, so come join me, sit down. Warm your bones by my fire. Kick back, rest for a while. Hear me strum my guitar, we’ll serenade the night by the light of the moon and soft starlight. I can offer you to sup the fruit of the vine, some elderflower wine, maybe a drop of Moonshine, or Dandelion beer? Whatever your choice, a cup of good cheer.

In the words of my song, there’s a tale to be told, my story is not new but a ballad of old. You see I have walked this path for many a year and many a traveller has  greedy an ear to sit down and share good food sizzling on the pan and hear the music retell the ‘Ballad of the Magical Music Man’.

He was the stranger I met outside my tent, just like you, when my soul was rent and this old heart heart has been broken in two. Chanced upon me singing the blues for those feeling old, battle worn and ravaged by time, strumming their stories in words and in rhyme.

He sat down beside me, kicked off his travelling boots and warmed his toes by the fire. I noticed the flames grew brighter and quite a bit higher. I saw the smile in his eyes, they laughed at it all, the highs and the lows, just how we can fall and how we can soar. Take flight, feeling fear like a Doe or face the good fight with a Lion’s roar.

“Met them all, without judgement”… he said, “those fizzing with life and the walking dead! Saw deep in their hearts and souls, secrets long buried, so easily read.”

The Magical Music man? I asked where was he from? He grabbed a banjo and just started to strum. Asked where he was heading? His cobalt eyes looked to a star strewn sky, “How’s that for bedding?!'”Came his enigmatic reply.

The tales he could tell brought laughter and tears. Taught you enjoy your life and face your fears. He’d easily pick up and play many a tune on a tin whistle, a flute lute or lyre. By the light of moon and fading camp fire. He’d make a Mandolin sing with plaintive desire. Told me he’d climbed the Himalayas, played both Bowls and Tingsha in Tibetan Temples on the roof of the World and the Banjo in the mountains of Appalachia. Said he’d sat with Siddhas at the banks of the Ganges and strummed a Sitar, then crossed the Mississippi to Memphis with his guitar. There was not a sight he had not seen, nor a place he had not been.

He was a Wizard, a Seer, both Mage and the Sage. He was an innocent child, and as old as time, a conundrum, paradox and rhyme. The soft, mountain stream, the sun on your face. He understood the rage of righteous might and black bayou’s in the dark heart of night. A gift of Grace and not of this time or this place.

When he left, I was a better man for him finding me when I had lost my way, pray one day he finds you too. The Magical Music Man, he’ll see right through you and set you straight on the path that is meant to be. No hiding, no defence or false pretence.

It’s no surprise he gave no name, without sin, without blame, the Magical Music Man? An Angel in disguise. A guiding Light through life’s dark night, illuminating God in  you and God in me…

The gentle breeze and the storm tossed seas.

©Eily Nash -2019

For Peter Cabot-My Guiding Light, Always ✨