There is magic in the air.
Magic that moves through you with each deep breath.
Keep breathing.
Allow yourself to feel the gentle love of magic as it relaxes and enlightens you.
Stay with the feeling of magic as a welcome spell of serenity is cast upon you.
Draw in another breath,
And as you do,
Visualize yourself on horseback on a snow-white stallion trotting through the forest in spring.
After a few moments,
The horse slows to a walk and then stops,
As if taking in all of the life of the forest.
A canopy of trees seems to part and open into a vibrant green clearing with a large rock positioned in the center.
The rock is heavy,
With gray and white notches and valleys carved around it.
Tiny sprigs of grass grow at its base.
The rock is surrounded by people,
Men and women dressed in gowns,
Suits of armor,
And clothes of peasants.
Then you notice something odd.
Shutting up from the stone is a sword,
A gleaming silver sword.
Hear ye,
Hear ye,
Calls a man with a long dark beard.
Whosoever can remove it,
The sword,
Becomes the next ruler of the land.
The man continues.
Only the bravest,
Wisest,
And most loyal and compassionate will be able to remove the sword.
Still seated on your steed,
You watch patiently as many good men and women go to the rock,
Grab the sword with white knuckled hands,
And try to withdraw it.
But the sword would not budge.
After a while,
You dismount from the horse,
Lead her by the reins to a tree where you gently wrap the reins around the tree.
You pet her nose lovingly and rub her neck before moving closer to the crowd.
Three others try their luck,
But still no one has retrieved the sword.
You draw in a breath,
Deep and low,
And then step forward.
You,
Says the man with the beard.
Yes,
You reply with confidence.
Very well,
He says.
You draw in another deep,
Stabilizing breath and approach the rock.
Placing your feet against the bottom of the rock,
You reach up.
Then with both hands encircling the handle of the sword,
You gently tug.
Ever so gently,
The sword releases a few inches.
Gasps and claps rise from the crowd.
You nod to the crowd and reposition your footing so you can again reach and pull the sword.
Again it moves,
Slowly at first,
Until the rock releases it.
Cheers and claps erupt from the crowd as you raise the sword above.
There is a power in the sword.
An energy of magic.
And you know that this magic is now yours.
The man with the beard comes to shake your hand and to place a golden crown upon your head.
But it is the sword's magic,
Its promise of power for good,
That moves you the most.
You bow to the crowd and then find your horse and mounter and ride toward the sun.
With a crown upon your head,
A powerful sword in your hand,
And magic in your heart.
Namaste.
Beautiful.
Music by Ben Thede
