photo prompt: Sue Vincent
Saga, the Norse Goddess of Story wandered over the Icelandic plains. It was late winter and everything around her was surrounded in gloom. Saga herself was all of a dither for she didn’t know which way go or which stories to nurture. Things on planet Earth were going from bad to worse and so many of the stories people told each other were ending badly. Chaos was rearing it’s ugly head left, right and centre. “It’s all going to hell in a hand basket,” Saga muttered to herself.
Far in the east the first light of the returning sun glowed dimly. As it gathered strength landmarks began to emerge from the gloom. Directly in front of her Saga spied a signpost with direction markers pointing every which way.
“At last,” she thought. “I will be able to get my bearings and set a course of action.”
Eagerly she quickened step but as she grew close enough to read the signs she gave a world weary sigh. Some of the direction markers were blank. Others said things like ‘Going Round in Circles By-way’. ‘The Road to Oblivion’, ‘Back to the Past’ and ‘Dystopian Highway.’
“We need new pathways,” Saga said out loud for she knew the power of words. The light dawning in the east grew stronger and illuminated the blank signposts pointing into the misty voids and open spaces of the plains. Looking closely at the ground Saga could discern faint tracks running off into the hazy distances. Choosing the path of most light Saga strode out purposefully.
“I believe in the power of story,” she chanted as she walked. “Stories can bring light, hope and joy into the darkest places. Stories can create happy endings, miracles and magical outcomes. Stories can inspire and uplift. They can carry ideas.
The wind caught the words and carried them far and wide.
“I’ll sow some seeds,” Saga thought with a sudden flash of inspiration. Reaching into a cloth bag that dangled from her belt she gathered up a handful of seeds. These were seeds she had harvested from stories that had borne fruit – stories that had opened the way for new ideas, new inventions and new social movements.
With a wild wing of her arm she threw the seeds into the air. There they danced and shone in the light of dawn. Saga laughed and pulled out another handful of seeds and cast them forth. She repeated this action until her arms grew tired. “Go my darlings,” she cried gleefully. “Ride the winds until you find open minds and hearts that will cherish and nurture you. Grow into stories of peace, abundance for all, equality, environmental awareness, innovative solutions and new possibilities.”
An updraft of air warmed by the rising sun collected the seeds and carried them across the globe. A precious few reached the open minds and hearts Saga had longed for but many fell on barren ground.
Back on the Icelandic plain Saga grew weary. Storm clouds were gathering overhead. They threatened to block out the warming rays of the sun.
Shivering, Saga hunted through her bag for the last remaining seeds. Gathering them up carefully she carried them up towards her mouth on her open palm. Gently she breathed prayers for salvation and redemption onto the seeds. As they fluttered from her hand the wind gathered them and hurdled them into the misty void of the future.
“I believe in you,” Saga called after them. “Words have power.”