Withered Spaces

This is a meditation to allow you to move on, because you have to visit painful times in your past. There are memories which must be found, and walked through. Yet, with new, experienced eyes, you will often find those time of fear are now dwindled, left behind. Sharp relics to be assessed, and released. There are better places ahead.

Transcript

Breathe slowly,

Taking in that heavy,

Metallic scent.

As you raise your foot,

With care,

Intent,

Feel those little metal shavings clinging,

Just barely pricking your skin.

Settle yourself,

And stride again,

Each motion with deliberate slowness,

Careful to avoid putting too much weight on any given sprig of iron.

The rust here is noteworthy,

How omnipresent it is for so little moisture.

Inhale again.

Drawing in the scent of that corrosion.

And look around.

Notice first that almost blood-like flow against the bright white,

The stark iron on powder-like drifts.

Not snow,

But salt,

An ancient plane of the brittle crystals.

And through that desiccant,

Trace the paths of ruddy sludge,

Mostly dry now.

Some liquid once ran through here,

But it hasn't in a long time.

See all the little fragments of metal,

More remnants of the history of this place,

Scattered all about,

A world of sorrows now past.

As you stride,

Picking up speed on the open path,

Slowing when more shrapnel and carvings become collected,

Feel the rhythm of this space,

Those voids of open salt,

A natural state,

And the iron,

A slowly reclaimed moment,

Not frozen,

But vanishing at an infinitesimal pace.

What little water flows through here is only able to erode this pain so fast.

In the distance,

Far off on this great flat expanse,

Take note of the small bump looming in dark blue against the gray skies.

Just there,

It will be some time before you reach that mountain.

And then,

As you step once more,

Notice light rise,

Your feet angled to tread up ever so slightly.

In that ridge,

Hidden in the uniform white,

See the dropping arroyo before you,

Revealed suddenly as though appearing out of the air.

Follow the curves of that space,

And remember how this ancient stream bed flows all the way back to those distant mountains.

You have come this way once before.

And there,

Notice how much redder the ground is,

Cinnabar mercury blending with the iron rust,

A small trickle just barely flowing through the center of those banks.

Along the edges,

Take in the remembered cages,

Bars all along the sides and upon the top.

No escape aside from the small,

Heavy door on each.

Huge wheels along the base and massive couplings on either side once allowed them to be pulled.

And in them,

See the cruel wire,

Barbed and twisted,

Designed to hold something,

Someone.

Do not let your eyes linger,

But note how painful it would be to have been bound in those frames,

How brutal,

And see that other remembered detail.

There are no locks on any door.

There weren't any then.

There aren't any now.

A device of suffering.

But the wailing forms that had once populated this space had entered into those cages of their own volition and had stayed in that suffering of their own opinion on need.

Smile slightly as you take in that there are none left.

They have moved on.

They have freed themselves.

Having reached the banks,

Follow that flicker in the corner of your eye,

A motion behind one of the carts,

And see a lumbering form.

More impressive for a creature of this space,

It has noticed you.

It leers,

A tiny green head,

Two spiraling horns,

Yellow eyes and wicked needle-like teeth stare down from a heavy body,

Hidden in cloth wrappings.

With broad limbs,

Three thick fingers coming together,

It holds a staff in one hand and a lantern in the other.

This cloak is the most noteworthy,

As you remember it from the time you were here before.

Thousands of faces sewn together,

A blend of possible beings with eyes shut and lips sealed,

A cruel distraction to intimidate the figures whose cages it once rattled.

Now it considers you and gestures menacingly.

It's poking through the refuse unexpectedly disturbed.

See this gesture for the scared posturing it is.

Know that you are far stronger than it might hope to be.

You have nothing to fear from this scavenger.

Instead stepping onto the water,

Feel your feet lift,

Buoyant in the liquid of iron and salt,

Slide forward,

Drifting across the surface,

Upstream towards those mountains.

Slick,

Resistanceless,

Watch the small canyon slip by as you push off with one foot,

Then the other,

Each motion giving you just enough purchase to continue on,

Building momentum as you glide.

In those motions,

Feel how fast you move,

How nothing impedes you,

A freedom even in this barren place,

A lightness.

Then sudden,

A spinning,

A spiraling,

Carrying you out into a massive red lake thick with brine.

Let yourself twirl for a moment,

Then slowing,

Take your bearings.

The mountains loom close,

But they are not your true goal.

Instead,

See those two huge rods sticking out of the salt at an odd angle,

Two dangling cages above,

Giving them the appearance of mantis limbs.

Drifting your way to that shallow bank,

Notice that even at this distance,

You can see those cages are empty as well.

Striding onto the salt,

Feel how clear it is,

Abnormally so,

With the iron strewn about in the water,

Cleaned of debris by suffering hands so long ago.

Walking forward,

Find another memory,

That massive maw of rot,

Blackened metal,

A cross between some huge fish of the deep and a sinister insect,

All teeth and huge eyes.

Those merciless pits had once held flames and bled red liquid,

But they are empty now.

Pressing into the grains,

Striding comfortably,

Nothing biting at you,

Enter between those teeth and look around the canyon.

There,

To your left,

Taken the gaping black ovid,

Headed down,

An entrance to a brutally deep mine,

A painful place,

Now abandoned.

The cleared salt leads that way,

A false promise artificially maintained.

A promise that degradation through effort would somehow bring purity,

As empty a promise as the mines themselves are now.

To your right,

See that remembered building,

The swamp around it still visible in red,

But the waterline is much lower now,

The flow depicted as a mark on the trees.

Despite the bits of iron and steel increasingly noticeable underfoot,

Head towards that space,

Taking in the willows,

Forged and carved in twisted reflections of life.

Imagine almost capturing the appearance of true trees.

Delicate mosses spun of barely solid mercury and little silver bushes gleam occasionally,

The statuary of the false mire here.

As you tread between the trees,

Careful to avoid the blade-sharp limbs,

Notice how the water still flows back towards the lake you left.

Also feel how diminished this place is,

Exposed for what it has always been.

At the edge of the remnants of liquid and tree,

Find the house you remember,

Massive columns supporting a huge porch,

White stucco lined in red,

And a huge statue on its roof,

Features long eroded with time.

Walk up the seven steps and open one of the double doors,

Easily two of you high,

With care,

Respect.

As twisted as this place might be,

It is someone's home,

Even now,

And you are merely passing through.

Careful to wipe the red murk on the mat at the entryway,

Rough spun Cecil designed for this purpose.

Take a slow step in and feel the smooth,

Cool wood against your soles.

Shutting the door behind you,

Do not take the grandiose,

Weeping staircase before you.

Instead,

Turn left and wander through rooms of statuary,

Figures carved,

Perfections of form,

Most polished,

Mirror-like,

Impossible ideals that no living thing ever met.

As you turn right in that last room,

Come to the carving space and see the last resident of this place,

Still bellowing at servants it expects to appear,

Though they never do.

Watch it a moment,

The huge brown-green,

Toad-like form,

Wide teeth and bulging eyes,

Carefully studying its latest sculpture,

Clothed in a white tabard,

Mirroring the salt,

With rust-stained flows tracing down the cloth.

As it bellows again,

Note with sorrow that it is still as obsessed as it had been the last time you passed through here.

Walk past it,

Slowly,

Soft steps on well-worn floors,

Leaving it in its misery,

Before walking to that last room,

A tiny door behind the huge form.

As you gently open it,

Hear the thing behind you call,

Confused at the sound,

As though you might be one of the missing helpers it expects,

But it does not notice you.

Take in the oldest part of the building,

From before the iron and salt,

Smooth,

Slick stone,

Damp with splashes of clean water.

Simple as you stride up those stairs,

Find each foothold before you move on.

One step,

Then another,

Cool moisture such a relief after the bitterness of the plane behind you.

Finally,

Find yourself at that battered wooden door,

Added to block out what is here.

Reach to the iron ring used to bar it closed,

And find the lock broken open,

Rusted into never barring the space again.

Press against the battered,

Weak wood,

And find the grey sky above you once again,

A very different red pool before you.

As you step,

Feeling light in the water as you glide,

See the figures slowly corroding into nothingness all around you,

And take note of their incomplete features,

Their failings,

Their imperfections captured in iron,

But never permanent.

In the center of this pool,

See that remembered statue,

Feminine in form,

And three of you tall,

But worn,

Ancient,

Barely a memory.

In its hands,

There is a jar tilted and pouring,

An endless flow of water,

Clear,

Pure,

Ever tumbling down and mingling with the failed statues,

Turning to that deep red,

Then dripping off this building through the salt and iron.

Sliding up to it,

Let that clean water pour over you,

Removing the remnants of salt and metal,

Cool,

Unsullied,

Feel as it pulls away grime and regret.

Only then,

Carefully reach up and grasp the lip of the jar,

Lifting yourself.

Climb slowly,

Sure to let the water trickle over the bottoms of your feet,

Clearing any vestige of this place before you lever yourself into the flow from the masonry.

Stand slowly,

Water rushing past,

And breathe deep,

That moisture refreshing your lungs,

Grey sky behind you.

Stand a moment,

The primal purity of this place,

Giving you strength as you look forward into the long cavern from which this water flows.

Another deep breath in,

Out,

As you relish this moment,

Then begin to walk into that timeless space.

This has been Withered Spaces of the Fatal Neutrinos and 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.

Reviews

A poetic, surreal twist on guided meditation. I can’t think of anyone else on IT or elsewhere exploring this territory or technique, and I am eager to hear more.