The Saturday Stoke
Analogue Edition
I felt under the weather at week’s end, so I didn’t get to record the Stoke. My apologies. But I still hope this analogue version inspires you this weekend.
I had just left the woods. The twilight hung around the boughs like a comforting mist. Near the cliff, where I inspected some boulders and old stumps, the twilight filtered away and into the open air of the sea below.
But now, I was speeding towards the city. The great castle, the one I’d seen a thousand times before, rose into the smoke-filled sky. Or were those clouds? I couldn’t tell you. But I did know a storm was brewing over the city.
The spires of the castle seemed to penetrate the smokey-clouds and disappear into the reddening darkness. The vision before me looked like something out of a fantasy novel. The road before me stretched straight into the valley, then up to the city on the hill—the storm city.
And even as we sped toward the storm light, the cliff-light filled my mind; contrasting images that drew me and repulsed me.
On the cliffs, I’d unravelled a mystery. So many had tried before and failed. But I knew where the “blowing stone” was—the young child in the storm-city castle had told.
“Under the old hollowed log by the cliffs,” she said. “Do you know it?”
I did know it. But it had been a while. For whatever reason, I had stopped venturing out to the cliffs.
And there I found myself reaching into the old hollowed log for an artefact I didn’t know was real. Or maybe I just didn’t remember how real it was.
Clutching it, I sat upon the log and looked for a moment at the sea-horizon in front of me. The day was ending. The sun, falling below the waterline.
“When you hold the stone in the palm of your hand, small flying bugs will fly to it. Don’t be alarmed. They will not bite you. They will crawl into the hole at the top of the stone—the part that looks like the spout of a kettle. When a few crawl inside, raise the stone to your lips and blow into the kettle spout.”
Such strange directions she gave. How did she know so much about the stone? She was only a child.
I held the stone in my palm and several small bugs flew to the opening.
—It was working.
They disappeared into the spout, and I—somewhat reluctantly—brought it to my lips, closed my eyes, and blew softly. What happened next, I’ll never forget.
Blue and gold lights emerged from the bottom of the stone and filled the dusky light near the cliff’s edge. The lights flew all around me, as far back as the woods and as far out as the sea. The lights rang with a shimmer-song and glowed softly as far as I could see in any direction.
“The Whimsies,” she said, “are your birthright. They are the Wonder Makers. You have only to summon them. Don’t forget the cliff’s of your youth,” she said.
And then they carted her away.
“But wait, where are you taking her,” I asked the people in the strange face coverings and official-looking clothing.
“This one is dangerous. It’s the high tower for her.”
I made straight for the cliffs. And, on rediscovering the Whimsies, remained there for some time. I was strong enough now, I thought and felt ready to return to the storm-hill city. Some doubts yet remained but I knew now, nothing was ever certain, except the cliff light.
These thoughts came to me as in a dream
After spending much of this week reflecting on light.
The Apostle Peter reminds us that Jesus rescued us, not from “Babylon” but from the darkness. Knowing Jesus, we now step from the darkness and into his “marvellous light.”
Beauty is born of light. And light was the first created form from the mouth of God. Before the luminaries of the sun, moon and stars, he made light. And its qualities pervade all of creation.
In the final days, the world will groan, and Jesus will come, and darkness will be finally thrown down, and we will live unabated to God, and he alone will be our light. No more use for luminaries, just him.
Remember the light. Don’t let the world snuff it out of you. Do what you can to rekindle it, to rediscover it.
For it is the light of God that infuses this world with the wonder of his mystery, and majesty.
Stay stoked my friends.