Photo Credit: Scott Ingram Photography via Compfight cc
You’ve wandered down a street you’ve never seen before – not really even a street, more like an alley way. Cobbled, and burnished from many feet and wheels, the bones and back of the old city breaking through in this one spot.
This old time being of paths and doorways, who still remembers her youth, has brought you to this door, so heavy with the scent of jasmine, you could find it in the dark.
And indeed the days are dark now, though this doorway catches the sun as if with the power of the wild rich light of dreams.
In a chair next to the door, a man has a sketchbook, and sits drawing his open hand. He looks up.
“All the paths in your palm seek to return to the pulse in your wrist, just as all the rivers in the world seek the ocean. Every Spring, a door opens again. How many more times will it open? No one knows. Few more indeed for your kind.”
You stand there, not quite sure what to say. The man continues speaking.
“Behind this door beats the heart of the original human places. Which means the original wild places of course. The ancient invisible gardens of wasteland and wilderness, rich with food and comfort for those who have eyes to see. You take one berry from this faery feast and put it to your mouth, and no civilized food will ever satisfy you again. You will starve to death dreaming of returning to the feast table of these gardens. Or so the stories say now.”
The man shuts his sketchbook.
“I believe the stories once also said that when the famines of food and spirit swallow the cities and villages of the world, still the wild feast table will wait, in thorny green arbors, for the return of those who can find a different reason to live a human life in this world – besides to fatten and feed in death the gods and vampires of the imperial cities. Of this city.”
He looks into your eyes. You shift from foot to foot. Anticipation builds. You feel you must make a decision, this moment has a strange weight to it, a depth. The caravan prepares to leave and you tarry, fussing with your pack, half-intending for it to leave you behind. More quietly now, the man continues, almost apologetically.
“I leave it up to you – you must decide for yourself whether you have come to bless and receive blessing. I won’t dress this choice up for you, no seduction – indeed, those that seduce stand behind you, calling you back from this door. Ahead – rough and dirty, raw and real, but deeply soulful, awkward but sweet like a first kiss – only that can I promise.”
He stands. “The riders will mount soon. Their packs sit ready on their horses’ sides. Bags of seed and root dream of sweet grounds in which to find rebirth. You may stand there for a short while, I will wait, but if you leave this place you may not find this door again. One age has come to end, and another quickly begins.”
[this post is included in the Animist Blog Carnival (more info at http://lifthrasirsuccess.wordpress.com/animist-blog-carnival/) for March 2014 Animist Blog Carnival: Dreams]