Who Are The Makers?
I found the soul of the Makers - who they were, what they were trying to do, why they suffered so. The Makers were not criers of their own misfortune, they were powerful, direct, subtle and quiet, capable of things, which in our world seem so surreal, but in their world made such perfect sense. I love them. I do not love them because they were odd, or had power, but because they touch my heart with their ability to see beyond the petty necessities of daily existence here. They dreamt worlds filled with intent, swirls of infinite energy culled from the abyss of destruction and death
They looked without blinking, without asking what would people think, or care, about their seeing. They saw into the heart of infinity, saw a larger purpose and pursued it down through time. They are tracking their descendants through their dreams, through their energy, through the vision of intent which filled their universe to brimming. They have bound that vision with will, but allow for the freedom of movement so important to all the Makers who have followed the lines of intent, of creation and wonder. The loop of their intent both creates and destroys, gives birth and courts death, they are not afraid to stand in the sun and hurl the voice of their existence at the universe, or lie down in the cool shade of giant oaks and give back their energy to whence it came. I love them, not because they gave me sight, or power through the energy of my genes, but because they have held me under the stars and allowed me to see with them, to gaze, just simply to gaze and know. They have allowed me to walk with them, I am honored.
Why did they come, where are they going, who are we when compared to their knowledge and suffering?
They are not dead, only sleeping. They know, they see, they are waiting for the dreamers to awake. I sit here, weeping, why? Because I know that in the end the beauty of their vision burns away who I am, who I was. All that is left is who I may be and yet they comfort without sacrificing themselves, without sacrificing me. I have come to understand them and their vision. The vision does not speak of personal recognition, or gain, it speaks only of the smell of heather, the soft touch of fingers upon needful skin, words that do not need to be spoken, time, intent creating space in worlds beyond our understanding. I love them, not because they 'chose' me, but because they have allowed me to glimpse an understanding; a glimpse that propels understanding of myself.
Who were they? Men and women given over to their full potential as human beings, a small thing in our greedy world, but they sacrificed everything to their vision, to the Makers who would come after them and dare, dare to dream, dare to wake from the walking sleep of their existence. Who were they other than human beings bent on understanding the full definition of those terms? I love them, not because they make demands, but because they offer hope, a vision, one of intent for all human beings, one I understand only because it speaks to my heart. I have learned to love without expectation through them, I have learned to see without judgment through them, I have learned to walk in the cool shadows of living hearts and soothe the pain of living in a world which preys upon the loving and gives rewards to the cruel.
The Makers healed a world, healed a vision, created through their will a possibility, one small chance, an intent through time that all should understand the world and their own true nature. A long line of individuals stretches from here to the past and to the future, where do I fit, where do you fit? We count no more than any individual in that line, in that suppleness of vision, yet we count. If we pass away tomorrow the vision will go on, the Makers will find their energy in someone else, an awakening, an epiphany of sight. They have much to teach, but little patience for ego. Time is being unwoven. We all stand naked in the face of ancient will, ancient intent, the future definition of what being human really means.
The dreamers have awakened; let us dream.
Gary Mills, 2001