Bakers Of Dust And Cobwebs

Having come through the darkness of suffering, find a new place, of life. Understand in this work, it's value, and it's focus. But notice also, the flexibility of the process. The darkness exists, but there is light to be found.

Transcript

Listen for a breath,

Then two.

Hear that soft,

Subtle sound,

The wind gently drifting through the green aspen groves.

Step forward and feel the sweet soft loam beneath your toes.

Squish them into the soil as you take a third deep breath.

Settled,

Calm,

Confident,

Take another stride and begin walking between the pale white trunks and emerald green leaves.

See how they shift and sway,

Breeze pushing against them,

But unable to find real purchase.

Notice too how their roots twine together,

Melding into one another when they touch.

Remember how they are one organism,

Each shoot its own entity,

Yet melded into the greater whole.

Like you,

After a fashion.

One tiny piece,

Existent,

Distinct,

Yet part of this massive whole.

Take another deep breath as you stride along the gently curving forest path,

Feeling such supple bows occasionally caress you as they shift.

In the distance,

Note that there are brief signs of wildlife,

Glances caught only for a moment.

Here,

One of the narrow,

Thin-legged beasts,

Two of you tall but so slight they probably weigh no more than you do.

Soft gray fur blending into the white trunks,

They are skittish and hide the instant you see them.

Narrow,

Six legs tucked under the body,

They move in sudden springing motions,

Tall tapered ears catching even your approach.

They have good reason to be skittish here.

There are big brutes,

Massive hairy forms,

Plowing through the bows,

Able to snap one of the gentle foragers in half,

If they can be caught.

A long-standing dance of predator and prey.

That is not why you are here,

But the dance of life and death also brings memories.

Leave the elegant dancers to their plight and stride on until you reach the clearing.

Soft grass greets you and that gentle little home.

Notice how they have built it into a hill so that the top is level with the grass.

From another angle,

Without the windows and the little brick chimney,

You might not even realize it was a building.

Even the path you were on seems to fade away into the meadow growth,

The construction in tune with the natural landscape.

Pick your way carefully between the grasses,

Stepping on stones flat enough that they might have been placed intentionally,

Yet random enough they could just be headed in the right direction by chance.

The inhabitants would probably tell you both were true if you asked.

As you reach the small door,

Stone,

Notice how gracefully the hinges are hidden and as you pull the polished wood handle,

Feel how smooth every motion is.

This place is well cared for.

As you step down the stairs of the entryway,

Taken both the sights and the smells,

Coriander hits you first,

Then waves of lavender and green tea,

Followed by a subtle hint,

Almost a memory or a whisper of cardamom.

Wreathed in these scents,

Close your eyes and simply sit for a moment.

Breathe.

Opening your eyes,

See all the little figures scurrying to their tasks,

Maybe half your height,

With large round eyes,

Soft pale fur,

And broad heavy noses.

They have a stocky feline appearance.

None seem to take note of your presence,

Even as you wander in.

Watch as one kneads dough,

Pressing and rolling,

The entire body seeming engaged in the task.

Another twirls and shapes the substance,

After it has set,

Forming little braided ovals,

Maybe as big as your thumb.

Still more or further back,

Mixing flowers and herbs in a massive bowl,

A heavy wooden spoon used to stir the concoction.

On the other side,

The only source of internal light glows softly,

Faint embers emanating from a large low oven,

Smoldering wood,

Blending its heat to the creations,

Which two more forms carefully place on trays and load into the gentle maw.

Amongst them all,

There is a surveyor seeming to monitor the dough and its gentle rise,

And time the baking so that none burn.

Watch as two little figures carefully remove a tray,

Thick mitts protecting delicate hands,

As they settle it on the heavy wooden counter and begin to fan the dough.

Watch as it shifts,

Ever so slightly at first,

Then with a twisting and writhing motion,

See the little forms open,

Strong braiding separating into delicate wings.

Feeling for a moment,

The little forms shift and shiver before fluttering up,

All browns and grays with beautiful lavender eyes.

As the little things gain confidence in their abilities,

Watch as they drift and flutter before heading out the open window,

Tiny bodies alighting on blades of grass.

Eventually,

They will move on and settle into the trees,

But already another batch is coming from the oven,

And yet another is being prepared.

Step out onto the smooth stone,

Feel its coolness refreshing the warmth of the oven.

Carefully move forward around the counters and bowls,

Letting the bakers work.

As you stride,

Notice how meticulous they are,

Measuring every amount to the grain of flour,

To the drop of water,

And see too how focused they are,

Diligent.

As another batch shifts and stretches,

Preparing for their first flight,

Approach that unfinished sheet and reach down,

Gingerly lifting one of the unbaked biscuits.

Feel how soft the dough is,

Only slightly sticky.

Also notice that,

For the first time,

The monitor has taken note of you.

See how his gaze assesses and settles over you,

Considering you,

Your actions,

And the little piece of unfinished dough in your hand.

With a decisive nod and a quick motion,

Watch him rummage quickly,

Pulling out both pen and two types of paper.

Before you can object or even comment,

He has deftly snatched the unbaked item away from you and settled it in the darker shade of paper.

Carefully creasing the wrapping,

See how it flakes slightly,

Revealing its waxy nature.

On the other sheet,

He quickly jots down thoughts,

Then returns the package and note.

Smile,

Accepting the generous gift,

And note the baking instructions.

With this done,

Watch him turn back to his work,

The next batch already gathering its strength.

But rather than leaving out the window,

Notice how a few have settled on you,

Their multitude of tiny legs clinging tightly.

As you step out the door,

Returning to the woods,

Take a moment to watch the little forms releasing from your clothes and launching themselves into the night.

With a deep breath,

Step forward,

Your continuing path a guidepost for the newborn moths.

This has been bakers of dust and cobwebs,

Of the fatal neutrinos,

Stories of histories that weren't,

Futures that mustn't,

And places that cannot be.

This is also a blue path meditation.

Thank you for listening.

I hope your day is better,

Or at least more surreal for it.

This is Easton,

And remember,

I'm as much a work of fiction as anything you hear.

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Delightful journey