8 Hours Of Mythology Sleep Stories

Keep the sweet dreams coming all night with this collection of tales inspired by world mythologies. Wander the halls of Asgard, the sunken empire of Atlantis, the peak of Mount Olympus, the tea house of Guanyin, the island of Medusa, and more. Finishes with a relaxing visualization exercise for deep sleep.

Music: Sense of Relief by Hanna Lindgren, via Epidemic Sound

Transcript

The way dawn breaks over the elegant curves and spires and mountains of Asgard, City of the gods, Is unmatched. Golden is the city at dawn, With shimmers of pink that light up the flecks in the stone from which the great palaces are built. And the deep blues of the waters are turned to holographic shifts, Brightened and darkened all at once. The leaves of the wood and the grasses of the hills dance in the light with moody hues. In none other of the nine realms of creation are such dazzling spectra unlocked at the stream of sunrise. You like to be awake before the sun comes hurtling across the sky for this reason. To watch the subtle and not-so-subtle changes that come over the land. To observe how each day, Each season, The play of color and light is ever so slightly different, Warmer, Cooler, Brighter, Deeper. You watch from your tower in your mother's palace, Overlooking her cherished meadows. Soon overhead, In hot pursuit of the galloping sun, Come the thunderous feet of Skull, The wolf. He chases the chariot every day with the same ferocious determination, And the sun goddess, Sol, Can only flee. The wolf's brother, Hati, Chases the moon each night in the same way. They are a fleet of foot, But always falter a few paces behind the celestial chariots. It is foretold that they will chase the sun and moon until the end times, Ragnarok, When they will at last catch up. From where you stand and watch, A hand raised to shield your eyes against the brilliance of the sun, Skull might be made of many thousands of droplets of dew, Each catching the light at a different angle and scattering countless tiny rainbows across the sky and meadow below. Indeed, They spill outward to touch all the corners of Asgard, Shining city of the gods, And splash over the waterfalls at its edges. Dawn has broken, And the day begins. You find your mother, Freyja, In the great hall, Already seated for breakfast. Blazing by her feet are her two well-loved and well-fed cats. Their bellies rise and fall with the sounds of overlapping purrs, Their blue-gray fur like clouds of smoke beneath the table. An amber jewel gleams at her neck, The necklace she never takes off. Her eyes sparkle as keenly as the gemstone when she sees you. There's bread and fruit and many delights on the table for your enjoyment. You dine with your mother, The radiant goddess of love and battle, And you bask in her tender devotion. Her days are often long and tiring, So these sweet and fleeting moments with her are precious. Many of the dwellers in Asgard dote on you, Being the youngest among them, But none so much as Freyja. When you've breakfasted, She bestows kisses upon you, Then retreats to welcome her guests. Each day she greets legions of those slain in battle, And chooses from among them the honored ones who will reside in bliss in her meadows. The rest are overseen by Odin, The All-Father, In his splendid hall, Valhalla. One of the gray cats bats playfully at your ankles as you rise to leave your mother's table. You lean down to scratch him under the chin, Eliciting more fervent purrs than before. You bathe and dress in your chambers, Then take leave of the palace. Wonders await every day throughout the god's golden city, And the doors of its many palaces are always open to you. On this morning, When the wolf who chases the sun appeared to you to be made of sparkling mist, You feel yourself called first to Fensalir. Its name means the Halls of Mist, And it is the dwelling place of the goddess Frigg, Whose husband is Odin. Her palace sits in balance over the shifting fens, Beyond the reedy banks where the wind sings. Always there is a rolling mist that hovers across the surface of the gray waters, And you must board a small skiff to steer yourself to her doorway. The mists part to let you through, And the doors of Fensalir are poised, Already open to welcome you. Frigg, Who is a goddess of magic and prophecy, Must have known you were coming. You find her seated, As you often do, Before the roaring hearth, Busy with her distaff, Spinning thread. Her fingers tug gently at the ends, Nimble and soft. Without looking up from her work, The goddess greets you and nods her head at a seat by the fire. In the deepest night of winter, Or on the brightest summer morning, This hall carries the same cozy, Enclosed energy, With an opal light as if from an artificial moon. It feels always outside of the cycles of time and nature, And it might always be midnight. The flames make shadows dance on the hearth and cast shifting lights on the opulent interior. You join Frigg, Taking your seat by the fire and taking up your drop spindle, Placed nearby in anticipation of your arrival. The goddess has been teaching you to spin wool, As you've shown some interest, Though your skills are far behind hers. More than anything, You like sitting with her and watching her work. You let the spindle drop and whirl beneath your hands as you twist the thread. Frigg smiles approvingly. For a while, You sit in silence, With the crackle of the fire the only sound in the cavernous hall. You watch as her hands deftly pull the even thread forth, Which shines like moonstone in the light. She might be spinning pure starlight, You think. Your thread is uneven and frayed at parts, But after all, You are only a novice. Frigg speaks and you perk up with bright attention, Eager to take in whatever wisdom she wishes to share. What do you know of the Norns, Child? She asks. You work to keep your fingers moving without stopping as you rack your memory. You've heard the word before, But you cannot call up its meaning. Before you answer, Frigg continues, As if she's read your mind. There are three maidens who reside near one of the roots of Yggdrasil, The great ash tree around which all the Nine Realms grow. They tend to the root, Drawing water from their well to nourish the tree and prevent it from rot. And these maidens are called the Norns. They shape the destinies of all living beings. And you know how they do this. You shake your head, Trying to maintain your concentration. They weave threads into a golden web of fate, Frigg says, Turning her distaff. Some threads are long, Some are short. Some can be strung across great distances without intersecting another. And some are tangled or twined so tightly with others, You couldn't pull them apart. You imagine such a web spun from gleaming golden threads strung across the branches of the giant ash tree. The goddess continues, This is why I spin, She says, For when I pull the twine forth, I am drawing from the Norns' well. Sometimes, In the thread, I can catch a glimpse of another's fate, Or read messages of what's to come. It's how I know you will achieve great things, Little one. I have seen it in the thread. You can feel your face flush. You continue to work with the drop spindle, And Frigg notes that your technique has improved. You wonder if you will ever spin as evenly as she, Or master the distaff, Or touch the source of prophecy within the thread as she does. For now, It is enough to soak up her wisdom by the light of the fire. When your lesson is done, You part ways with simple manners. You board the skiff once more and row across the bog through the parting mists. Emerging from the dim glow of Fensalir, Your eyes must adjust to the brightness of Asgard. The sun climbs high overhead now, With a sparkling wolf still nipping at her heels. You've been invited to dine with Thor and Sif today in their decadent palace, Bilskirnir. That wondrous hall, Fit with more than 500 rooms and adorned with countless golden gables, Lies not far down the path. When you arrive, You find a splendid place already set at the table for you. Thor smiles from the head of the long table, His wife by his side. You relay the regards of Frigg, Who is Thor's mother, As you take your seat. You've always enjoyed being in the presence of the couple, Basking in the incandescence of their love. Thor often tells stories of his hair-raising adventures in Jotunheim, The land of giants, Or in Midgard, The realm of humankind, While tossing back horns of ale. He is the god of thunder and strength, And his tales are likewise loud and bombastic. Sif, Meanwhile, Is quiet, Cunning, And kind. She communicates more solemnly, With an air of the same mystery you admire about Frigg. Her domain is fertility, The land and the crop, The fields of golden wheat that so resemble her glowing golden hair. In the afternoon light, Which streams in through the open windows of the hall, Her long, Long hair shines brighter than you've ever seen it. Each strand shimmers and falls with such tenderness that it might be spun from bricks of pure gold. You are reminded of the threads pulled from Frigg's distaff, And of those woven by the norns as they shape the fates of the living. Thor is uncharacteristically quiet for a moment as he bites into a chunk of meat, As if plucking the thoughts of golden yarn from your mind, Sif speaks. She wonders if you know the tale of her golden hair. You shake your head, You'd happily hear it. The married couple tell the tale in tandem. Sif was always known for her beauty, So enhanced and brightened by her long, Yellow hair. It was Thor's favorite thing about her, In fact. But one morning, Thor rose to find his wife's head completely shorn, Her golden hair taken from the root so that it might never grow back. There was only one soul in Asgard who could be responsible for such mischief, Of course. The trickster god, Loki. Sif was devastated, And Thor enraged, So he confronted Loki and forced him to have a replacement made for the goddess's gold tresses. Loki turned to his duplicitous friends, The dwarves, Who dwell in Svartalfheim and are skilled in the forge. And these dwarves did not want to create any treasure for the dwellers in Asgard, But Loki, Who is clever, Convinced them to do it by means of a trick. From this, Many treasures were made for the gods. For Sif, A headpiece strung with threads of spun gold, Which shone even brighter than her brilliant golden hair. For Odin, A spear that never missed in its aim, And a ring that would drip new rings every ninth night. For Freyr, Your uncle, A fine ship that could be folded up into his pocket when not in use. And for me, Says Thor, This. Here he retrieves from his hip the glorious hammer Mjolnir, Which he's never seen without. This too catches the light and sparkles, A thing both of combat and of blessing. The hour passes swiftly as Thor recounts his glories with Mjolnir at his side. You part with pleasantries, And you leave the hall agreeably full. A walk, You think, In the golden-leaved wood Glacier would do you well. The way the light hits the leaves at this hour is simply sublime, Bringing forth the reddish-gold hues and casting mottled shadows on the white bark of the trees. The leaves are as gold as the gleaming strands of Sif's hair, Or the threads of fate woven by the Norns. A fragrant breeze sweeps through the trees, Shuddering the leaves so that the forest sounds like it's breathing. You inhale deeply, Taking in the sweet scent of sap and fertile ground, And you exhale slowly. Your heartbeat softly slows to the rhythm of the forest. There's a halcyon tranquility to this grove at all times, Owing perhaps to its placement at the very border of Valhalla, Odin's glorious hall reserved for the victorious slain. Like your mother's field, It is a paradise. Most days, When you walk the sun-dappled paths of Glacier, You never come across another soul. But on others, You meet a wanderer from among the dwellers in Asgard, Today as you wind your way along, A voice comes, Soft and low, Singing through the trees. You know that voice. But before the singer steps forth from between the trunks, There comes a clatter of black feathers overhead, Landing on an outstretched limb are two great and glossy black birds. They shuffle from side to side on the branch, Blinking and angling their heads at you. The pair bring a smile to your face. Hello there, You say to the ravens, Ugin and Munin. Their master cannot be far behind. But there are further heralds of his presence. The next moment, Bounding through the trees come two great hounds, Resembling the wolves who chase the sun and moon, But playful as pups. They leap to your side, Sniffing at your feet and licking your fingers. The voice comes again, Not in song, But calling the names of the hounds. And soon after, The owner of the voice appears under the golden-leaved canopy. He is cloaked with a blue mantle and crowned with a helm bearing the shape of an eagle. A large staff he grasps in his hand as he walks. The dogs bound toward him, Their frantic energy calming slightly as they return to his side. His face softens into a warm smile when he sees you. He is Odin, The father of the gods and most revered in Asgard. You lower your head to acknowledge him, But he sweeps you into a grandfatherly embrace. How are you, Child? He asks. It's been some time since your paths crossed. He invites you to walk alongside him. The hounds follow a few paces behind, And the ravens join. One sits attentively upon Odin's shoulder, And the other soars overhead, Darting in and out of the trees. Where once you shook with nerves in the presence of such an admired god. After many such meetings in the serene wood, You feel at ease at his side. Like many of the Aesir, He loves you. After only a few moments together, You sense that something has changed about him. A silver patch is over his right eye, Which was not there before, But this somehow is the least remarkable shift. There's something deeper, Something in the way he speaks and carries himself that hints at a mysterious reckoning. You know he was away from Asgard for some time, And that his sons went traveling with him, But you know nothing more of what transpired during their absence. You hesitate, Then muster the courage to ask. Allfather, You say? What happened to your eye? Odin glances down at you, And a curious smile crosses his lips. One that contains great pride, Yes, But also some sense of regret, Perhaps. Like one who has gained great knowledge, And vaguely misses the bliss of ignorance. You walk under the rustling leaves of the golden-bowed glacier, And Odin tells you his story. It began when one day, His ravens returned from their daily flight throughout the Nine Realms, Bearing shadowy foreknowledge of challenging days to come. Aching to know more, Odin decided to seek the wisdom of the Norns who spin the threads of fate, And they confirmed the forebodings brought by the ravens, Giving shape to that which was once only nebulous shadow. The three wise women, Who have the knowledge of past, Present, And future, Gave Odin a glimpse of Ragnarok. A breeze tickles the back of your neck, And above the trees, You imagine you can hear the thundering feet of Skal, The wolf, Chasing the chariot of the sun. When he saw what he saw in the eyes of the Norns, Odin determined to make good use of that terrible knowledge. Begging leave of his wife and his sons, He put aside his eagle helm and his golden armor, And he donned a traveler's cloak and stick, And assumed the role of Wanderer God. He took to walking, And he met many strange folk on his travels through Midgard and Jotunheim. Wherever he went, He posed his burning questions about the coming darkness, But he could scarce find satisfying answers. At last, He traveled to the root of Yggdrasil, The World Tree, The one which is fed by the Well of Wisdom, And guarded by Mimir, The Wise. Now you come to the bank of a small pool, Which reflects the sparkling gold of the leaves. Your companion would rest here and let his dogs drink from the pool. You and the All-Father sit side by side on two great rocks, Watching as the hounds lap up the crystal clear waters. The ravens keep watch on a nearby branch. The story continues. Odin the Wanderer intended to drink from Mimir's well, Thirsty for its wisdom, But a price had to be paid for it. Thus, Odin gave his eye for the right to drink from the well, And he dipped his horn in the waters that feed Yggdrasil, And drank. I saw many things when I drunk of that well, Odin says, The whole of the future twisting before me in strands as fine as golden threads. I saw futures I would not trouble your head with, And I saw the end of all things. You watch as the dogs, Their thirst satisfied, Begin to wrestle playfully over a large stick. A few leaves fall lazily from the trees, Landing weightlessly upon the surface of the water and spinning in the breeze. And though much of what I saw brought me sorrow, Odin goes on, I felt, Too, The great weight of remembering, As if the events I witnessed unfolding many ages in the future were indeed my distant past, Or my dreams. I saw how the seeds of time grew into strands and branched in every possible direction, Becoming the roots and the branches of a great ash tree, Around which all the worlds shaped themselves. I saw the same tree aflame and breaking apart, But then I saw the ashes and the ruins of it, Sowing the seeds of its own renewal. I no longer knew any fear in drinking from the well of wisdom, Child, Because I came to see that the ending I feared was in fact the beginning, The origin. All that is to come is only an echo, A dream of the past. Ripples on the pool, Odin's words are more than you can fully comprehend, And yet they bring you immense comfort, As if your heart can understand them, Even if your head struggles to grasp. You sit together for some time longer, Contentedly watching the hounds at play. The same wise, Enigmatic smile lingers on Odin's face. Yes, You think, He is changed. He is Allfather, Wanderer, And Wise God. He sees more now with one eye than you can with two. The wood is peaceful as the light goes, Shifting the leaves from fiery red gold to a cool, Quiet brown. You leave the eldest of the gods there by the pool with his animal companions. He intends to stay a while and think. It was good to see you, Little one, He says, With tenderness in his voice. When you emerge from the wood, Evening casts its purple glow on the mountains and spires of Asgard. You ought to go home, You think, And have supper with your mother. But Odin's story buzzes in your mind and fingers, And you are not ready to return to Freya's hall just yet. There's one more place to visit, One more person to see. He waits there and watches. He is always watching. Because he is Heimdall, The watcher for the gods. He stays at his post night and day throughout all the seasons, Never sleeping, And only greeting other souls when they come and go from Asgard. So your company is always welcome at the gate. Heimdall is the warder of Bifrost, The rainbow bridge which connects Asgard to the world of men. He knows all who come and go from here, And he holds the stories of all the ages. Welcome, Little one, He says as you approach, Though he stands before the gate with his back turned to you. He can see for a hundred miles in all directions, He claims, And you wouldn't dream of arguing. Bifrost stretches out before him a curling ribbon of rainbow fire. It marks the edge of Asgard, City of the gods, And twists its way into the starry vastness of the universe, Wrapping round the trunk of the world tree. On Heimdall's hip is a horn, The Gjallarhorn. Like Thor and his beloved hammer, Heimdall is seldom seen without this instrument, Though you've never once heard him blow upon it. He will blow the Gjallarhorn once, At the end of all things. Ragnarok. Comes the echo of a memory. You can't recall who said such a thing to you. Odin? Frigg? Or your mother, Perhaps? Nor can you remember when you heard it, But the knowledge is there, Clear as a bell. Beside the gate and the threshold of Bifrost, There grows a great and gnarled branch of Yggdrasil. It is thick and sturdy enough to sit upon, And it's here that you recline when you come to spend time with Heimdall. You hoist yourself atop the branch and lean into its solid nooks. From here, You have a spectacular vista. You can look forth into deep swirls of sky and stars, Or downward following the twists and knots of Bifrost and the Ash Tree. This is the edge of everything there is. From here, All the adventures of Thor, Tricks of Loki, And grudges of giants and dwarves seem trivial. It's moonrise over Asgard. The sun disappears along with her pursuer. Another wolf, Ati, Emerges now, Chasing the shadow of the moon. You sit in silence beside Heimdall, Watching how the fiery hues of Bifrost seem to throw reflections against the curtain of night sky itself. Tendrils of green and white and violet twists, Feathered in the emptiness. A dance of whispered light. All the strange and wonderful stories you've heard today appear to shimmer there upon the velvet darkness. How funny you think that with every tale you take in, Though you surely know more than you did before, You seem to understand less about the nature of the universe. It's like a distaff spinning backwards, The tangible golden threads of the gods, Their fates and their stories unspool, Unravel with every telling into nebulous, Ungraspable fibers of light. This is what it feels like, You suppose, To be thirsty for a drink from the well of wisdom. Heimdall, You wonder aloud, What can you tell me of what came before? Before Asgard and Yggdrasil and all the Nine Realms? From the Watcher of the Gods there comes a swelling intake of breath, As if he's waited all his life for someone to ask this very question. After all, He is as old as time itself. Before Asgard, Before the Nine Realms and the gods and the dwarves and the giants, There was a great chasm, Ginnungagap, The Yawning Void. And in that chasm, Earth and sea and sky were all mixed, Together, With fire and ice as well. Therein lay the potential for all things. All it needed was a push. Heimdall tells of how Ginnungagap filled with ice, And when the ice met the fire, Sparks flew from the chasm, And thick mists poured out of it. In the meeting of the elements, Moisture froze and heated again and evaporated, Then fell as rain and dew, And from this dew was born Ymir, The Ancient Giant. He was the first being in the universe, And is the ancestor of all the giants. Ymir, In traveling through the wreckage of the void, Came upon a giant cow, And he drank her milk to make himself strong. One day, She began to lick at a cliff of ice, And from the place where she licked, Sprang forth the first heroes of the age, The ancestors of Odin and the Aesir. A great war ensued between Ymir's brood and Odin's fellowship, And Odin was victorious. From the body of Ymir, The primordial giant, The gods made the mountains and the skies and the forests. They made the moon, The sun, And the stars. And so came night and day. And Odin made men and women, And fashioned for them a realm of their own. Realms were made for the giants, For the dwarves, And for the gods, And they were bound up by the roots and branches of Yggdrasil. Did Odin create Yggdrasil too? You ask. Heimdall's eyes sparkle, Mysterious and kind as he turns to you. No one knows of a time when Yggdrasil was not growing. You soften into the crook of your branch, And a subtle warmth seems to radiate from it, This ageless tree of many wonders. Heimdall says, In the branches of the ash tree, High above our heads, Four giant stags graze, And when they shake the water from their horns, It falls as rain upon the realms. Atop the highest branch there sits an eagle, Who sees and knows all things, And seated upon the beak of the eagle is a hawk, Who sees what the eagle cannot. At the deepest root of Yggdrasil, Which burrows into the underworld, A fearsome dragon lies coiled. This dragon gnaws at the root each day, And between the root and the branches, Above and below, Runs Ratatosk, A mischievous squirrel. He carries messages between the realms, And in his mischief, He tells the dragon and the eagle lies about one another in the hope of provoking trouble. You've seen this very squirrel, You realize, From time to time, Scurrying up and down the branches of the tree that twist through Asgard. You had no clue he intended such devilry. Should we not fear the destruction of Yggdrasil, You ask earnestly. I think not, Heimdall replies. For now, The forces remain in balance. The wells that feed the other two roots of the tree are tended well, And nourish it greatly. And those wells are guarded by the most loyal warders, Mimir the Wise and Erda of the Norns. These names, Of course, Are familiar to you. Your mind traces a winding journey along the trunk of the world tree, And across the fiery rainbow trails of Bifrost. Your memory tiptoes along the golden threads of fate, And swings from the ends of Sif's golden hair. You chase the sun and moon through the darkening sky. When the sun rises tomorrow, Shedding golden rays across the mountains and rooftops of Asgard, The gods will still slumber, And spin, And feast in their splendid halls. Odin will wander still through the golden-leaved wood. Heimdall will still be watching, Waiting, The horn untouched at his side. You gaze out at the vastness of the cosmos, And strain your eyes to see the way Heimdall sees, Envisioning past, Present, And future. Yawning voids, Primordial giants, And cosmic cows. What great fortune you've had to grow up in the halls of Asgard, Where stories twine and unravel, And wisdom drips from the lips of your doting kin. All the yearning majesty of the place is made only more rapturous by the mystery of what lies beyond and before. The beginning is the end is the beginning, You think. No one can remember a time when the ash tree did not grow. Cradled in the curve of the branch, You watch the twisting shimmers of light until your eyelids become irresistibly heavy. The moon shines down, Washing Asgard in opals and blues. You are fast asleep in the glow of bifrost when your mother comes to collect you. She often finds you here when bedtimes come and gone. You stir softly in her arms, Opening your eyes just enough to see the gleam of the amber gem around her neck. She is carrying you home. The gods sleep. The fires burn in the forges of the dwarves. The squirrel runs gleefully up and down the length of the world tree. Four great stags shake the moisture from their antlers, Which falls as a mist over Asgard. Heimdall watches at the gate. Dew-kissed cypress scents the breeze, A fragrance so cool, Green, And cleansing, It seems to rinse your very soul. How clear the air is here, All these leagues and days of arduous travel from your home in Olympia. You've watched the countryside evolve as you've walked, Expanding and unfolding from the cramped, Clogged arteries of the metropolis to the sweeping, Breathtaking vistas and open landscapes. It's as if the external change has reflected in your own body too. With each step away from the city, Your breathing has become easier, Your head clearer. The city is an extraordinary, Stimulating place to live and learn. But there is value, You are coming to understand, In resetting amid mountain and forest. Breathing the salty, Fresh air of the sea, It feels like shedding your skin, Cleansing your mind and body. The cypress trees grow taller here than in the sparing groves of your home city. They have more space to stretch, And the sky seems higher. Some of the trees are so monumental that their spiral crowns dissolve into the low hovering mists of the morning. Soon you'll approach the site. Already your surroundings have the aura of sacredness. Your fingers tingle with anticipation and the dizzying flutter of hope. You are not the first to make such a journey. Pilgrims like you travel from all over the world to visit the Asclepion, The healing sanctuary of Asclepius, God of medicine. The temple welcomes supplicants who seek relief from physical, Emotional, And spiritual ailments. You've heard stories from such pilgrims on their return to Olympia of miraculous healing waters, Cleansing potions, And transformative dreams. For too long you held off on making the journey yourself, Convinced you had too many obligations in the city, Or that you would not experience the same healing as others. You went on doing your work, Making your offerings at the temple of Zeus, And thanking the gods for the modest comfort of the life you live. Gratitude is one of your foundational principles, And it keeps you grounded in the good fortune you've known. But always, You've wondered what it would be like to feel relief from that which ails you. The first step of any journey is always the hardest to take. To leave the city and your loved ones behind, Even for a little while, Knowing the length and arduousness of the voyage took enormous courage. Yet with every step you take nearer to this sacred site, The more refined your intentions become, The more ardently you affirm that you've made the right decision. As the sun breaches the mists, You overcome the gradual crest of a hill, And your breath catches in awe. Here you have the first glimpse of white marble and limestone, And a spectacular elevated view of the entire complex. There are glittering green spaces, Shining streams, And a network of curved walkways between buildings. You can even see, Like little specks from this distance, People milling up and down those walkways, Some under the shade of healthy pines. Pilgrims and priests, You suppose. It's like a city in miniature, You reflect, With its structures and avenues. But there's a freshness and openness about the complex that's unmatched in the cramped and crowded streets of Olympia. This is a place designed to integrate seamlessly with the natural landscape, Its curves effortlessly echoing the slope of the mountains, And the whole place surrounded, Enclosed by towering trees. You are ready. You begin to move slowly down the other side of the hill, Where a rough path emerges, Guiding you toward the gates. Shrubs and trees grow sparely along the path, Richly scenting the air. The massive marble gates are within reach. But there is something ahead in the path, What might be a simple pile of stones, Or a rudimentary shrine. As you approach, You discover that the obstruction in the path is in fact a modest well. You peer over the edge and catch your reflection, As well as the sparkling suns in the water. There can be only one explanation for its placement at such an auspicious spot. So you reach a hand into the well, Wet your fingers, And gently touch your forehead with the cool water. You utter a short prayer to Asclepius, Asking that he grant you entry and healing in this holy place. The simple gesture is an initiation of sorts, An act of delineating the profane outer world from the sacred ground upon which you are about to step. In asking for blessing from the well and the site's patron, You have cleansed and prepared yourself for entry. Already, You feel lighter, Softened somehow. You move forward. And now, At last, You reach the gates. They almost gleam in the lengthening morning sun, As majestic as the ceremonial gates at the temple of Zeus, And for all you know, Of Athena, Which sits on the Acropolis in Athens. There are dazzling columns, Some unadorned, And others topped with decorative acanthus leaves. You climb the steps and pass through the arches, Briefly moving under their shade and into the sunlight once again. You have arrived. A sigh of relief escapes your lips at the promise of rest and healing. The environment within the gates is undoubtedly serene. The mountains beyond fade into a comforting ridge of bluish-gray, And birdsong dances on the breeze. You're quite sure you can hear the dulcet strains of a harp coming from somewhere, But you're unable to identify the direction. A youthful, Modestly robed man is coming down the path toward you, A warm smile across his face. He greets you with words of kind welcome and extends an arm toward you, Which you take, Grateful for the support after your long journey. You learn that the young man, Lukos, Is a physician, And that he'll gladly guide you through the Asclepion. There's much to experience, But it's best done at a slow pace as you begin your journey. Lukos sees to it that the few belongings you've carried with you are safely taken to the dormitories. Very soon, He insists, You'll have the opportunity to rest and recover from your travels. But first, A visit to the Temple of Asclepius is the first ritual pilgrims are expected to undergo. The temple stands not far from the complex gates and is hewn in the same marble and limestone. Flanked by a cypress grove, You find that its stately columns and delicate ornamentation rival the elegance of the Olympian Temple of Zeus. Lukos helps you climb the steps and enter the temple, A quiet and unoccupied space. Central, And lit from beneath by dozens of candles, Is a sculpture of the god himself, Larger than life. His bearded face is kind, You think. This is evident, Even hewn from ivory. Robes, Richly pigmented with gold, Hang on his shoulders, And he leans on a sturdy staff. Around this staff is twined a golden serpent. This symbol of the snake wrapped around a rod is synonymous with the god of medicine and recognizable across the known world. Your heart softens to think of the journey you've made to get here, How grateful you are to be welcomed to such a place. Lukos must have seen your eyes traveling along the serpent coil because he says, Do you know how Asclepius came to bear that staff? Though you know this symbol by sight, You do not know the tale. Lukos explains, He was the son of Apollo, The most honored god of prophecy, Healing, And the arts. The young Asclepius was a gifted and miraculous child. He learned much from his divine father, Of course, But spent much of his training in the care of this centaur, Chiron. From Chiron, Who also taught the greatest of the Age of Heroes, He learned the art of medicine, And the knowledge of the secret potions and poisons of the natural world. Asclepius looked with fondness and curiosity on all creatures, But none with more kindness than the snake who sheds his skin. He once showed mercy to a snake, Rescuing it from attack, And in return for the kindness, The animal whispered medicinal secrets in the god's ear. It then twined itself around Asclepius' rod of cypress and became his constant companion. You wonder what secrets the serpent might have shared with the young Asclepius, What mysterious knowledge it held, And you ponder the poetic significance of the creature. Anything that sheds its skin, Revealing a fresher, More youthful self beneath, Must easily be seen as a symbol of rebirth, Or resurrection. Unlike a serpent nibbling at the end of its own tail, A circle with no beginning or end, You come seeking the prolonging of life and the refreshment of your health. From his youth, Asclepius went on to heal the sick, Perform extraordinary cures, And even bring the suffering back from the brink of death. He became a greater healer than his teachers, Chiron, And his father Apollo, But most importantly, He was generous with his wisdom. Asclepius and his children, Gods and goddesses of healing, Taught mortals of the medicinal uses of plants and potions. They let the healing springs bubble up from the earth. They planted in us a curiosity and a will to experiment, And they speak with us still through the natural world and through dreams. Before embarking on your pilgrimage, You knew that you would be expected to make an offering at the temple of Asclepius. Even now, You see a dozen or more small, Clay votive offerings scattered at the feet of the statue. They are each in the shape of a human attribute. An ear, A hand, An arm. Each a representation of the feature a visitor hopes for the god to heal. With a few words of muttered prayer, You kneel before the statue and place your own votive offering, Representing that part of you, Inside or out, Most in need of healing. It feels cathartic to lay such a thing at the feet of the gods and the physicians of this place After your visit to the temple, You are led to the dormitories, Where there is time to rest and recover from your journey. Fresh fruit and wholesome foods are brought to you, And a healthy meal restores some of your strength. Your official program begins tomorrow. Until then, You are welcome to sleep, Explore the grounds, Or spend your time as you like. You are grateful for the respite, As eager as you are to take advantage of the many wonderful things the Asclepion has to offer. However, You have a feeling that a slow-paced introduction will be the most restorative way to ease into your new surroundings. So, As the afternoon wanes, You relax in your private quarters, Drifting nearer and nearer to the edge of sleep, Listening to the buzz of cicadas outside the window. A low breeze soon brings the scent of jasmine flowers at the onset of evening. You decide that a stroll through the grounds will do you good before turning in for the night. The pastoral charm of the Asclepion and its surroundings are heightened by the sparkling halcyon of the sinking sun. All the countryside, The mountains, And the forests are bathed in gold and purple shimmers. You walk along the avenues under pine and cypress, Which twist about the complex. There are smaller temples on the way, One dedicated to Artemis, Goddess of the hunt, And a sanctuary of Aphrodite, The radiant goddess of love. Her statue, Which you can glimpse from the steps, Is painted with the most luxurious hues. The empty amphitheater, Romantic and haunting at this hour, Rings back the echo of your footfalls. Can you imagine the kind of revelries that might take place here? Grand, Extravagant festivals dedicated to Dionysus, As in the great cities. Or quieter gatherings, Where delicate strains of music waft through the complex, Bringing restorative vibrations to the pilgrims. And slowly, And deep in contemplation, You return to your quarters, Lingering here and there to watch the dance of a moth, Or take in the scent of jasmine and pine. By the time you reach the dormitory, The sun has disappeared behind the mountains, Leaving only a thin crest of crimson along the ridge. The moon, Meanwhile, Waxes across the sky in her silver chariot. You sleep comfortably, And you dream that your bed becomes the cup of a crocus flower, Its saffron threads brushing your face and hair. Those golden threads turn to amber sunshine, Gently sweeping across your cheeks as you stir. You awaken, Feeling a heaviness in your limbs that must be the sinking in of your many days of travel. How beautifully the body persists when in the middle of a long journey, Men entirely surrenders at the journey's end. Attendants bring a nourishing breakfast to your room, Along with a pitcher of the cleanest, Purest water you've ever drunk, Surely captured right at the bubbling source of a spring. You feel energized, Ready to begin your day. So much remains unknown, But you find Lukos, The warm and welcoming guide, Awaiting you when you leave the colonnaded shelter. For all visitors to the Asclepion, You learn, The first full day consists of various activities intended for purifying the mind and body. This is to prepare you for the culmination of your stay, A process known as incubation, Through which the god Asclepius or one of his children will visit your dreams. In this somnolent encounter with the divine, You will receive therapeutic wisdom and instructions for your healing journey. This morning, The complex is considerably more bustling than it was on your moonlit stroll last night, But there is a serene, Dreamlike quality about the place. Other pilgrims, Priests, And physicians move around the grounds with an effortless ease, As if they float, Dancing on the aromatic atmosphere. Lukos escorts you to the bathing house, Where a cleansing bath will be prepared for you. You enter a private chamber decorated with columns and friezes depicting the tales of Asclepius and Apollo. There is a basin at the center of the room. Steam rises from the water that fills it, Carrying the fragrance of bay laurel and lemon balm, Along with other scents you can't identify, But are immediately both pleasing and clarifying. Left alone, You descend the limestone steps into the bath, Feeling your skin prickle as it meets the heat of the water. You sink into the herb-infused bath, Breathing deeply of the aroma and letting your gaze become soft. The steam from the surface ripples across your eyeline, So that when you look upon the marble frieze opposite you, It's almost as if the three-dimensional pictures move, Playing out the stories of the gods. You can see the grateful serpent twining itself round the rod of Asclepius, Chiron the centaur cultivating medicinal plants, Apollo teaching his mysteries to the priestesses of Delphi, The daughters of Asclepius. You recognize Hygeia, Goddess of hygiene, Panacea, Goddess of cures, And Acheso, The goddess of the healing process, Among others. You soak there in the purifying bath, Letting the oils from the herbs open your pores and moisturize your skin. With each deep breath you take in, You feel your capacity for breath increase, Your strength improve. And with each long, Slow exhale, You feel the ache and soreness of travel dissipate, Leaving your body a little bit at a time. Your mind undangles, Too, Like the knots in your muscles. You find yourself releasing, Little by little, Your fears, Your worries, Your regrets. You're here, Now, Centered and fantastically relaxed. You're not sure how much time passes as you soak. The water never seems to lose its heat, And instead your body equalizes to its temperature, So you hardly know where you end and the liquid begins. You are able to let go, Soften completely, And melt into the purifying water. But the time does come for you to be collected, And though you're reluctant to leave the bath, Your cheeks flushed and mind at ease, You feel a sense of sublime trust in the whole process. You are robed in finer garments than you typically wear, Clean, Fresh textiles that feel soft and comforting against your skin. Glucose brings you out into the grounds, Where the sun is high and bright. He shepherds you into the communal dining hall, Where a midday meal is served to all the pilgrims to the site. Here the atmosphere is cheerful, Yet subdued, As all your company are similarly engaged, In quiet, Relaxing activities. You spend the day moving through various stages in the purification rite, Listening to the music of a harper in the theater, The soft breeze tickling the back of your neck, The moment of prayer at the temple of Artemis, An hour seated beneath a towering cypress in the grove. This, Somehow, Is the most moving activity of the day. With your back against the sturdy trunk of the tree, The fluttering melodies of birdsong in your ears, And the bright aroma of the forest awakening your senses, You feel deeply supported by the tree and by the soft earth beneath you. With your eyes closed, You seem to absorb the tree's subtle vibrations, Which manifest as vague, Seemingly disconnected messages that sound in the depths of your soul. Bend, Says cypress. Thrive. Reach. Burrow. Be wild. Embrace solitude. Carry the torch. Heal. When you leave the grove, It's bittersweet, But you carry a new charge of energy, As if the tender touch of the tree restored you in some way. Now the day is passing swiftly into purple dusk. Only one more rite of initiation awaits, And you'll be taken to the Abaton, The Dream Sanctuary. There, You'll sleep and await a visit from the gods. Down the winding path of pines, Under the emerging stars you go, Following your torch-bearing guide to a central rotunda. Once you enter the structure through its decorative archway, You move through the curves of the corridors, Turning here and there, Traveling deeper into the center of the building. It is like a labyrinth, You think, And your mind blurs at the edges, Surrendering to the inner path's intricate patterns. At the center, Or what feels like the center, Is the sanctuary, A chamber made for rest. It is simple and unadorned, At least, That's how it appears. The torchlight of your guide is the only illumination within. There is a bed at its center, This also without ornament, But made up with blankets and cushions that look marvelously inviting. Soon you're left alone, The torchlight dwindles as its bearer departs, Leaving only a gentle spill from the doorway. And soon, This is gone, And there is darkness, Still and reassuring. You climb into the bed, Making yourself as comfortable as possible under the covers. Here, At the heart of the sanctuary, You might be at the very center of the world. The day's activities hum in your fingers and toes, Your whole body relaxes into place, Your eyes flicker closed, And the darkness of the sanctuary gives way to the canvas of your imagination. You can see the steam from the bath, The wind through the pines, The fallen leaves of cypress. You can only hope that you are visited this night, Like so many others, By the god of medicine, Or one of his sons or daughters. But already, In such a beautiful, Natural place, You have felt the strong hand of healing upon your heart. Something in you has already been restored. With steady breaths, And mind open to whatever awaits beyond the sleep threshold, You let yourself drop down, Level by level, Into sleep. There is a lake, And you are standing on the shore, Among the tall evergreen trees. You might be one of the trees. A mist plumes over the surface of the water, And all is green and grey. Beneath a cloud-muddled sun. You look down toward your feet, But instead of feet, There are only roots, Exposed over the earth. In the gaps between them, Little crocuses bloom, Violet, Yellow, And white, Each opening to show the golden threads within. A wind rises from behind you, And you feel your body quiver and bend, Then settle, Stronger than before, Into place. It's a strength and resilience you're not sure you've ever known. You stand tall, Feeling your feet in the earth, And your head in the sky. You reach out with your fingertips to enjoy the breeze through them. The mist over the lake rolls endlessly onward, And ripples stir in the blush and blue surface of the water. You can hear quiet footsteps from somewhere, But you haven't much will to turn and look to discover who's coming through the trees. You're comfortable in the knowledge that they'll show themselves eventually, And that they are a friend. The sky lightens as the clouds shift, And soon, The mystery footsteps draw nearer. She comes into view, A maiden in grey robes with long, Auburn hair. Atop her head is a crown woven from herbs and flowers. You recognize the blue-green leaves of sage, And feathery yellow flowers of alicampane. She carries a pitcher under one arm. The maiden kneels at the shore of the lake, And lowers the pitcher to fill it with water. Then she rises, And turns to face you. Her eyes are lovely, And kind, And familiar. Her presence warms you, Seeming to tinge the skies and mist with an edge of violet. She comes closer and places her free hand against your heart. You're reminded of the sensation of sitting against the cypress tree, And a restorative, Mind-opening tranquility washes over you. And with it, A series of messages. You understand, Innately, That the maiden is Akeso, A daughter of Asclepius, And goddess in her own right, But her domain is unique. She is not the goddess of miracle cures or medicines, But of healing and recovery as a lifelong process. She is not the cure, But the curing. She is the catalyst, The agent, The initiator. And you, With your feet in the ground and your head in the sky, Are equal participant in the journey of healing. The goddess tips her pitcher slowly, Allowing the lake water to fall over your feet, Your roots, Which soak it up like a healing elixir. You look down to see the crocus flowers open wider, And moss grow over your roots. You feel strong and soft, At ease. You thrive, Feeling the water rise through your roots and into the trunk of your body, Easing pain, Tension, And soreness away. You look up to your hands, Which reach skyward, And you see, Instead, Branches and deep green sprays of foliage. You sense the spiral twist of your body, An ever-reaching, Ever-rinsing stance. And where the goddess's hand touched you, There is a spark of tender warmth. She stays with you, Watching the mists roll over the lake. You understand that she will remain with you when you wake, And through every step of the healing journey that begins in the morning. You know there will be challenges, But for the first time in your life, You feel resilient enough to face them. With the goddess by your side, You will come to alchemize pain and grief into beauty and endless gratitude. The wind comes again. You bend, Soften your body, And find a comfortable position where you can be still for a while, On your way to sleep tonight. Take in a deep breath, And let that breath flow into all corners of your body. Lighting up the muscles and joints. Feel the scalp and temples open. Release all tension, Pain, And discomfort leaving the space of your head. Unfurl your brow, Feel yourself opening up. Soften the muscles of the face, The mouth. Unclench your jaw if you're clenching, And replace tightness everywhere with softness, Consciously releasing. Feel how relaxing the muscles of your jaw and temples releases all other parts of the body, And how all is connected, One system all together. You might find an intention, Or a mantra now. A few words to hold to as a deep resolve. Say it to yourself, Out loud or in your mind. In the present tense, As if it's already true. If nothing comes to mind, You can use, I walk the path of healing. Say your mantra to yourself, Three times, In your mind or out loud. Then, Let it go. The muscles of the neck and shoulders release, And soften. Letting go of tension, Discomfort, Pain, Anything that hurts or strains, Let go. Release and soften your shoulders and the muscles connecting your shoulders to your neck, Your arms and your back. Bring your awareness to your chest, To the space across your heart and ribcage. Let the breath feel the lungs and the belly. Surrender to the natural waves of your breath, Each inhale sending healing energy to all corners of the body, And each exhale carrying away stored tension, Hurt and worry. Let your heart feel light. Let healing energy radiate from within your heart, In and out with the breath. If your heart is hurting, Be gentle with it. Breathe and trust your heart. Know it sustains you and carries all your potential for love and deep, Deep feeling. Cherish it. Feel the muscles of your arms soften, And feel the joints of your shoulders, Elbows, Wrists, And fingers become loose and fluid and smooth. Now send the healing breath to the individual joints, Carrying any pain or stress from the joints out on your exhale as though you're clearing away cobwebs, Sweeping them outside. Let them go. Now send the healing breath into the belly, Releasing any pain or discomfort or worry. If anything is tying your stomach into knots, Let the breath gently loosen that knot, Unfurling it like the bloom of a crocus, And sweeping away the cause, Letting it ride out on the wave of your exhale. Let the healing breath flow into your back, Untangling the points of tension, Relieving the pressure, And exhaling any negative emotions that may cause you to strain. Send the breath and healing energy into your pelvis and legs, And soften the lower abdomen. Acknowledge any pain you may feel in the pelvis. Breathe into it. Breathe into the hip points, Into any tension, Tightness, Or strain in the hips, And as you send the breath to soften that space, Recognize and release any emotions or vulnerabilities stored in the hips or hip flexors. Carry those emotions out on the wave of your breath. Soften and release the thighs, And breathe healing into the joints of the knees, Recognizing how much your knees bear. Thank them, And let them soften. Embrace relief. Breathe and exhale negativity, Pain, Discomfort. Breathe into the lower legs and ankles, Sending any strain out by clearing out cobwebs, Making way for constructive connections, And rejuvenation. Breathe into the soles of the feet, And feel any soreness or exhaustion melt. Send healing breath into the joints of the toes, Waves of healing in, Waves of negativity out. Return to your mantra if you set one. Repeat it once more in your mind, And let it go. Let the breath flush through the body, Rinsing from the top of your head to the tip of your toes, And radiating outward from the sweetness of your heart, Where the goddess's hand touched you. Breathe, Soften, Rinse. May your dreams tonight be the first step in a journey of healing. Blessed be. Clouds scud sweetly over the forested mountains, Low and thick, Settling in a mist just over your head. The moisture in the air is cool, Nourishing, And tinged with the scent of florals and evergreens. It's an exquisitely peaceful morning, One serenaded by the breeze. By birdsong, And the soft rushing of leaves in a quiet wind. Though the air gets thinner as you climb the mountain trail, Clutching walking sticks and carrying heavy packs, The bright aroma of white pine seems to invite you to breathe deeper, More fully. Eleanor is marching a few paces ahead, Often lifting her gaze to marvel at the height of these trees. You find yourself doing the same, Admiring the majesty of them. But equally alluring are the abundant yellow azaleas that bloom along the path. You feel as though you might be the only two people out here, Traversing this forested mountain path. Your only company, The native flora and fauna. And that thought is oddly beautiful, Whether or not it be true. For years, You and your friend have dreamt of taking this trip, Traveling across the globe together to explore some of the great natural wonders of the world. And already you've witnessed marvels. Deep caverns that ring with unexpected harmonies, Run through with veins of crystal, Vast cliffs over storm-swept seas. But this excursion in particular feels like moving through a fairy tale. It's musical and bursting with wildlife. You have a full day hike planned on a trail that steepens gradually through the dense and magical forested mountain. Birds hum in the trees, Their restless wings causing a rustle here and there. You can hear the whispers of streams running by, As all the snow has melted from the higher elevations. Now Elinor stops just before you, Turning around and holding a finger to her lips. There's a light in her eyes that excites you. You quiet your footfalls and come to stand just behind her shoulder. She gestures through the trees ahead. At first you aren't sure what she points to, Other than the lusciously blooming azaleas which have flanked so much of the path you travel. But your eyes search the patch of trees, And you stifle a small gasp when they settle upon the object of Elinor's interest. Snuggled together on a thick pine branch, Just visible through the spare brush of needles, Are a pair of monkeys with thick, Grayish brown fur. They look to be a mother and baby, The smaller of the two burrowed deep into the chest of the larger, And apparently asleep. But the mother locks eyes with you, Holding her baby close. Her face is so serene, And her eyes so expressive. You are simply enwrapped at the tranquility of the scene. The mother shows no fear at your presence, And you maintain stillness as best you can to avoid giving her any cause for alarm. The baby gives a soft cooing noise and wriggles against the mother's breast, Then settles in again. You watch the pair in silence for a good several minutes, Moved by the peace they express, How clearly you can see the affection between them. At last, Elinor reaches for your hand and gives it a little squeeze, Indicating that she's ready to move on. You squeeze back in affirmation, And with slow movement and gentle footsteps, You continue up the mountain trail. You stop around midday for lunch, As the sun slices through the lingering mist high overhead. You find a cluster of large rocks that make for perfect seats, And pull prepared sandwiches from your packs. There's still a ways to go before you reach the end point on your map of the mountain, A plateau with dazzling vistas of the surrounding range and valleys. Though it's been a mildly strenuous hike, And you're ready for the moment's rest, You find yourself more energized than fatigued now. The freshness of the air and the invigorating aroma of the trees and flowers have created a spaciousness within you, An openness to the experience, And a loosening of the muscles in your body. You feel capable, Aware, And endlessly peaceful. Replenishing what energy you've expended with a light and nourishing picnic, You and Elinor revisit the map to see what's in store. The path appears to get slightly steeper as you go, Following the curve of a wide spring, But it shouldn't be long before you reach the scenic lookout point. Your hunger satiated and body sufficiently rested, You pack up your canteens and prepare to hit the trails once more. There are more wildlife sightings along this leg of the trail. Before you even reach the spring, Whose melody laughs not far off, You catch the flash of a fox's tail through the trees, And many brilliantly colorful birds cross your eyeline, Darting in and out of the branches. You make mental notes of their coloring and demeanor, Intending to consult a field guide the next time you stop. The mist thickens even more as you ascend, Catching soon the curve of the stream. Its water bubbles and gurgles playfully alongside the path, Such clear running water you can't remember seeing in your life. Pure snowmelt, Mingled with the freshness of a mountain spring. You and Elinor pause to dip your hands in, Cupping them to capture a bit of the water to taste. It is cool, Crisp, And deeply refreshing. Until now, You have followed the little green line on the map faithfully, But as you sway with your pack in the sweet melody of the mountain stream, Both you and Elinor find yourself less compelled to revisit the folded pages. The trail diverges at intervals, Leading off into other wooded directions. But you keep to the trickling water, Trusting it like a sage guide. The time passes and your body and mind slip into a lulling rhythm, As if you become one with the wind in the trees, The trickle of the water, And the songs of the birds. The trees grow taller and more dense, With the azalea brush thinning out the higher you climb. For the first time you notice the thinness of the air, And you adjust your pace to maintain your breath. At a curve in the stream, You and Elinor agree to take a short rest before continuing just to catch your breath. There's a great fallen pine tree on the side of the path, Its uprooted base all green with moss and lichens. You take seats along its trunk, Pulling out your canteens to rehydrate. You joke about how much the early stages of the hike had you lulled into the sense that you could take on anything, Only to surprise you with the steepness and thinning air of this final leg. But there's nothing but joy and optimism between you. Though the journey gets tougher, You're confident that you can make it to the lookout, And the views will be all the sweeter for the difficulty of the climb. You are just packing up again to continue when Elinor nudges you on the arm and points toward the top of the trees. You hush your voice and look up, Wondering if she has, Again, Spotted a rare example of the mountain's extraordinary native wildlife. But it's not an animal or other organic form she points to. It's a spiral of smoke just above the dizzy pines. You wonder at the keenness of her sight, For its billowing whiteness blends almost seamlessly with the clouds of mist. But its movement and unseen origin confirm it. It's coming from someplace, Through the trees. You're not alone on the forested mountain after all. You consult the map again, Scanning over it for tourist centers, Residences, Or even temples you might have missed in your first perusals. Perhaps you've wandered onto a different trail, You suggest, Though the placement of the stream suggests you're still on track, And no man-made landmarks are noted along the way. You and Elinor share a glance. All these years of friendship have done nothing if not instilled in you a kind of secret language, A shared vocabulary of word, Gesture, And expression. You can see instantly in her eyes the same insatiable curiosity as what's bubbling up inside you now. This very trip was born from a desire to visit off-the-beaten-path places, Discovering wonders most never dream of. Whatever it is that's producing the white smoke here in the middle of a gloriously peaceful preserve, That is a mystery worth investigating together. Without a word, You fold up the map, Store your canteens, And set your gazes on the density of woods. Together you step away from the trail, And into the towering pines. On the other side of the stream, The light has a pinkish quality to it, Perhaps the sun falling through the mists at a new angle and reflecting off the flowering shrubs. It gives the forest an even more enchanting favor. Your footsteps are more cautious as you navigate around exposed roots and uneven terrain. Your walking sticks help keep you balanced. And soon, You come near the source of the mysterious white smoke. You can see the tendrils wafting nearer the ground than before. Do you see that? You whisper to Eleanor, Indicating a gap in the trees ahead. She nods. There is, You can just make out, A structure in the woods. Deep crimson, Gold, White, And black shine through the pine boughs. You and Eleanor continue on cautiously, And you feel a sense of awe creep over you. Whatever this place is, Uncharted by the map, Hidden here in the depths of the forest, You sense it is a place of powerful energy. The closer you draw, The more your senses waken. A mystifying scent fills the air, One achingly familiar but unexpected in the middle of nowhere. Earthy, Green, Uplifting. It tugs at your mind, Tempting you to identify it. Finally, You come through the trees, Together, To stand beneath the full splendor of the hidden structure. What rises before you is a modest-sized, Yet ornate and decadent building, Richly gabled in golds and greens with a scarlet gate and many balconies. It is a dazzling sight, At once surprising and also organic, As if it has arisen naturally from the forest. You look to the foundations of the structure, Which blend and entangle with the roots and soil beneath. Between the gate and the building itself is a formal garden. From here, You can see the glisten of a pond, Surrounded by azaleas, Yes, But also orchids and peonies, If you're not mistaken, And precisely pruned cypresses and miniature pines. The alluring white smoke rises from the roof, An unseen chimney. After sharing another subtext-filled look with Eleanor, You take a step in unison toward and through the red gate. As you pass under it, A wave of calm comes over your whole body, As if you've moved through an invisible veil, Into an entirely different world, One where the birdsong is still audible, But somehow muffled. The air is even cleaner and rosier than the surrounding woods, And the mist is lifted, Revealing highly saturated color. The greens of the garden are greener, The gilded gables a more intense, Glowing gold. What is this place, You wonder aloud. Eleanor is thinking the same thing. Together you explore the garden, Lit up with curiosity and wonderment. Surely this hideaway is impeccably maintained, But you haven't yet seen another soul. And why hide such a wonderful place, Even keeping it off the maps, When it would certainly be a draw for weary hikers in the mountains? You admire the lush greenery surrounding the pond, Which is rimmed with rocks and dappled with pale pink lilies. Around the perimeter are peonies with blooms so rich and full, Their heads bow low toward the water, As if to take a drink or to kiss the delicate petals of the lilies. Their mirror image below. The sunlight catches golden on the surface of the water, And seems to break into rainbows at moments as you walk the edge. Still, That strangely familiar aroma tickles your senses, Dancing above the candied floral scent. And then, Just as your eyes fall upon a row of evergreen shrubs, Their waxy green leaves speckled here and there with yellowish white flowers, It comes to you. Tea, You say, Just loud enough for Eleanor to hear you on the other side of the pond. Do you smell that? It's tea. Eleanor lets out a small laugh. You're right, She says. You both turn toward the main structure with its gabled roof and balconies. It must be a tea house, You conclude. It's only now that you notice someone standing on the threshold in the entrance to the structure. They are mostly in shadow, So you cannot make out many features. But somehow, You can't quite explain it. You sense only welcome from them. You cross round the side of the pond to join Eleanor and gesture toward the figure in the entrance. Together, You approach. Climbing the steps to the building's entrance, You notice that the figure does not flinch or seem to move at all upon your approach. And when the light falls upon them, It's evident why. Glinting in the shaft of sunlight that skims through the open doorway is a bronze statue, A life-size and with serene expression. It's the figure of a woman, Or a goddess. She is seated with one leg bent on which to rest an arm in the center of a lotus blossom. Her hair, Cast in bronze, Is piled half atop her crowned head, And in the center of her crown is the tiny relief of another human figure, Seated with legs crossed. Incense burns deeply fragrant below the statue. But though the figure whose shadow you first perceived is only bronze, There is someone here in the entryway whom you did not see before. Seated with his back toward you, Feet from the base of the statue, Is a man, Dressed in white linens, With feet bare. You hesitate not wanting to disturb or startle him, But within moments he comes to stand and turns around to face you. His lined face is just as calm as the statue behind him, With a radiant warmth shining through his dark eyes. He inclines his head to greet you. Eleanor begins to speak. She's mastered a bit more of the province's language than you. She apologizes for the disturbance and praises the garden, But the man responds in kind, In your native tongue. You're more than welcome, He explains. This teahouse is open to all travelers. You follow your gracious host into an adjoining chamber, Which is set, He explains, For the traditional tea ceremony. Your eyes linger a moment longer on the bronze statue as you go. If you care to join during this break from your travels up the mountain, The host continues, He would be happy to serve you as honored guests. His name, You learn, Is Wei, And he is the sole person who maintains this teahouse. The tearoom to which he leads you is open and bright, With natural light streaming in through the tall slatted windows. It is sparsely furnished, But the walls are painted with breathtaking landscape scenes, Snow-covered mountains, Swirling clouds and mist, Trees pink with blooms, And vast waterscapes. Wei gestures for you to sit at a table in the center of the room. It is already set with the most exquisite teaware, Austere in design, Yet clearly made with deft hands. There are two place settings on your side of the table, And you have the funny feeling that they were placed there in anticipation of your coming. As if, Somehow, Wei was expecting you from the moment you set foot on the mountain trail. This whole place has the feeling of a dream, The sense that it appeared, Magically, Theologically, And drew you toward it, Toward a sense of absolute calm. As you and Eleanor take your places opposite Wei at the tea table, You note her tranquil expression and conclude that she must feel the same as you. Surveying the multitude of vessels and tools laid out with precision on the table, Your eye falls on a small ceramic figurine. It's a miniature clay interpretation of the same woman represented by the bronze statue in the doorway. You wonder who she is, Whether she is a patron of this place, And what Wei's relationship to her is. Wei begins to prepare the tea. You have certainly heard of the skill and precision it requires to carry out a traditional tea preparation, But you've never been present for one. With the very first pour of the hot water into the teaware, The first step without the tea leaves, Only intended to warm the ceramic, You become aware that you are witnessing something that you might call sacred. No, Sacred isn't quite the word, But it's as close as you can get. The world outside the walls, The gated garden seem leagues away, And it's like your mind blurs at the edges, Blossoming into the fullness of the present moment. With practiced hands, Wei pours the water from the teaware into a glass pitcher, Straining it through a filter. This water is then poured into the small teacups placed before you and Eleanor. You smile, Curious, As Wei dashes the excess water over the small clay figurine of the woman. The clay absorbs some of that water and shines. Now, Wei lifts a small plate on which sit the curled and oxidized leaves of tea. He presents this to you first, And then to your friend. As the plate passes under your nose, You catch the balanced earthy aroma of the tea leaves. Using a small bamboo rod, Wei adds the tea leaves to the pot before him. He then pours hot water over the leaves. You expect him to steep the tea for some length of time, But instead, He immediately pours the contents over the filter into the glass pitcher. It's the first rinse, Eleanor whispers to you. Removing any impurities from the tea leaves, It opens them up. A small smile warms Wei's face in response. Every gesture of his is smooth, Mindful, And almost hypnotic. He discards the rinse water into the cups, Then lifts them, Using a pair of small tongs, And pours them again over the statuary, Who shines more brightly with each splash of water. The tea pet, Wei explains, The water we pour over her brings good luck. As Wei continues the preparations, You summon the courage to ask him about the figure. Who does this represent? You say respectfully. The corners of Wei's eyes crinkle with a smile. He now pours another round of hot water over the tea leaves, This time leaving it for a little while as the leaves bloom and release their pleasant fragrance on the steam. This, He gestures to the clay statue, Is Guanyin. She is the bringer of mercy and compassion. I will tell you her story. The tea steeps for what must only be sixty seconds or so, Before Wei pours the fragrant water once more over the filter, Into the pitcher. It is taken on a pale green color. He continues to speak, As he mindfully pours the tea into the tall, Narrow cups at your place setting, Rather than the small drinking cups. You look to Elinor, Who lifts her cup to her nose and inhales. You do the same. Long ago, There was a poor farmer who lived near the temple of Guanyin, Wei says. He was disappointed when he saw that her temple had fallen to neglect and disrepair. So day by day, As the farmer would pass the temple, He would stop to sweep its floors, Pull down the cobwebs, Plant flowers in the gardens, And light incense before the statue of Guanyin. Now, Wei places the small teacups on top of the tall aroma cups, So their openings nest against each other. Then, One by one, With tenderness and care, He flips the cups over, So that the tea falls into the small teacups. He indicates that the tea is now ready to be enjoyed. You follow Elinor's lead in lifting the cup to your mouth and taking a small, First sip. The flavor is delicate, Yet distinct and unimaginably soothing. It seems to soak into your tired muscles, Aching from the climb, And massage them into softness. And relaxation. Your eyes wander to the painted landscapes on the walls as Wei goes on. Now, After some time, The farmer restored the temple of Guanyin to the elegance it deserved, And one night, He had a dream. You scan the paintings, And for the first time, You recognize, Among the mountainous illustration, The shape of the gables and eaves of this very tea house. Your mind is so serene, So open, That you can almost see the painted mist rolling gently across the mountains. In that dream, Guanyin appeared to the farmer in gratitude for his work and dedication to her temple. She wished to reward the farmer and his community, And she told him of a cave near the temple where he would find a priceless treasure. Your eyes track further across the paintings, And there, Behind the image of the tea house, As if it sprung forth from the story Wei tells, You can see the mouth of a cave. When the farmer awoke, He was eager to seek the treasure, Wei continues. He discovered the cave Guanyin spoke of, And went inside. There, In the dark, He stumbled across a seedling, From a plant he had never seen before. But it gave off the most wonderful fragrance, And he knew this plant, However small, Was the treasure Guanyin spoke of. So, He took the seedling to his farm, And nurtured it with the same dedication he brought to the temple. The plant grew and spread across the farmland. From its leaves, The farmer and his community learned to brew the finest tea they had ever tasted. He gave cuttings to farmers across the region so they could share in the bounty, And this tea plant brought prosperity to the people, All the gift of Guanyin. He gestures again to the clay figurine, The lady with so tranquil and kind an expression. You sip your tea mindfully, Savoring the complexity of the flavor and the calming effects on your body and mind. Wei's story settles over you like fine mist on the mountains, And the sunlight streaming in through the window stretches long over the room. In the stillness, It's hard to imagine anything exists outside this peaceful sanctuary. Taking another sip of tea, You feel the muscles of your jaw unclench and relax. It's amazing how this one adjustment of releasing in the jaw and the muscles of the mouth seems to loosen the muscles throughout your face and body. As your temples, Scalp, And cheeks relax, You are reminded of the interconnectedness of all things within your body and throughout the natural world. You lower your tongue from the roof of your mouth, And breathe deeply, Softening your gaze to the room around you. You are aware of certain noises from outside the tea house, Birdsong, Wind, Water, And other sounds much further away, Even the faint hum of civilization, Roadways and cars. But these fade pleasantly into an indistinct hum, Until you can no longer identify the individual sounds, Or you no longer care to. You drop your shoulders softly away from your ears, Feeling your shoulder blades fall down the back. This has the effect of opening your chest and heart, Making you feel open, Receptive to whatever messages may come your way. Will Guan Yin speak to you as she spoke to the poor farmer in his dreams? You listen closely for her wisdom. Your arms loosen and relax at your sides. Your spine is straight, But there is no sense of rigidness or tightness. You let go of anything you are holding onto on the axis of your spine, Letting your awareness travel slowly down the vertebrae, Sending breath and relaxation throughout your trunk. Down, Down the breath travels to the base of your spine, What you might know as the root chakra, A center of balance and stability. You find softness and relaxation in this foundation, In the pelvic floor, While remaining firm and grounded through it. You soften in the muscles of the legs, The joints of the knees, And down through the feet. You feel where your body connects with the floor, And the solidity of the foundation beneath you. The earth itself further below. You feel safe, Able to relax and embrace such openness. There is a beautiful harmony within your body, A feeling of being grounded and stable through your roots, And a wonderfully lifted quality as if your chest and head reach skyward to the mists. You are at once both rooted and rising. You breathe deeply, Rising and falling with your breath, Completely at peace. You have no concept of how much time passes there in the tea room. It might only be minutes, Or untold ages might pass outside the gated garden. But slowly you come back to yourself, To awareness, To the remembrance of your journey's object. Beside you, Elinor seems to have the same feeling. You look to each other, Then toward your kind host, But Wei is no longer seated at the table with you. You rise together and look through some of the open, Adjoining chambers. Hoping to thank Wei before you depart. But you do not find him on the first floor. And you soon abandon the search, Not wishing to disturb further quarters of the tea house. You go to leave the way you came, But first, You take a moment before the life-sized statue of Guanyin, Admiring the beauty of the sculpture and the serenity in her face. A single stick of incense burns down to the end as you offer silent gratitude and deference to the figure. Then back you go through the garden, Fragrant with flowers, Tea shrubs, And ornamental trees. Before passing through the gate, You turn back for a last look at the tea house. You can see the statue's silhouette just as before, Lifelike and alluring in the entryway. Then you go. Traveling back through the dense woods, You rejoin the path beside the mountain stream. The sun is still fairly high, It's only a few hours past midday. There's plenty of time to reach the plateau and make it safely back down the mountain before dark. As you climb, You and Eleanor debrief the eerily wonderful encounter. And the discovery of the tea house in the middle of the forest. You hesitate to voice the thought that rises to the top of mind, But then Eleanor says it first. Did you get the feeling, She asks, That we were in the very temple of his tale? That perhaps he was descended from the farmer who found that treasure in the cave? You chime in in agreement, Holding back on the notion that grips your mind. Yet by the glimmer in her eye, Through your own unspoken language, You sense that Eleanor's imagination is similarly sparked. That he was the farmer of the tale. The one who restored the temple and discovered the tea plant in the cave. That for all these many centuries, By some magic, Or because he functions somehow outside the continuum of time, He continues to maintain the temple and tea house of Guanyin. Every now and then, Initiating a traveler into the wonders of his story. At last, You reach your destined plateau, And stare out over the breathtaking vistas of the valley. You can see far below the little town you'll be lodging in tonight. Mist hovers thick over evergreen forest. A whole ecosystem thrives in the understory, Carrying out the old stories following the ancient cycles. You can feel the rhythm of the place in your body. Tired from the climb, Yes, But somehow rejuvenated. And soon, You begin your slow descent, Walking sticks in hand, Following the journey of a sinking sun. You retread the path with new wisdom, New peace as your guides. Together with your friend. Years from now, You'll whisper memories of this day, The shared experience of the subtly sublime, The afternoon you spent in the tea house of Guanyin. Sweetest breath of larkspur, Blistering heat softening to mild summer evening. So you come to the plain of Thebes in search of shelter for the night. You lean upon your staff and shake the weariness away for one more stretch of travel tonight into the city. At first light, You'll make for the sacred spring of Mount Helicon, The rounded summit now fading into a swath of moody sapphire against the onset of night. Long have you traveled in search of the one you seek. You've come across sea in tempest-tossed vessel and over stretches of earth on foot. In the last gasp of helios light on the valley, You ponder why she has chosen this for her hiding place of all the sublime islands and mysterious shores in this wide world. Why here? That is all for the morning, However. Tonight you must find a place to sleep and good food to eat. This proves not difficult, For your name, If not your face, Is known in all the great cities, If not the distant country villages as well. You are pardoned through the gates with ease, Bearing the approval of allied kings. An elderly husband and wife welcome you gladly into their home, Offering food and wine, And warm bedclothes. If only you'll recite a few lines of your poetry for them. So, Just as you've done round the fires of Smyrna, In the fields of Arcadia, And on the shores of Ionia, You deliver your recitations and hymns to the gods, Dazzling and delighting the small audience. They praise your talent and memory, And they gladly reward you with their hospitality. A great iron pot simmers over a fire, As the lady dashes in herbs and elegant spices, Surely procured from the famous Theban markets. She seems more youthful than before. A hypnotic aroma rises on the steam. Swooning to the scent, You think vaguely of the witches of Thessaly, With their cauldrons full of herbs and their charms to draw down the moon. Soon, A minor feast is laid on the table. It's fit for a noble house in Athens, You find. You inform the considerate couple of your plans to depart at daybreak from Mt. Helicon to visit the temple there. You don't wish to wake them as you go, But it will be an early start for you. The woman wraps up bread and fruit for you, Urging you to take it with you on your journey. You have leagues still to go, And the mountain is steep. Once there, The path to the temple, So say the devotees who have been there, Is winding. Not many seek the temple in question, However, She says with a curious looking over. The god Dionysus, Of whom you have so finely sung, Has his grand temple on the hill here within the walled city. Might you prefer to visit his shrine, The couple inquire. But you have your reasons for seeking the sacred spring and the temple on the mountain near the source. It is a pilgrimage of utmost importance. With a final goodnight to the pair, You retreat to the bed they've kindly made up for you. It takes some time to fall asleep. Your own hymns run wild through your mind, Recycling and repeating, Daring you to seize their ends and string together another cycle of transformative poetry. You dream fitful dreams which disappear like dust disturbed upon waking. Dawn appears, Her fingers blooming on the eastern horizon. She paints her way across the sky to banish her sister, The moon, And herald her brother, The sun. Before she can smile on all the stretches of the city, You rise and take your leave of the lovely couple's home. The streets of seven-gated Thebes are empty, Save for the few early risers gone to open their market stalls. In a few short hours, You're certain the streets will be bustling with buyers and barterers. You move past the empty theater, Which girds the temple of Dionysus, The deliverer. A quiet wind rises as you pass, Prickling your skin. In such a place, Your words might climb the wind to the ears of the god on Olympus, He of transformation, Ecstasy, And wine. You reach the farthest gate and make your departure from the walled city. You've begun to fear that the wells run dry, That your elusive muse has forsaken you. Not long ago, The words flowed freely and sweetly from your lips. You composed devotional poetry, Yes, But when struck as if by Zeus's lightning, You sang the stories of great heroes into moving epic triumph. You sang, No, The muse sang through you of rage, Of war, Of great love, And of glory. She coursed through you like water bubbles through a spring, Surging from the well of divine inspiration. You could invoke her name and suddenly swell with words of prayer and pride. She gave you her favor once, But now it seems you have lost it. Have you done something to violate her trust, You wonder? Or did she hear the invocation of another, Worthier poet? Or did she simply decide you'd tasted enough of the glory of great poetry? Can you ever regain her indulgence? With this hope at heart, You undertake the journey at hand. Beyond the plain of Thebes, On the slopes of Mount Helicon, Lies the Temple of the Muses. There, If the gods are good, You may have your audience with her. You may prove your worth yet. Beyond the peak toward which you labor, Parnassus looms, Its snow-capped summit glistening in the morning sun. Somewhere on the breeze comes the crisp yet distant salt of the Gulf and the Ionian Sea. You savor it along with the memory of the ship that bore you first to these shores. The thought of wind-blown sails and cool spray on your face is enough to keep the heat and weariness at bay. You imagine that as your feet fall on rough and rocky plain, White waves are rising to meet you, Cresting and carrying you forth to your next step. And you're next. You daydream of the suns of dawn, The anemoi, Wind-made flesh, Gusting at your back to push you onward. With such an image in your mind, You steady your gaze on the peaks that rise ahead, Lest Zephyrus, The west wind, Should blow you off course. You confess yourself grateful for the gifts of the old Theban couple, Whose bread and water skin serve you well on the long journey. You stop to eat near midday when your energy wanes, And the mount seems further away than before, Under the shade of olive trees. There, You utter words of praise to Athena, Bringer of the olive, In thanks for the tree's many gifts. You meet travelers on the road from Corinth, Merchants bound for the markets with their wares. They know your name, Of course, And plead with you for just one verse. You concede to deliver a few lines before parting with the travelers. You resume your quest but find at length as the day shivers to purple twilight, That you must again pause for the night. You sleep beneath the stars. Your time on the sea has brought you knowledge and recognition of their patterns. You trace the skies for gods and heroes, And in the empty spaces between the stars, For the face of the muse. Before you fall asleep, Her name trickles from your lips. Calliope. Dawn comes again, Arising from her throne to light the sky with flowers. You push on toward the rising slopes, Now swimming to meet your eye line and obscure the distant landscapes. The air tastes sweeter on this sweep of earth, Scented with the blush of peony. You cannot be far, Surely, From the spring. You follow the traces of moisture on the breeze and the perfume of larkspur ascending the slope. Trees grow sparsely for a stretch, Then give way to open meadows that sway with scarlet anemone, The flower that sprung from the tears of Aphrodite. You wind next through thick forest, Guided by damselflies, Until at last you step through a parting in the trees to reveal a glittering hollow. Afternoon light glistens on a pool of water in which the green and gold of mountain woods reflect. You swiftly slip between the prickly oak and mistletoe, At the sight of three figures around the pool. They haven't yet seen you. You watch through crinkled leaves, A man, Woman, And child, At leisure by the water. The boy can be no more than three summers old. He splashes in the shallows with delight. His laughter is lively and musical. The man, His father you presume, Reclines near the rocks at the edge of the waters. He plucks lazily at his lyre and yet, From such minimal effort come the most elegant melodies. His hair is golden as the sun's rays, Falling in curls to his shoulders. Radiant he is, So bright and beautiful that you are grateful for the shade that falls across your eyes. He is almost too much to behold. The woman swims and splashes with the boy, But she never turns her face your way. The child has her raven-dark hair. The atmosphere is lush and mellow, Rife with birdsong in effortless harmonies with a harpist tune. Beaded bubbles wink at the brim of the pool, Bursting to bless the air with the essence of the source. This, You think, Is Hippocrene, The sacred spring. Here the winged horse Pegasus, Companion of Bellerophon, Struck his hoof upon the ground to waken the waters of inspiration. This spring feeds the voices of poets, Flowing unbroken through the verses of old. You once tasted its waters through your relationship to the muse. Now you thirst for one more drop of its gifts. You ache for a dip in the pool, A closeness to the source of art. But first, You must make the climb to the temple. The well marks the way, The house of the muse cannot be much further. Yet still you linger, Enwrapped by the lazy loveliness of the scene before you. There is something about the trio, Radiant and carefree, That stirs the heart. Somehow, As if time unfolds on the breath of the wind, You can see the boy, Grown, Bearing his father's lyre. You can hear his melodies, Surpassing any the world has ever hearkened to, Animating the rocks and trees and forest creatures. Also, You can see, Quivering like harp strings, The ties that bind the mother, Father, And child across time and space. You can feel between them profound depth and capacity for grief, Pride, And forgiveness, Bound up in the foundations of a family. Perhaps it's because of your proximity to the spring and their immersion in it, But they seem to you the very formula for poetry. Three pillars on which to balance responsibility, Glory, And morality. Three game pieces to shuffle around a board or a map, Imagining adventures and implications. Each an individual, Yet magnified in significance by their relationship to the whole. Your reverie is broken by the chatter of swifts overhead. You glance upward to observe their frenetic wingbeats and circles. Oh, But look there, Poet, To the rising slopes, And see the sheen of marble twixt the trees. Through the thicket, Beyond the well, And halfway up the mount, The temple lies. So, Tearing yourself from the lyrical vision, You push on, To face the muse, To seek her favor, And to gain access to the source of divine poetry. The temple, Though marble-hewn and pillared, Is like none you've seen erected to the Olympians. Those pristine palatial monuments, Works of architectural precision, Find their footing fair on plains and plateaus. This temple, Hidden in the roughs of Heliconian forest, Might be born of nature. It clings to the slope like a swift's nest, Balanced precipitously on the steep incline. Its steps and columns are overgrown with green, Through which the marble gleams like moonlight through clouds. In ascending the stairs, You tightly grasp your walking stick, As if the gesture might prevent the temple from sliding into the ravine. But it is sturdy, You find, And the cool shade beyond the columns mysterious and enticing. What little light finds its way into the temple's atrium, Through columns, Clouds, And canopy, Is only enough to illuminate the threshold. But there are unlit torches you observe upon the walls. From your long travels, You've learned to light fires with few materials. You ignite the torches and bring amber radiance to the hall. The flickering torchlight reveals astonishing cult statuary. The nine muses, Chiseled from stone, Line the interior, Each with distinct appearance, Expression, And iconography. You trace their faces and the sublime drapery of fabrics that adorn their bodies. A masterwork of sculpture. There is Cleo with her scrolls of history and heroic trumpet. Euterpe with her double pipes. Bright-eyed Thalia with the smiling mask. Melpomene with the tragic one. Terpsichore seated, Strumming her lyre to accompany unseen dancers. Morado with a wreath of roses. Polyhymnia in cloak and veil. Urania with celestial globe and stars in her hair. And the last face your eyes fall upon, The most exalted muse, Calliope with writing tablet in her hand and crown upon her head. A face you know from dreams. A face made of poetry. At all their feet you place libations, But your offering to Calliope is the most bountiful, The most sincere. You praise her with the sweetest words you can conjure, Hoping for her touch of inspiration to awaken your verse. But as your hymn to Calliope concludes, And your words hang upon the torchlit air of the temple, A voice, Sweet as it is sonorous, Comes from behind you. I know you, Poet, It says, Sparkling with recognition. When you turn around to meet the speaker, And to your surprise, Find not another supplicant climbing the temple steps, But a young woman leaning on the column where before stood the statue of Polyhymnia, Muse of sacred poetry. Indeed, The flesh and blood maid dons the same cloak as the statue and wears the same serious expression. For the first time in your life, You find yourself at a loss for words. Are you now in the presence of a goddess? You drop to your knees at once and cast your eyes down from her wondrous beauty. You search for words of praise with which to greet her. Be at ease, She says, Observing your manner, And rise, I want to look upon you. You follow her instruction and climb to your feet. I knew your voice, And not your face, Old friend. Your verses woke me, Do you remember me? Polyhymnia, With brooding eyes and tender gesture, Brushes her fingers across your brow. At once you recall the composition of your first hymns to the gods, How smoothly flowed your songs to Demeter and Dionysus, As if channeled from a wellspring of sublime inspiration. It was she who worked through you then, Connecting you to the source of sacred hymns and poetic praise. Then a flash of something mysterious crosses the muse's eyes. Ah, She says, Knowingly, But you did not come here seeking my favor. A smirk is on her lips, And now the marble walls begin to echo with melodic laughter You're reminded momentarily of the child laughing by the spring. This poet comes to seek our most illustrious sister, Comes a new voice, Tinged with humor and mischief. You turn your eyes from Polyhymnia to find another of the statues sprung to life. Thalia, With eyes bright and prankish, Slinks forward and turns her attention to you. But I must say, Dear poet, I found your latest epic, Though accomplished, To be sure, Rather lacking joy. All wrath and rage and vengeance. Where's the fun? You try not to take Thalia's critique too much to heart. She is the muse of comedy, After all. But perhaps your future works could benefit from a sense of humor. You might sing of love, Calls another voice, Still more musical than the last. Or set your songs to dancing, Comes yet another. Then all at once the hall rings with noble voices, As every statue springs to blushing life, And all the muses encircle you. Their devotee, Nine muses, Each eager to bestow their gifts upon you, To infuse your verses and claim your voice for their own. What artist could refuse such interest? No, Not nine, You realize, Taking a full count of the goddesses around you. Eight. One statue remains bonded in stone, Unbending, Unmoving, Uninterested in your plea. Calliope. So she has forsaken you. Muse of epic poetry, She who once wove your words into a great song. Who once danced your visions to life. Forswearing your offerings and invocations, She waits, All marble and memory, For a worthier poet. You speak up at last, In the presence of the muses. Forgive me, Honored ones, But what do you know of the intentions of your most esteemed sister, Enshrined here in stone? You ask, A marked plea in your trembling voice. Why does she not appear? The Goddesses appear puzzled or uncertain. Urania looks away and Thalia audibly groans. She does not wake for most, Says the sister with the laughing eyes. Even you, Dear poet, Cannot expect her to be at your beck and call. She is invoked night and day, Chimes in Cleo, Muse of History, By poets who strive to compose great epics, To write the course of culture into eternity. I think, Says Melpomene, Muse of Tragedy, That if I were you, I should be honored to have been blessed once by her favor, To have made such a masterwork, Touched by her grace, And one that might persist long after this temple has fallen. You cast your eyes downward. Of course, She's right, You should be honored and contented with a single taste of the sacred spring, That once you find you can hardly bear to be in the temple, To be in the presence even of a representation of the muse who scorned you, Nor in the midst of her sisters who pity you so. Without a word, You flee from the palace of the muses, Stumble down the steps and into the solitary wood. You catch your breath among the feathered mistletoe, Which comfort you with ample shade. Feeling foolish, You sit beside a tree to contemplate your next move. Surely, You should return to the temple, Tender your apologies to the offended goddesses, And accept their inspiration with grace and gratitude. If they'll forgive you, That is, For your rudeness. You let a sigh escape. You've been so unwise and unfair. On your waning exhale, However, Comes a new sound. A trickle of water from somewhere through the trees. You search for the source and find you've come back, Near to the location of the spring. Now, As you approach the well, You are the only one around. It's yours alone to experience. Without the muse's blessing, You fear you may be unable to draw any nearer, But you find no barrier, Physical or spiritual, To your approach. You come to the rocks on the edge and kneel beside the reflective waters. There, In the bubbling ripples, Is your face. The face that, Without a name or voice, Is anonymous to most. Is this, You wonder, The same pool in which fair Narcissus was transformed? Its waters are clear enough, And you can imagine the meadows alight with daffodil in spring. Words drip sweetly from your lips, As if drawn out by the cool clarity of the spring. Lament for your severed relationship with the sweet muse who once worked through you to the people's delight. You bid farewell to her in whispered song. You gaze locked with your own eyes on the surface of the pool. It takes some time to realize that another face is present in the rippled reflection. Two sparkling eyes, Like stars, Beside yours. She's come. Sweet poet, The muse intones, Her hand falling softly upon your shoulder. She takes your arm and lifts you to standing. She steadies you, Weak in the knees as you are, With a lightness like ocean. Lifting a vessel. I never left you, She says. Have you not felt my presence? I have been with you on the stormy seas. I was in the green, Rolling grasses of Arcadia. I was in the fire that heated the herbs of your host. I whispered to you in the winds of Thebes. I was the face between the stars. And I was here today in the spring. I was here with my son, And with golden-haired Apollo, Who has cherished your songs all the years, Child of Ionia. You hardly notice that tears have sprung to your eyes, Till they spill over your cheeks. So it was she, The woman in the water. In this spring, She laughed with her own child, And hummed to the tune of Apollo's lyre. And you were in the presence of the God himself. The prophetic God, He of light and song and medicine. How blind you've been. Now you recognize the long, Dark hair. And there beneath the ringlets is the glimmer of golden diadem. Come, Poet, She says, Gesturing to the pool at your side. You are thirsty. Drink. You kneel once again beside the sacred spring, Lowering your hands to the water. You lift your hands with a reverence of one receiving wine. From a king's goblet. And drink. How the water, Cool and smooth, Clarifies your purpose. Your heart hums and soars, Full of a thousand songs as the waters tickle your throat. You rise to meet the muse. In the dark fountains of her eyes, You can see ships assailing. By her side, You can feel the caress of the north wind, The east, The west, And the south. You smell fresh timber, A crackle in the fire. You can hear siren song from the deep. You can taste the salt of the Aegean Sea. And here you sense, As you did before, In the sight of the little family, The presence of an invisible tether, Binding together the moments and memories of a community. In the triangular sanctuary bound by the thread, You know laughter, Mystery, Fellowship, Measureless sorrow, Ecstasy, Music, And magic. The song simmers sweetly on your tongue. Calliope smiles. She knows what you are thinking. Indeed, It was she who planted the verses there. This, You think, Shall be her masterpiece, Not yours. It springs from her profound heart. And still, You are grateful to give it form, And to give it your voice and name. Before you part, The muse begs you to exchange your staff for one of Laurel, Hewn from the tree sacred to Apollo. Bear it with pride, She says, For you are the god's most honored laureate. Fill your water skin from the spring that you might recall your encounter here, That you might never forget how near Calliope is at any moment. Recite your verses by the fires of Thebes in the halls of Athens to the shepherds of Arcadia. Sing for the sailors on the great sea and for your kin in Ionia. Travel on, Poet, And sing. You bow your head to accept Calliope's bidding. You will be her voice, Now and always. But before you depart, You will return to the Temple of the Muses. There, You'll greet the honored eight who once wished to help you. You'll compose, Before your epic, A great hymn to the Muses and to all seeing Apollo. You'll never doubt their blessings again. Your eyes climb the forested stair to the Temple, Under chattering swifts and gleams of sunshine between leaves of mistletoe. Hail, Children of Zeus. You lift your voice to the mountain and the unseen stars. Give honor to my song. Dawn arrives, Her fingertips like petals and blossoms across the sky. You have always cherished the thin, Golden veil that rides behind her and floods the land till it sparkles. You clutch a fennel stalk, Guarding it close to your body as you descend the rocky side of the mountain. Your strides are long, And the rocks tremble beneath you, Titan. The anise-tinged perfume of the fennel climbs the air to reach your nose, Spiced and sweet in the tender hours of morning. All of creation, From the peak of Olympus to the deepest wells and caves, Stretch, Yawn, And drink of the gauzy golden dawn like sweet nectar. The sun and his heralds reach longer and deeper than most realize. You have yet to find a corner of the fine earth where not even a shard of his light penetrates. It's a gift, Some say, To see more than most, To observe so keenly the oft-unobserved, Even to receive the deliverance of prophecy on the wings of the wind. But you are hardly a prophet, Or one gifted with extraordinary perception. You simply see and seek that which others of your kind ignore. You walk among mankind, Guiding their progress, Helping to till their fields and tend to their livestock, Breaking bread with them, Teaching them new skills. With curiosity and compassionate attention you've heard their stories, Consoled them through their sorrows, Celebrated their joy. You remember every human face you've ever seen, And in the lines of each you can trace an unbroken line to their ancestors, All the way to the misshapen earth from which you once molded features. Once the goddess Athena bestowed breath upon those clay figures and made them to stand on two legs like the gods themselves, They leapt from your hands, Tiny and determined. They were your playthings no longer but flesh and feeling, Driven by fierce desire and instinct. The more they drifted from you, The more tethered you felt to them, As if they were your own children. And as they made their families and multiplied, You watched their most extraordinary and most intolerable traits mix and dilute into wholly new souls. Till they had spread across the land, Building temples and cultivating crop, Each one of them unique and irreplaceable, Each one a mystery and each one a gift. It was this fascination, This unbroken tether to humanity that decided your place in the great war between the titans and the Olympians. In those conflicts, You broke against your own family to side with this new generation of gods. You sought to preserve the earth from which men raised their food and earned their livelihood, Yes. But you also saw, With some unexplained prescience, The awesome power these Olympians could summon with no balance to their authority. You allied with them, But you watched them closely, Swearing your only allegiance to humanity, Those who truly needed your protection. You tarried among mankind for many seasons, Here and there imparting a crumb of knowledge once held captive by the gods. You brought them the spark of philosophy, Music, And art. You engaged them in inquisition, Encouraged them to investigate the higher mysteries of the cosmos, Unravel the hidden secret of the stars, And unearth the riches beneath the soil. Everything you do is in their service, To help them reach the full potential of their limitless yearnings. You love them. And it's this love of humans, With all their flaws and fallibility, That brings you now down the side of Mount Olympus, Just as dawn's rosy fingers sprinkle the sky. For though the gods have called you cousin, Even welcomed you at their feasts, They've never been your family. The only covenant you keep is with the mortals who toil on the earth's surface, Not those who dwell in a paradise above her clouds. They, The Olympians, Kneel to Zeus, Their king and champion of their crusade against the titans. He never saw the potential in man, Never understood what makes them such a wonder. They're like us, You recall saying to Zeus once, But at the same time, Wholly unlike us. They look and speak and act with our ways, But they must subsist on their environment. They must create and extrude to survive, But in the quest for survival, They've approached the divine. You pointed then to the music, Art, And philosophy that blossomed from their daily struggles, The new refreshing life they brought to the world each day. The beauty and sublime complexity of their nature, Writ in the world around, Is a reflection not of the efforts of gods or titans nor primordial forces. This world of man, You argue, Is their explosive canvas to shape according to their will, Not those of the Olympians. And still, Zeus sneered upon them, These creatures who milled across the world he wanted for himself. He demanded sacrifices, Devotion from them. He saw not their astonishing ability to create meaning from its absence, Their resilience and determination to transcend the mundane. Only you, The keenest of observers, Saw. Instead, Zeus insisted that only the gods could make the world livable for humanity, And only if rightly appeased. There were scores to be settled, He said, And favor to be won. So you cooked up a trick, A plan to preserve mankind's well-being while satisfying the king of the gods. Two sacrifices you fabricated from which Zeus could select the Olympian tribute. On one side, You enclosed the nourishing meat of an ox within an unattractive package. On the other, You wrapped the bare bones of the animal in an enticing enclosure. Zeus fell for the trickery, And selected the bones, Leaving humanity the food to sustain them rather than give up in sacrifice. Zeus, The triumphant slayer of titans, Grew angry then. He turned his vengeance where it would hurt most, Not upon you, But upon the humans. Above him gathered great, Black storm clouds, Full and heavy with rain and wrath. When the clouds released their rain all around the world, Every fire was extinguished. One by one, The fires that warmed cold hands, The fires that transformed dough into bread, The fires that lit beacons of safety and hope, Each snuffed out in turn by the god's enchanted rain. And oh, The chill that fell over the damp earth, For the rain soon evaporated and in its wake was only dark and cold. Mankind shivered and groped in the obscurity. They tried in vain to strike flint against flint, Yielding no spark. Zeus had stolen back the gift of fire, From which humanity had forged already a thousand innovations. Now your heart wept for them, Their fingers freezing in the night, Their progress halted in an instant with the diminishing flame. If the gods could only see them in the way you do, Not as competition or threat, A species fighting for dominion of the world, But as fellow passengers on the journey through the ages, As members of the same family, Not a focus for jealousy and revenge, The way you, Last of the titans, Once viewed the Olympians themselves. Even Athena, Your partner in the creation, Whose breath invigorated man, Now stood with her father in guarding the flame for the gods alone. You protested, Noting the cities man could build, The temples they could erect, The deeds they could accomplish with fire on their side. But Zeus' vengeance burned bold as his thunderbolt. They fled with the last dying ember in hand and kept it high atop Mount Olympus, Fanning the flame and hoarding it for themselves. You remember the solemn image of that last torch of amber flickering as it traveled up the mountain and out of sight into the dark forge of Hephaestus, Blacksmith to the gods. From that day, Your brightest desire has been to restore that which the gods stole from humanity. Fire, You know, Is not only warmth and light, But energy, Industry, Potential. With your far-reaching gaze, You can almost see, Vague as the forms may be, The future of such a tool in the hands of industrious man. The spark that moves humanity forward allows them to lay down their instruments and embrace leisure and creativity. Freedom from difficult labor. Transformation. The Olympians care little for progress. Near unlimited power resides in their fingertips and their divine tools. They have no desire to grow, To transcend themselves, Living on the summit there's nowhere to climb. Humanity, Though, Without winged sandals, Enchanted bow, Or aegis to aid their development, Are remarkable for their striving. They make magic with what resources they have, And each day they awake hungry for greater challenges. It's their motion that inspires the sun to rise and march across the sky each day, You think. Their constant search for meaning that inspires the nymphs to dance and sing. Their capacity for genuine love and compassion that makes wild beasts lie down, Fawning at their feet. Morning blooms over the mountains, Shimmering golden and fragrant with heliotrope. You shield the fennel stalk in your hands from a gust of mild wind, For it conceals something sensitive to the elements. Concealed within the hollow stalk, You've spirited away a spark of the flame that burns only at the peak of Mount Olympus. It's not theft, You remind yourself, It's justice, Kindness. Down, Down you tread, Never stumbling, Confident in your step and in your task. You shield the tiny flame like an innocent creature in your hands. Fire is a mystery, You think. It wields such extraordinary power, And yet it's so delicate. It generates and regenerates, Giving birth to new flames, Yet it can be snuffed out by breath, Wind or water. You vow to protect the spark in your hands till it lights torches the world over. Beneath Olympus, Mortals are only now waking to the sweetness of early morning. Through the night they shivered, Huddled together for warmth, Unaware of your covert undertaking. Now they rise, Grateful for the sun's return and the gentle heat that falls in golden curtains from his chariot. They're taking to the forests and fields to gather grain, Forage berries and roots for their tables. There's no fire to cook their meat or bake their bread. But as they come, Turning thankful gazes to the sun's rays, Their eyes fall on you, Taller than the trees, Towering over their homes and fields. They hear your thundering footsteps and gather at your feet. These desperate mortals look to you, Their advocate, Inquisitive. You produce the fennel stalk and from its hollow shaft you unearth the living fire, Which seems to gasp before you, Drawing in the air it craves. It flickers, Jumps and transforms, Dancing like a maenad in your hand. The flames in constant glow reflect in the shining, Dark eyes of mankind. And there, Behind the flickering light in those eyes, Is that which you have so longed for, The sublime gratitude and devotion. For a moment, Warmed by the small yet radiant fire, They love you as fiercely as you love them. They come forward, One by one, Each clutching a torch or twig or stalk of wheat. From your minuscule flame you light their fires. As the torches ignite and burn bright, The flame in your hand persists. This is what Zeus fails to understand. Even when you give away your fire, You don't have any less. And from that spark they light more fires. All over the green earth, Fires are springing up. Beacons are lit, Calling to each other across great chasms. How your spirit sings to see it. How the humans look to you with heartfelt thanks and admiration. It almost brings you to your knees, Titan. It's with a full heart and unclouded eyes that you now make the long march to the throne of Zeus. The gods will wake to see the land once more lit with sacred fire, Smoke rising from beneath the mountains, Temple torches burning. You want to be there to explain yourself, Though you hope for mercy, You expect to wake Zeus' wrath once more. Upward you climb, Through the mighty oak forests that ring the slopes of Mount Olympus, To the beechwood and black pine woods of the higher elevation, The tops of the trees brush your sides, Swaying in your wake. Birds burst like puffs of smoke rustling off to find new hiding places as you pass. The air is fragrant, With fresh fur diffused through a layer of mist and cloud that settles around the mountain, Obscuring the summit. But break through the clouds, Titan, Firebringer, And you reveal the wonders of the Olympian abode, Obscured from the eyes of surface dwellers. The air seems to hum as you approach the towering fortress of the gods. The golden gauze brought by the sun's chariot to sparkle upon the land for only moments is here a perpetual glow. A network of golden stairs cascade to marble palaces, All on bronze foundations that gleam like the morning. Cloisters and courtyards teem with exuberant poppies, And peonies, Purple anemone, And larkspur. Behind these pretty walls, The Olympians dine and revel, Unbothered by human affairs. Here they hide their great gifts, Their mysteries from mankind, Jealously guarding their divine knowledge. If only they knew the joy, The satisfaction to be gained by sharing that knowledge. Were Apollo to teach mankind the art of archery, For instance, How they'd flourish. Should Athena, Breath-giver, Instruct them to cultivate the olive tree she so prizes, Imagine the wealth and bounty they could generate. The guardian at the gate is Carpo, Goddess of harvest, Ripening in autumn. On seeing you, Her face grows dark, And even her shining auburn hair seems to turn dull, Like the withering of golden autumn leaves at the approach of the first frost. She'll open the gate for you, She says, But she wishes you wouldn't go to the palace. Zeus, She explains, Already knows of your betrayal, And he isn't happy. You thank the goddess for her sympathy, But insist that you must pass through the gate and face the king. Before you leave her sight, Carpo grasps your hand. Hers is so small in yours. There's nothing to be done, She says, But you might like to know that most of the Olympians are with you. Hermes, Athena, Apollo, But they won't move against Zeus. You feel a warm, Tingling sensation in your chest, And feel your cheeks flush at this. Thank you, You say, And leave the autumn goddess at her post. Olympus is quiet, And your footsteps fall with heavy thuds upon the golden stair. Your heart beat a constant drum, Thrumming in your chest. Zeus will be waiting for you, You suppose. Whatever the punishment for your theft, It will be worth it. When you enter the marble throne room, With its golden floor, This too gleaming as though bathed in Helios' auric rays, It seems to widen, Expand, To accommodate your stature. Zeus, On his dais, Is pale and still as carved marble, His expression grim and calculating. You kneel and note that the height of his throne only just surpasses you on your knees. This thought stills your racing mind. Whatever vengeance he deals upon you, He's only a child. An offspring of titans like you, Terribly fearful of losing his power, Longing for control over forces beyond him. You meet his gaze, Seeing that fear tremble behind his eyes. For a moment, You even pity him. He's flanked by the other Olympians, Also still and silent in the heart of the palace. Their faces betray admiration for your actions, And sorrow for your situation. Even Hera, The wife of Zeus, Looks on you with welling emotion. Mephistos nods almost imperceptibly when your eyes meet. It was from his forge that you stole back the living flame, And yet he holds you in no contempt. Your heart swells with compassion for them, The Olympians. Even Zeus. They chose to build walls around their world, To hide themselves behind a veil of clouds. They knew no better, And they feared mankind. Perhaps they will never see humanity the way you do, And for that, You are sorry. So with grace, You accept your punishment, And you allow yourself to be bound at the wrists before you leave the hall. They may bind your body, But the spark of change has already been struck. To the Caucasus mountains you're sent, With Zeus' emissaries, And tied to the peak under a darkening sky. The moon drives her chariot across the heavens, Following the path of her brother, The sun. She reveals the stars, Those patient wanderers in their nightly assemblage. Reclining to take in the panorama, You observe an unfamiliar grouping of stars. This is Karpo's doing, You assume, For while she guards the gates of Olympus, She passes the time by rearranging the constellations. This cluster of stars reminds you of the arc of an arrow through the sky, Like those of Apollo or his sister, Artemis. You watch it travel across the night's stage as the hours creep by. You turn your eyes downward now, To the hills and valleys of the earth, And you smile, Eyes filling with tears, To see small fires spring up from nothing in the distance. You think of the people warming themselves beside the flickering flame, And you think of the human blacksmiths, Who will forge their own tools in the shadow of Hephaestus, Using fire to melt the ore from the ground. You think of the families, Who will eat well and safely tonight. From here, Bound high atop the mountain, You can see how the world curves over the horizon. A blue-white aura trails over its arc, Hovering and hazy. It's a gift, Some say, To see more than most. But you are no prophet, Only a keen observer with unclouded eyes. Through the chilly night, You can see across the arc of history, As though gazing down a long tunnel, All the way down to many possible futures. Your mind connects the faces of humans, Familiar yet new as though assembled from the features of those first clay figures you molded. You can see the spark of creativity leap from tree to tree in a forest of change, Spreading boundlessly and wild. The unpredictable patterns of fire, Nature, And human thought branch off into thousands of tributaries, Each glowing and transformative. Somewhere in the sea of possibility, There's a new face. The face of a great and flawed hero, Shining in the sun's golden kiss. The one who will set you free someday. He'll climb this mountain, Just as you climbed Mount Olympus, To steal away the God's fire, And with his mighty arrow, He'll cut your bindings. All the kindness you tried to do for humanity will, In turn, Be repaid by one of them. This thought gives you comfort. Thy godlike crime was to be kind, To render with thy precepts less the sum of human wretchedness, And strengthen man with his own mind. The night swells and softens. Cicadas hum in the mountain trees. The stars trace their wanderings across the sky. Your mind slips into meditation, Then into mellow dreaming. In the morning, Dawn will touch the sky with tulips, Heralding her brother's chariot. Eagle's wings will beat over the horizon. Sleep now, Titan. Fire Kindler. Be at peace, And await your hour of apotheosis. Vast and unknowable is the kingdom of the ocean. You like it that way. Far beyond the reach of light, Deep in the impenetrable darkness, There lies your heart and your quest. Crystalline structures like sugared castles cling to the rock shelves. You slip like a sheet of light through the narrowest of crevices, Expertly navigating the labyrinth of reef. This is who you are. Mover, Diver, Summoner, Whisperer. You know the secrets of hidden places. You swim deeper than most, Plumb depths untold, And retrieve treasures unimagined. Your hair blooms behind you, Rippling in the soft sway. You relish the cool calm of the water at this depth. Your eyes feast on the dim blue edging toward inky darkness, Slowly adjusting to the change in visibility. Your mind fills in the absence of light with patterns, Inventing images. How long untouched has this region been by Atlantean hands, You wonder? What wonders might you discover just beyond the borders of the kingdom? A trade like yours, Which is mostly scavenging, No matter how strongly you reinforce the terms collector, Trader, Merchant, And the like, Requires skill, Tact, And diplomacy. Since its founding, The kingdom of Atlantis has held strong, Steadfast policies about cooperation and collaboration with the plentiful species and tribes of the sea. More than anything, The kingdom's thriving economy relies on a few strategic relationships and low intervention with the outside ocean. Atlantis endeavors to make no enemies and maintain its friends. Citizens like you, Who operate on the fringes, Must work in the gray areas of such philosophies. You must get to know everyone, Curry favor with everyone, From mollusk to mammal. You have a widespread network of contacts, Allies, And partners in the profession. With whom you barter, Trade, And bargain for rare and exquisite wares to sell in your shop. You've traded with oysters for their most precious pearls. You've entreated with an octopus for access to his treasure trove. You've raided shipwrecks and split the bounty with a school of snapper. When it comes to searching unexcavated ruins or uninhabited places outside the reach of Atlantean rule, You must be prepared to negotiate. You never know when an uncharted region may have been claimed by some band of dragonfish, A wily Architeuthis, Or other dwellers of the deep ocean trench. But now your eyes have adjusted, And as the darkness subsides, You are amazed by the scene taking shape before you. It's stranger and more immense than you can have imagined. You feel your lips curl into a smile. There's a reason you've never come here before, Besides the depth for which you had to train your eyes and body. There are legends about this part of the ocean beyond the eastern wall of Atlantis. The most commonly told among your circles is of a trench so deep and so wide that its end can never be found. You could swim your whole life long and never find the bottom, But you'd become lost in the darkness, So black it lets in no whisper of light. You recall in your childhood, There was an old woman who lived nearby and liked to scare children with the idea that the trench, So deep it had no bottom, Could swallow things up, That it was only lying in wait to swallow up the whole kingdom. But this was just a story. The great scientists of Atlantis debunked the trench tales long ago, And put right any mind that feared the swallowing up of the kingdom. Still, Rumors and legends persisted, As they are wont to do in the face of such mystery. The legendary area earned the name The Fissure for its appearance to those looking down from above. There is a drop-off in the ocean floor here, Even if there is no deep-sea trench, One that looks like a crack down the middle of the ground, As if someone had taken a giant knife and dragged it across the ocean floor, Splitting it open here. The heart of the kingdom lies in a part of the sea, Penetrated by ample light, Ideal for agriculture, And a thriving population, So the citizens of Atlantis live their days in warmth. But you've never feared the cold, Or the dark. It's almost as if the fissure is calling to you. Surely, This unexplored cavity so close to the walls of Atlantis should hide items of some value. You haven't chosen just any day to swim deeper than ever before in search of pearls or other valuables. While you slip off to the quiet, Untroubled waters of the fissure, The whole kingdom of Atlantis is aflutter with preparations for today's ceremony. You should be there too, Scrubbing algae from the sides of homes on the parade route, Or helping your family prepare choral arrangements and food for the feasting. But you have no talent for such things. This, You're convinced, Is how you can be most helpful. An occasion like today's doesn't come along often. In a few hours, The parade will commence, And then a magnificent feast at the Queen's table, Always set gloriously with enough places for every citizen of Atlantis. Today, By the hand of the Queen herself, A new member will be inducted into the prestigious Order of the Tides. A new Tidemaster hasn't been selected in almost five years, Not since before the Queen's coronation. And this time, For the first time, The new selectee is a commoner, Rather than a member of the Atlantean nobility. Such a thing was unheard of under the old king who held fast to tradition. But the new Queen has brought significant change in the early years of her rule, And the induction of a common citizen to her highest order of knighthood is a cause for huge celebration. It's personal, Too. The new honoree is not just any commoner, But your oldest friend, Allira, With whom you played as children and listened to the legends of the fissure before swimming off, Shrieking and laughing into the reef. You can think of no one more deserving of the honor than Allira. She's brave, Noble, And kind. She led a successful diplomatic mission to the Arctic Ocean last year, Which strengthened the Atlantean position. She worked her way up to become one of the Queen's most trusted advisors, But she's continued to do charitable work in the neighborhood you grew up in. You've both made names for yourselves since coming of age in vastly different ways. You became a prominent merchant, And she, A highly respected consul, On the verge of becoming a tidemaster. You're proud of her. And so it's with Allira in mind that you take the plunge today. You've wrung your hands for weeks over the thought of not having the perfect gift for her on the day of her knighting. You searched far and wide, Called in favors with your most noteworthy connections, But nothing seemed right for the occasion. You rejected a diadem of coral and sea glass, A silver knife with mother-of-pearl inlay, And a harp so sensitive its strings could be played by the gentle sway of the ocean's waters. None suited your friend for the esteem of her position. So at last, Before you give up on the endeavor altogether, You come to the fissure and dive. Just as your eyes took time to adjust to the onslaught of darkness, Your body slowly works to find balance in the shifting temperature, From the sun-soaked warmth of the Atlantean streets to the chill of deep sea. You were ready for it, And with time your body finds a tender equilibrium, Relaxing into the pocket of cold. The wonders and wildness of the ocean never cease to amaze you. For a civilization so advanced in its technology and philosophy, Atlanteans are still a superstitious lot. Beyond the legends surrounding the fissure, A whole panoply of myths inform the Atlantean mind. It's easy to understand why the ocean, So vast and seemingly endless in all directions, Is home to inconceivable things. The mind grasps for understanding, Especially in places of darkness and mystery. There are unknown places, Other worlds even, Beyond your reach, Stories of which spring from curiosity or half-remembered communication with other tribes. For instance, Though Atlanteans rarely swim so near it, It's known that another realm lies past the barrier of the water above. It's the domain of the sun and moon, Those faraway sources of ethereal light. But very little is known about the surface world, And so a wealth of folklore has evolved around it, From its mysterious inhabitants, Perhaps very like Atlanteans, Except that they walk instead of swim, To a persistent belief that the surface world is an afterlife reserved for the great warriors, Kings, And heroes of Atlantis. A sunlit paradise to which they retire when their work in the ocean is done. You're not sure what you believe. Some of your merchant partners have been there. Whales and dolphins, For example, Will breach the surface to satisfy cravings for air, But they bring little insight into the goings-on beyond mere weather reports. Atlanteans, For all their curiosity, Have little interest in spying on such a place if only for fear that the air might be toxic to your kind. As you descend deeper into the fissure, For now it's clear that it is not indeed bottomless, You marvel at the eerie quiet of the place. Only a few leagues away, Preparations and early celebrations are commencing for a raucous triumph. Here, All is peaceful, Only a field of ambient sound rumbling low and constant. So constant, In fact, That you only notice it now while searching your senses for sound. The closest thing in the deep ocean to pure silence. That quiet should fall over such an eerie and serene sight is no surprise. You fall like a pebble toward it, Your eyes still drinking in images from darkness. Around you, As though embedded in the deep sea floor, Are strange structures of varied sizes. You must move through the space to make each one out more clearly. You cannot take them in all at once, For as you move only inches, The furthest structures disappear into the black. From what you can make out, There are pillars, Mostly broken, Some fallen, But many still standing quite tall. Algae and sea moss cling to the marble, Gently fluttering as you disturb the waters. You run a hand across the grooves in the stone. It's weathered and corroded, But you can tell it was once smooth as the marble pillars of the great palaces and temples of Atlantis. You find, Moving carefully through the dark chasm, Broken pediment stones so obscured with algae you can't make out the relief. With each piece of the wreckage you find, Your mind slides answers into place like a puzzle. The great Atlantean archaeologists will be stunned by your discovery. Many ruins have been found on the sea floor, The lost monuments of early Atlantis, But you're sure that never has such an intact and impressive ruin been excavated. You'll make a report soon, After the ceremony. For now, You feel a frisson, So fortunate that for just a few hours, Or even a few moments, This impressive and inspiring place should be your secret, Yours alone. Trembling with the magnitude of your discovery, You feel your shoulder collide with something hard and slippery with moss. The contact and the reaction are instantaneous, As all of a sudden, You must close your eyes against the unexpected onrush of light. Behind your eyelids, It leaves blinding gold dots in afterimage. You summon the strength to wrench your eyes open once more, And this time, You can take it in much more easily. All around you are dazzling specks of blue, All blinking and bioluminescent, Glowing both tender and bright. They dance, Twirl, And spin in all directions. What wonders lie in the heart of the ocean. This twinkling show of light is a school of phosphorescent plankton. You are sorry for sending them into a tizzy of self-defensive dazzlement, But you are grateful for the visibility they bestow now. On your exploration, The whole sight is lit now, Clearly and with a shining blue haze. You revolve slowly on the spot, Taking in the splendor of it all. Beneath the layers of moss and algae, Fallen and decaying but still awe-inspiring are the broken foundations of a palatial structure. Pillars, Crowned with decorative botanicals, Worn stone steps, And crumbled archways. It reminds you, Somehow, Of the royal palace of Atlantis. Older, Of course. Then as you revolve, Your eyes fall upon the greatest marvel of all. How such a thing could have been obscured in darkness for so long you cannot conceive. It shines with tenfold brilliance against the blue haze of the plankton. It is gold, And silver, And white, And immense. A statue, Tall and towering, Unimaginably tall. You crane your neck, Then float upward toward its head to look it in the eyes. The face, Though worn, Is clearly that of a woman, Beautiful and terrible, Awesome like a goddess. She wears a golden helmet, Still shining underneath a thin layer of slippery moss. Her gown is rippled like the sand of the shallow ocean floor, Delicately played upon by waves. On her arm, She bears a mighty shield, Engraved with the scowling face of a monstrous woman whose hair extends from her head in rippling serpentine waves, Like eels or anemone. The statue resembles a great Atlantean, And she's adorned quite like the queen is, At triumphs and festivals. But one thing sets her apart from all Atlanteans, Whether queen, Commoner, Or noble. Where the statue meets its weathered platform, She stands on two legs. All at once, Your mind begins to buzz and rush with revelation. This mighty goddess, Or warrior, Is a relic of the surface world, Where they walk instead of swim. Her shining golden helmet must have once caught the direct, Unfiltered light of the sun. What a sight that must have been. Now it must have glowed, Blinding, Inspiring her worshippers to kneel at her feet, Averting their eyes from her impossible brilliance. Even now, You feel a slice of that awe, Like a holdover from some memory of another life, Compelling you almost to genuflect. Who is this goddess? How did she come to be here, Forgotten, Languishing in the darkest caverns in the depths of the ocean? From what ancient civilization does she hail? Beneath her feet, Carved into the platform, Is some sort of writing. It's a language you couldn't possibly interpret. The symbols are old, Worn, And unintelligible. You don't think you've seen such markings before, But there's something achingly familiar about them. An almost subconscious clarity, Despite their indiscernible meaning. It's like the feeling of trying to read text in a dream, When you don't know you're dreaming. The symbols may swim or flicker before you, And though they're impossible to untangle, You know intrinsically what they say. You swim circles around the extraordinary statue, Taking in the fine details of her gown, Her gesture, And her adornments. Once again, You shiver at the unlikely circumstance of being the only one who knows of its existence. If she really is a goddess, Then you are her sole postulant. You've never been religious, Per se. In your profession, You've cultivated a balance of objectivity and awe, Finding exaltation in the treasures of all the sea's varied spiritual traditions. You can look at an object with a healthy distance, Evaluating its form, Technique, And provenance, But in everywhere you seek and usually find that seed of the divine. When asked, You claim to believe in everything and worship nothing. But somehow, In the presence of this statue, Perhaps it's her sheer size or her imposing expression, You feel as though you've uncovered something lost within yourself, As though you've come home to something you didn't know you missed. And now your eye catches a faint glimmer below. Between two broken pillars, Almost swallowed by plumes of swaying soft coral, A metallic gleam. You dive toward it to get a closer look. It's long and narrow, Tarnished but remarkably well preserved. Your eyes travel to the base of the object, Lodged in a heavy stone that appears to be weighing it to the ocean floor. It's a spear. Elegantly fashioned in an unfamiliar style, But recognizable in purpose. This surely would be a proper gift for Allira on the day of her induction into the Order of the Tides. It only needs some restoration and polishing, Which you can do quickly in your workshop. This is it. The glowing blue plankton dance on, Whirl and blink in the dark water, Then, One by one, Feeling at last unthreatened by your presence, They blink out. Bit by bit, The fissure and the ruined temple return to inky darkness. Before the darkness swallows everything, You grasp the shaft of the spear, Hoping it's not lodged too tightly into the stone. But to your surprise, At your touch, The spear slips loose, As if it were only waiting for you to retrieve it. You hold it tight in your hand, Using the free arm to propel yourself upward and out of the fissure. You steal a final glance at the face of the statue, Before the last of the plankton blinks out. The small celebrations are already beginning in the sunlit streets of the kingdom within the walls. You take the long way to your workshop, In the thriving merchant's row of Atlantis. You cut through the neighborhood you grew up in, Where you and Allira were children. Your old neighbors are dressed in their best finery, Strung with rings of seashells, Or donning crowns of brightly colored seaflowers. There is music playing round every corner, From conchshell horns and tender harps, An exuberant cacophony of song. You can't help but smile, As you swim past raucous groups, Toasting each other's health and crying out Allira's name. How far you and she have come since you lived among these Atlanteans. But they are still as joyful and proud as they once were. Some of them call your name as you pass through, Raising a glass and a cheer to you. You laugh and wave and carry on. It's wonderful to see the city so alive, With your friend's name on everyone's lips. You are so proud of her. You can't wait to see her honored by the queen. If your gift can commemorate some small fraction of the pride she must feel today, Then it will be a success. Your shop is closed for the occasion, And you breeze past the elegant displays of antique jewelry, Ancient weapons, And inscribed tablets. There would be no customers today. The entire kingdom is expected to turn out for the celebration. Your workshop is on the second floor, And it's the exact opposite of what visitors to your shop might see. Instead of pristine platforms, Glass cases, And beautifully organized merchandise, It's strewn with objects in need of restoration. Left out tools, Bits, And bobs you never got around to verifying the authenticity of. This will be an easy job. You'll simply polish off the layer of corrosion. You assemble the necessary tools and solutions, Then retrieve the spear, Admiring it before it undergoes treatment. As you roll it over in your hands, Feeling the satisfying weight of it, Your fingers fall into tiny grooves along the shaft. You inspect closer, And there, So small you hadn't noticed it before, Is a tiny assemblage of markings, Symbols very similar to those you observed on the statue's platform. Your shoulders fall, But your heart flutters. In this moment, You know you cannot give the spear to Allera. It's something more than a rare and exquisite treasure recovered from an ancient ruin. It's a clue to the very foundations of Atlantis, A piece in a puzzle that your kingdom has spent centuries trying to solve. It may be the key to unlocking your past as a civilization, Or the key to uncovering what lies above the surface of the water. This can't be held by one person, Or hidden away in the collection of even the noblest of royal advisors. It's for everyone. You'll share your discovery, And encourage a full excavation of the fissure. Who knows what else will be discovered, What else you'll learn about yourselves. It's a bittersweet realization, For now, You must go empty-handed to Allera's triumph. But now your hands aren't empty, You'll bring your ever-ardent admiration along with new knowledge. You'll share it first with her, So that it might, For a moment, Be a secret between the two of you, Sparkling and rare, Before you bring it into the light. Feeling comforted and peaceful, You make your way to the street, Where crowds are gathering for the commencement of the parade. You can hear the entire kingdom erupting in cheers, Laughter, And excitement. Your eyes flick upward toward the palace, Which sits atop a hill at the highest point of the city, Visible from all locations in Atlantis. A network of spirals, And coral, And great marble pillars, Shining in the rays of sunlight that reach through the water to kiss its spires. And it emits its own inner glow, Too, Opalescent and soft. With a marked uproar in applause and cheers, You know the parade has begun. The route commences at the arch of the walled city, Before winding through the streets of every neighborhood on the way to the palace. It's not long before it reaches your vantage point, To raucous hurrahs. A band plays horns and drums to an old Atlantean tune. Carriages pass by, Drawn by hordes of seahorses, And bearing important local leaders. There are shoals of blue tang, Their brilliant colors catching the light. A smack of jellyfish float by, Their tendrils swaying in the waves like ribbons. A consortium of crabs scuttle by, Claws raised to the sky. An audience of squid undulate across your line of sight. As the parade winds down the narrow streets, You can sense its culmination. The young prince and princess, Flanked by their escorts, Ride by on the backs of green sea turtles, With serene expressions waving to the onlookers. It must be their first such parade, You reflect. Then the final carriage rounds a corner, Drawn by silent stingrays, Bearing the queen herself. And Allera by her side. Your chest swells with pride when you see her in the place of honor, Smiling from ear to ear and waving out of the carriage. A swell of cheers burst forth from the crowd, Who cry her name and utter words of veneration to the queen. You holler and whoop along with the rest. As the carriage scuds by, Allera's eyes fall upon you in the crowd, And her smile widens even more, Her eyes crinkling around the corners. Then, In the split second that you can hold eye contact, She gives you a kind of expression that only you could decipher. It means something like, How did I manage to wind up here? And then she rounds the next curve, And the parade trails off up toward the palace. There's a palpable buzz of excitement from the crowd, Who close in on the narrow street, Moving collectively behind the parade's tail. All of the city is swimming behind you and before you as the parade closes, To the palace, To the ceremony. The energy is contagious, But you feel a serene calm wash over you, Even amid the bustle and noise. When you reach the palace, It's as though the courtyard and square expand to hold all the citizens within it, Like it's drawn in an enormous breath and ballooned outward. You squeeze through to find an optimal sightline. The queen is at her dais, High above the throngs, Resplendent in blue robes. Above her brow is a radiant traditional headdress, Reminiscent of the helmet worn by the statue in the fissure. She wears, You note, A decadent neckpiece dripping with pink and black pearls, The one you yourself procured at her attendance request last year. You smirk with some pride at its inclusion in such a day of honor. The queen's children flank her on either side, And Allera attends below the dais, Decked in her diplomatic uniform. The queen's voice carries over the crowds, And a hush falls over you all as she speaks. She welcomes the crowds and gives thanks for such a marvelous parade through this beautiful city. Then she angles her head to smile on Allera. As the queen begins to praise Allera's career, Her courage and nobility, And describe the deeds which have earned her the place of honor today, You beam with tenderness and pride. What a privilege it's been to see your friend blossom from a timid child into the toast of the kingdom. You feel honored to have known her all your life. Now the queen summons Allera before her, And in a charming move, Whispers something to the young princess, Who moves forward. The queen says the words of honor, Proclaiming Allera a master in the order of the tides. But the princess is the one who hangs the medal around Allera's neck. You know Allera must love this, And perhaps she even requested it. Then the queen raises Allera to the dais for all to see, And the cheering resumes. All exalt this daughter of Atlantis. What follows is a feast so sumptuous it can hardly be believed. The whole of the citizenry floods in through the palace's open gates toward the great hall, Held up on sturdy marble pillars and walls that shine with mother-of-pearl. The chandelier is a bloom of undulating anemone, Bright and pink against the white and gold furnishings. The queen's table is vast and serpentine, Winding its way around the hall. To make a place setting for everyone, Allera catches your eye from across the hall, Mutters something to the queen, Who smiles and swims over to you. She takes your arm and brings you back to her seat, Gesturing to a place reserved for you, Her dearest friend. Together you sup on delicacies from all across the ocean. You even have the occasion to remark to the queen that the necklace she wears is from your collection. You whisper to Allera during a moment of distraction that if she can get away this evening, You have something to show her. Her eyes flash with intrigue and she nods silently. The night comes on slowly, The ocean growing dark around the palace and outside the narrow windows. Orbs of phosphorescent light illuminate the table, Casting a diaphanous glow about the revelers. The energy wanes as all who dine here become sated and sleepy. The queen dismisses her guests and you pour out of the palace gates once more, Quieter now, But still mirthful. As the citizens of Atlantis float drowsily toward their homes, You and Allera slip away. The city glows at night, A beacon of light in the dark, Swaying sea. It's too dark, After all, To take Allera to the fissure, But you're happy for her private company after such a day. She's happy too. As gratifying as it is to receive mountains of praise from the royal family and the whole of the city, She prefers the quiet. You're a tether to reality, She says. You'll keep her from becoming so self-satisfied. She floats right up to the surface. Laughing, You both turn your eyes upward. From here, You can see the faint glow of the moon beyond the waves. You tell her about your visit to the fissure, The ruins of the temple, The pillars, The strange and yet familiar symbols, The statue of the goddess. The whole story spills forth from your eager lips after holding it to yourself all day. When you finish telling her everything, Even about the tarnished spear, You look to her. Her eyes are wide and restless, Amazed. She smiles. I knew there was something down there. Something marvelous, She says. Then, Playfully, I can't believe you went without me. You give a sheepish smile. With more seriousness, She asks what you think it all means. Where it came from. You've hardly come to any such conclusions before now, But you feel something crystallizing as she asks the question. Like knowledge that comes to you intrinsically in a dream. You're still gazing upward at the shimmer of moonlight. I think we used to live up there, You find yourself saying, Though you hardly recognize your own voice. You stare, Eyes turned upward toward the end of the ocean. Toward that uncharted other realm where mythic figures walk instead of swim. You softly sway with the rhythm of the water, Pondering. Overhead, Something is happening. Under the veil of moonlight, Trails of colorful light burst and dance across your line of sight, Distorted by the waves. It's hard to make out. You feel Allira's hand grasp yours firmly, And before you know it, She's pulling you up, Up toward the surface. Hesitations flash across your mind. Atlanteans don't go to the surface. The air may be toxic. You don't know what's up there. But these thoughts quickly fade. You feel lucky to swim in the shadow of Allira's bravery. So, Up you go, Up, Up toward the surface. When your heads breach the water, An uncanny sensation comes over you. For a moment, You feel intense discomfort as your body yearns for water to breathe. But then, Something kicks into place, And through your nostrils something just as sweet as water floods in. Clean, Salty, Fresh air fills you up, Bringing vitality and peace to you. You can breathe above the water. A miracle. And above? A wondrous thing. Color and light blaze against a black sky, Riddled with tiny twinkling sparks. Plumes of light, Like weeping anemone, Burst and spread wide across the night. Again and again they explode like clouds of ink, Violet and red and white gold. You've never seen such things before. You've never dreamt of such things. Eyes up to the heavens, The sky alight. It's darker and deeper and vaster even than the ocean, You think. What wonders lie in that limitless expanse? The sky that seems littered with gems. Your dearest friend beside you, Now a master of the tides, You feel a whole new world rush inward on your breath. Your skin prickles. The waves roll on. This story is a retelling of classical myths surrounding Medusa and the Gorgons. I've taken a number of liberties with the sources to offer an adaptation that fits the tone of sleep and sorcery, But some of the themes of this tale may skew a bit mature for younger listeners. If you listen with kids, Parental discretion is advised. I saw you once, Medusa. We were alone. I looked you straight in the cold eye, Cold. I was not punished, Was not turned to stone. How to believe the legends, I am told. May Sarton, The Muse as Medusa There is no moon tonight, And the tide is quiet. You've been waiting for the dark moon to make this journey. It was meant to be like this. With wings outstretched, You ride the winds of night, Your feathers afloat through wisps and crystals of clouds. All down the centuries, You've honed the skill to change your shape. The old gods like yourself are all but forgotten, And your true, Divine form would surely overcome the mortal mind. So you slink among them in other skins, Sometimes human, Often animal. Tonight you fly on the wings of your favorite creature, The owl. Your eyes are sharp, Even in the dark of a moonless night. The island lies ahead, Just beyond the horizon. All below you now is ocean, Poseidon's domain. Soaring, You ponder the seas and sunken splendors. Do kingfishers nest on the bubbling foam, Tending their eggs on the waves? Does fair Atlantis lie far beneath, Where the waters shifted and rose to overtake that once great empire? What else lies forgotten at the ocean's floor? Your destination, Too, Is a forgotten place. It never was easy to get there, Especially for those without a drop of divine blood. You recall the trials your champion, Perseus, Underwent just to come to its shores. It lies to the far west, At the frayed edges of night's starry cloak, On the threshold, Even, Of Hades' dark domain. How many moons have cycled since you set that champion toward this place. If gods are ever truly young, You might have called it your youth, Though you sprung into existence fully formed. Now, You suppose, By any measure, You are old. Old enough to remember the rise and fall of more than one civilization. Old enough to forget the wars you once fought, And on which side. But you could never forget her. You thank the wind for its subtle resistance on your wings, Because though you are determined to make this journey, A part of you aches to turn back. As long as the wind blows against you, There is still time to change your mind. Steal yourself. There is nothing there but ancient memory, And gods do not fear memories. And it does, At times, Amuse you, What the collective memory of humankind holds on to, And what it lets go. Perhaps, Amuse is the wrong word. Does it concern you? Surprise you? Should you be at all surprised that they seem to grasp onto the most sensational details? Both exaggerating them, And flattening them into their simplest forms. When they remember her, It is with word and image that could never express the multitudes, The nuances of her existence. When they hear her name, Only one word comes to their lips. Monster. It's easier that way for them. To truly know her, Comprehend her, Requires dwelling on the uncomfortable, Confronting one's own prejudice, And expanding perspective. You should know, You are the one responsible for how she's remembered, And for all these ages, You've wrestled with that fact. Her name was Medusa, And before that name inspired fear in the hearts of humanity, It belonged to a young priestess. In those days, Temples to you were numerous and thriving. Now, Most have crumbled into the sea, Or else they are preserved as monuments to a distant past. The young Medusa tended the olive grove beside your temple. Supplicants who came to honor your shrine were often so entranced by her beauty that they forgot their devotion. She didn't want this. You know that now. But in those days, You had such little sympathy, Even for those who served you most ardently. And Medusa was uncommonly beautiful, This was impossible to deny. Though she kept her gaze lowered in the presence of your statue, Anyone could see that her eyes sparkled like gems. Even the veil of a priestess could not fully obscure her most exquisite attribute, The curls of long black hair that hung down her back. It helped that she was never boastful. There were queens across Hellas who would proudly proclaim their beauty as rivaling goddesses and nymphs. Just as there were mortals who claimed their talents outshone yours. Medusa never made such insults. So for a time, You looked the other way. As long as she tended the olive trees and kept her oath as priestess, You would not interfere. It was when she turned the head of Poseidon, Lord of the Seas, That she earned your wrath. Burned by betrayal, You turned on the fair priestess, Taking that surpassing beauty from her. The once soft skin turned to scales, And leathery wings grew from the blades of her shoulders. You transformed her lovely eyes, So often downturned, Into rueful weapons which none could look upon without being turned instantly to stone. And her beautiful, Obsidian hair, This you turned to a tangled mess of snakes. Stripped of her beauty and endowed with lethal gaze, Medusa fled to the island, On the far side of the ocean, The edge of night, And the known world. There she found others like her, Her sisters, The Gorgons. You never knew, Perhaps never wanted to know, If they were already there, Waiting for her, Mirrors of her own condition. Or if somehow, They evolved from her, Splitting like cells to flank and protect her. It wouldn't be the first time such a thing had happened, One into three, Or three into one. You remember far-reaching Hecate, With her triple face, And that mother-daughter pair, Demeter and Persephone, Who, With Hecate, Were sometimes one, And sometimes three. Even you have felt your own edges blur at times, As if remembering a deep past when you had no name and were one with all the divine essence, Before humanity learned to draw borders and categories, Before even the Titans were the old gods and you the new. This is the mystery so few understand, That you, The gods, Were made in humankind's image. Or perhaps not made, But unmade. You were once one thing, One vast and unfathomable quintessence. And the coming of humanity broke that essence into pieces, Shattered the indivisible one into a thousand faces. Like the facets of a diamond, Or the mist that hangs round after a rain to create arcing prisms, You reflected against one another, Casting illusions of new gods in endless permutations. Each of you, A unique composite of all the stories humans would ever tell, All the archetypes they'd ever dream. You weave in and out of each other, Olympian or otherwise, Morphing and transfiguring down the passage of time. There were times you didn't know where one of you ended and the other began. And the divisions didn't stop. Even when you claimed your individual name, The stories continued to split you into aspects and epithets. Another version of of you, Another reflection for every mystery cult, Every shrine, Every temple. Why should Medusa be any different? As you fly now, An eerie shimmer dances over the horizon that isn't far. Your destination, The island, The once home to the Gorgons. But your responsibility to Medusa doesn't end with her transformation. A part of you wishes you could say it did. You wish her escape to the Isle of the Gorgons was the end of her story, And you could imagine for her a long and happy, If isolated, Life with her sisters. Peace in the company of those who do not fear her appearance or power, But alas, There was only woe in store for poor Medusa. When Perseus invoked your favor, Something not easily denied to the children of Zeus, You gave advice, Gentle direction, And critical information. The young man, Boy, Really, Was on a quest to kill a Gorgon, To destroy wretched Medusa. You nudged him toward the ancient Graeae sisters, Another three, Whom he tricked into revealing the whereabouts of the Hesperides, Three, Again, Nymphs who guarded the isle. The orchard of Hera. Throughout his winding journey, Perseus collected gifts, Artifacts, Boons from the gods. From Hades, Lord of the underworld, He was given a helmet of invisibility, So he could approach the Gorgons unseen. From Hermes, The divine messenger and perpetual trickster, Winged sandals to make him fleet afoot. From Zeus, The magic sword with which to do the deed. And from you, A shield, Polished so keenly it shone like a mirror. And with these gifts, Though it pains you to remember your role, Perseus accomplished his near-impossible task. The burnished shield allowed him to look upon the reflection of Medusa's sleeping face without ever meeting her stony gaze. The saga, Long past, Weighs heavy on your heart. This is one of the banes of immortality, To have eternity to wrestle with your wrongs and regrets. You've slipped through cycles of apathy, Certainly, But Medusa lingers, Never quite leaving your thoughts. There's an obvious reason for this, You suppose. After the triumph of Perseus, Your shared triumph as you considered it at the time, You had the Gorgon's face painted on your own shield, The Aegis. There, The visage of Medusa struck fear in the hearts of your enemies, Bolstered your authority, And served as a reminder of the consequences of underestimating the Olympians. This is the way with gods, After all. For all the dominion, All the power you possess, There is no escaping the pettiness and little envies, These inward forces that begin so small and swell to the size of oceans. One bad turn, One minuscule wrong between Olympians may echo down the ages, Through bloodlines and dynasties, Leaving incalculable wreckage. And you can so rarely see those consequences. The impact on all those mortals' lives, Even from your owl's eye view in the golden halls of Olympus. And this is the question with which you've reckoned for centuries, As humankind continued to reshape the myths in their own image. What do you owe to Medusa? She with whom you are irrevocably linked, Whose face you wear on your armor, And whose ruin you brought down out of a fleeting anger? Tonight, Whether you answer that question or not, You will at least look the past in the eye, And if you can help it, You will not flinch. And your feathers melt to smooth skin and your talons to sandaled feet as you finally touch down on the sands of the shore. This island which resides on the glimmering edge of night, Seems shrouded in perpetual twilight. It wears a glittering veil of gold and purple, An undulating aurora. All this time, Such a beautiful place existed outside your reach. You never came here, Never looked on Medusa after her transformation. And in all the ages since she last walked these sands, You kept the island safely out of sight and mind. Now you behold its loveliness with awe, Wishing you'd had the courage to come sooner. That this paradise should be the home of monsters. No, Not monsters, You remind yourself, That's not what the Gorgons were, And that's the very narrative you're here to change. They were a family. You ascend the glittering dunes, Stepping past the reeds. Wind off the water blows through them, And they whisper an elegant tune. You carry the aegis adorned with the face of Medusa, But you hold it lowered at your side. There is no one here to intimidate, Nothing left to fear. You're not sure what you expected to find on the island, But at the crest of a dune you meet a family of tiny creatures, Flanked in formation at your feet. Sandpipers, You recognize. Small shorebirds that travel together, Either flocking on wing, Or running up and down beaches as a pack, Digging for food in the sand as the tide goes out. But this flock stands motionless, Their little feet buried in the shifting sand, All of them stone. You encounter more surreal statuary as you move through the island's landscape, In the waving grasses hides a motionless serpent, Turned to stone it seems, At the very moment it was poised to strike. On the bow of a mighty tree, There perches a once golden eagle, Now a pale grey, Poised to spread its wings and take flight. The illusion of motion is palpable, Though the wings and body remain forever rigid. A fox, Paws buried in the soil where it must have been digging when, Stirred by a sudden sound, It looked up and into her eyes. This island, You realize, Is a museum, A testament, A sculpture garden. Full of frozen birds and beasts, A place of silence and eerie stillness, Where the only sound is wind on waves, Breeze through branches. You wonder, Often, What her life was like here, So far from the temple where she once tended the olive grove. You find yourself hoping that the peace and beauty of the island was, In some way, Consolation for how you transformed her. But then you imagine how lonely it must have been, Exiled away from the world, Unable to look upon any living thing without turning it to stone. Could she even look upon the faces of her beloved sisters, Uriale and Stheno? Could she behold her own reflection? In time, You reach the heart of the island, Where trees obscure the mouth of a vast cave. This was where the Gorgons lived. And before the cave, There are two figures, Frozen in time, Their arms outstretched. Under Twilight's curtain, They are only vacant silhouettes. But as you draw nearer, Their features come more clearly into view. Vines wrap around their stone ankles, As if holding them in place, As they try in vain to rush forward. The wings at their shoulders and the frozen crowns of serpents betray their identities. Here are Uriale and Stheno, Medusa's sisters, Immortal and yet turned to stone. They reach forward with such active energy, It seems they could break through their rocky shells, Reaching, No doubt, For their sister, Reduced to a weapon by Perseus. You read the sorrow and grief in their weather-worn faces, And it strikes you that the sisters are, While fearsome, Quite beautiful. Written in stone is their capacity for profound, Even fathomless love. That anyone with such mighty capacity should be labeled monster. That word again. For all their faults, Their fleeting lives, Their childish games, Humans have proven themselves capable of change. And the one place you've seen that change most tangible is in their language. You've felt it bubbling through the stories, Retold and reformed throughout the centuries. What earthly alchemy is it that imbues old words with new meanings, Changes the shape of histories? The storytellers have reclaimed Medusa's rage, Rewritten her monstrosity, And even, In some cases, Absolved your part in the tale. You cannot undo what was done all those ages ago, Cannot reshape the myths to cast you as ally, Protector. Patron of Medusa. That is for humankind to do. You've heard retellings wherein you gift Medusa with her wings and snakes and stony gaze, Endowing her with divine power rather than cursing her. And in your heart, You thank humanity for the generosity in such retellings. But what have you done to deserve such absolution? Now, In the presence of her stone sisters, Their unending love and grief etched in their eternal expressions, You find yourself overcome with emotion. It is not, You recognize, Medusa's story that needs redeeming, But your own. Until now, You didn't know how you planned to honor her. You only knew that it was time to confront the past, To face the statues of the Gorgon's Isle. Now it comes to you as a voice from within. Bury the aegis, The voice whispers, Beneath the dark moon. Let Medusa go. Of course, You've borne her with you, If only symbolically, For so long. Carried her image into battle and clung to her in peacetime. You've worn her face without ever acknowledging the harm that was done to her. Just like Perseus, You claimed her as a tool, A weapon of your own will. It's time to let go. To let her be an end, Instead of a means to give back her sovereignty. And you hold the aegis out before you to look upon the face of Medusa. It is only a rendering, And though the eyes burn with a fierce intensity, The image alone cannot turn you to stone. Still, You feel immobilized, Disarmed by the frontal gaze. In the vapors of twilight, Though no moon lends its glow, The burnished shield still shines back. And past the eyes of Medusa, You behold your own. Maybe Medusa was always a mirror, For you, For so many others. Yes, She is beautiful, You think. There is beauty in her power, Her uncaged emotion, Her wildness. And it occurs to you now that if you could do it all again, If you could make a different choice, You're not sure you would. You might still give her the wings, And the serpents. You might still give her the gaze that petrifies. But you would change one thing. You would be there. You would teach her to use that power. You would guide her. You would help her love the wings and the scales and the serpents, Because they protect that which she loves. Because they can heal. Because they scare away those forces that would harm her and all beloved things. You would give them as a gift, And not as a curse. Or better yet, You would give her choice. If nothing else, Choice. Your eyes shine with tears as you place the aegis at the feet of the stone gorgons. At once, A wind rises from behind you, Sweeping soil and sand over the shield, Half burying it there at the mouth of the cave. They are reunited, Three again, And one. You almost reach out to clasp their stony hands, To take the place of their sister, With whom you are forever entwined. But instead, You go. You've done what you came to do. This was the ritual. The pilgrimage. The marriage. The burial of that which you would let go. Medusa was with you through it all, And now you turn to leave the island alone. You feel lighter, And strangely lonely, Unguarded. But the vulnerability is refreshing. An openness you've never felt. This must be what forgiveness feels like. You steal a glance back at the cave before it leaves your line of sight, And you squint to make out the silhouettes of the gorgons. From here, Though it could only be a trick of the endless twilight, There might be three figures, Standing with hands clasped. With your heart full, You retrace your steps through the solitary paradise. But where once, A stone snake poised low in the grass, Now there blooms wild, Flowering parsley. Prickly ivy, Red with berries, Winds round the branch whereupon you first saw the stone eagle perched. Delicate dianthus blossoms where the fox was digging in the earth, And peppering the dunes where the stone sandpipers once stood. There are sweet-smelling asphodel. Medusa's garden flowers again, Souls set free from stone. When you go forth from the island into a world where the old gods are little more than symbols and stories, You will endeavor to be more like Medusa. Not monster, But muse. Not monster, But mirror. You can no longer use her as a shield, It's time to bring your own face to the fight. Embrace the sacredness of your wildest self, Your most unchained emotions. The transformative power of rage, And the alchemical process of forgiveness. As your arms turn again to wings, And your sandaled feet to talons, You lift off from the beaches and depart the island of twilight. Wind combs your feathers, Lifting your heart. With the lightness of all you've let go, The brightness of spirit that comes from the profound experience of catharsis, You fly. It has never been said that you were one to leave important things, Milestones, Decisions, Up to chance. You've always been the type to think ahead, To plan meticulously, And to control as many variables as you can. But every once in a while, When the air is just right, Or the need is there, You will admit that you've let yourself listen to the call of the unknown, The spontaneous. You've rolled the dice, Or answered a voice that sings on the wind, Whether or not the circumstances are under your control. One looking back at the story of your life might not find a great adventure on every page, But in the most unexpected chapters, That reader would uncover wild and wondrous mysteries. This is one of those chapters. It was one of those things that lines up as if by cosmic synchronicity. You've been feeling drained for a long time, Going through the motions in your work and everyday life. Every inch of you has ached for a retreat, A vacation, Even a short time away to recharge your batteries, So to speak. And it was when this very need hit its most critical point, That out of the blue, A childhood friend reached out for the first time in a long while. You hadn't meant to fall out of touch, It's just the way things seem to go as you get older. People move cities, Grow their families, Change jobs, And relationships evolve. There's no less love between you, Though. And when you answer her phone call, You find that you simply pick up where the two of you left off, As if no time has passed since last you spoke. You spend some time just catching up, Recounting the biggest events and changes in your lives over the last year or two, Revisiting little inside jokes. But soon, She comes to the reason for her call. My aunt, She says, Is selling the cottage. You know exactly what your friend refers to, The little beachfront cottage on Emerald Cove. When you were kids, You were lucky enough to be invited up there for a week or so each summer, To stay in that charming beachside bungalow on a quiet ocean inlet. Even now, The memories seem clear as those sparkling waters. Your mind fills with images of bright pink starfish clinging to the rocks, Brilliant sunsets over the waves, And splashing through the lapping water in the warm afternoon. You would play for hours along that shore, Pretending to be pirates burying treasure, Or mythical sea creatures. And as these little flashes lighten your heart, You also fill with bittersweet emotion. To know that the cottage is being sold signals the end of an era. A final closure to something already long past. Your friend continues. She was tired of the upkeep and doesn't want to make the trek from the city anymore. It's a shame, But it makes the most sense for her. I'm sorry to hear it, You say. I have so many magical memories of that place. I'm sure you have even more. So that's why I called, She says. You learn that the process is moving quickly, And that your friend's aunt hasn't been able to get up to the cottage to do the last of the preparation for the sale. She's been looking for someone who's willing to make the trek, Pack up some belongings, And do a bit of light cleaning. I'd go up myself, But the kids have so much going on the next few weeks, Your friend says. But I was thinking about how much fun we used to have up there. How much you loved the cottage. So I know it's terribly short notice, And it's really no problem if you couldn't make the trip or weren't interested, But yes, You say, Before she even has time to finish the ask. Before you've even had time to think about it. It's as if your very heart screams yes, Cutting through any reservations before they can surface. This, You think, Is exactly what you need. A getaway to someplace familiar and peaceful. A task to occupy your hands, But that lets your mind relax. And an opportunity to refresh in solitude. Before you end the phone call, Your friend gives you some of the details, Promising to send anything else you'll need along later today. She offers profuse gratitude, But it's you who swells with thanks at the perfect timing of all this. Just the thought of escaping up the coast to that land of happy memories lightens your soul, Makes the rest of your day that much easier to tackle. Only a few short days later, You find yourself driving up the coastline, A window rolled down to breathe in the fresh air. It's amazing how the atmosphere transforms as you travel further from the haunts of your everyday life. How cool and energizing the air is when flecked with salt and the ocean's moisture. The road curves around cliff sides and through sleepy, Off-season beach towns. In just a few short weeks, They'll be bustling again with the first summer vacationers, The streets crowded with surfers, Families, And cyclists. You were a child the last time you made this trip, And it looks different from the driver's seat. A warm nostalgia tugs at your heart with every passing hour. You make a stop in a small town, The last one on the map, Before the turn toward your secluded destination. Here you stock up on groceries for the week and supplies to have around the house. The cottage is a good 20 or 30 minutes from the center of town, So while it's easy enough to head back in, You try to make sure you're covered for the week, Hoping not to lose even a minute of the blissful quiet of Emerald Cove. Satisfied in your supply, You are back on the road in no time, Turning onto the winding, Rarely traveled road that leads to the cove and cottage of your childhood memory. It's late in the day when you make the final turn into the long, Gravel driveway. The sun droops scarlet over the rocks and the glittering water, With such a vibrance that it's almost impossible to see the full impression of the place. Getting out of the car, You put a hand over your eyes to take in the property, And it slides into focus like a watercolor memory blending to photograph. What a treasure it is, You think, This place. The cozy inlet is surrounded by tall, Gray rocks. These act like walls or thresholds, Separating Emerald Cove, A safe haven for dreams and fantasy from the ordinary world, To those rocks cling brave, Twisted conifers whose branches reach lovingly toward the water. So close to sunset, That water is calm and sparkling, Catching the multifaceted hues of oncoming evening as it laps at the dusky sand. And only steps from the water, Cloaked in ferns and flowering azaleas, Just as charming as you remember, Is the little cottage. Its lilac facade and wraparound porch with twin cushioned rocking chairs, The French doors, And big windows. In all this time, Amid a fast-paced world, It seems entirely unchanged. Your heart gives a little flutter at the sight of it, And at the realization that, At least for a brief several days, It is all yours. You breathe in the salty ocean air, Feeling the little drops of moisture soften the skin of your face and wash away all your worries. And yes, You think, This is exactly the thing you need. A week alone in this sublime environment, Surrounded by ocean, And rock, And dune and azalea, These natural guardians of inner peace. The cottage has a distinct and familiar scent which greets you upon entry, Passing through the door charmed with a brass knocker in the shape of a mermaid. It's a citrusy and bright fragrance with notes of clean linen and sandalwood. Standing in the foyer, You can almost hear the sounds of joyful childish shrieks and the pitter-patter of sandy feet running in from the beach. The house is more sparsely appointed than you remember, Clearly staged for showings, But it's retained much of the original charm with some recognizable decor repurposed. A mirror adorned with seashells and sea glass hangs in the front hallway, And the remaining furniture is a mix of the same sea-foam green and pale coral you recall from the past. You take a brief walk through the cottage, Feeling the memory of its layout come back little by little. The quaint first floor bedroom where you and your friend each had a twin bed and would stay up late swapping stories and giggling over gossip. The modest kitchen with its cozy breakfast nook and window onto the dunes. The master bedroom in the loft at the top of a narrow staircase, Which as a kid seemed impossibly steep. Now it all feels much smaller, Much more contained, But still just as magical. With the sun making its final departure over the water's edge, You decide to eat a modest supper on the front porch. It's quite cool in the twilight, So you bring a wool blanket out to cozy up with, And you sit in one of the rockers, Calmly enjoying the incomparable tranquility of the evening. The waves roll in, The waves roll out. Your breathing slows down to meet that natural rhythm, The constant ebb and flow. You watch the play of color, Even in the descending darkness on the shifting water, The blues and emerald greens that overlap in the waves. There emerges a symphony so sweet, So subtle, That it's almost a kind of silence. The sound of the ocean, The breeze through fern and evergreen atop the rocks, The distant call of gulls over the water, And the hum of crickets. You stay in that rocker, Swaying to the rhythm of the waves, Until moonrise, When the gem of a waxing moon glitters over the black water. Your mind empties of all concerns or cares, All obligations outside of your need to be here, Right now, In a state of utter serenity. There will be work to do on the cottage tomorrow, But for now, You simply surrender to the magic of returning to this home, Away from home. Soon enough, You climb the stairs to the bedroom in the loft, Where a bed is ready for you. You open the window that overlooks the water, Just enough to let in a night breeze, And you climb into bed. Pulling the covers close, You take one last look at the moon, Which shines right in through the window, Gleaming a few days short of full, And you close your eyes, Listening to the sound of the waves and the symphony of the beach. What a tender music it is, You think, And as you linger on the hinge of sleep, A faint melody emerges over the swell of white noise, Like a piper on the other side of dreams. It isn't long before you slide into the deepest, Most unperturbed sleep you've experienced in some time. You spend your days at the cottage in a harmonious balance between labor and leisure. The work you've come to do is really quite simple. Movers will come eventually to haul out the furniture and staging items, So the only thing for you to do is pack up smaller belongings nested in closets and storage spaces. You devote a couple of hours each day to organizing photo albums, Sorting through books and mementos, And thoughtfully packing boxes. But there's also ample time to relax, With your toes in the sand, And to walk the winding paths over the rocks. You end each day by watching the sunset on the water, Tangled in the spell of twilight, And drifting off under the swelling moon to the mystical melodies of the ocean. On your fourth day, The water is finally warm enough to dip your feet in, Without sending chills through your entire body. You wade through the shallows, Gathering bits of sea glass and unbroken shells, Little remembrances to hold onto long after you've left. You're amazed to find a palm-sized conch shell perfectly intact, Half buried in the sand. You turn it over in your hands, Admiring the contrast of textures, The rough, Spiny spiral of the exterior and the smooth, Pink interior. Sparked by memories of childhood ritual, You hold it to your ear. Yes, You think, There it is, The sound of the ocean echoes from within. That night, You place your treasures by your bedside, Where they twinkle in the moon glow streaming in through the window. The moon grows fuller each night, Its curves rounding out, And perhaps it's the solitude and peace of emerald cove working a bit of trickery upon your mind. But you feel as though the fuller it gets, The more it tugs at you the way it tugs at the tides, As if you are softly swooning toward it. You climb into bed as usual, Waiting for the sound of waves to gently lull you into dreaming. But tonight, For one reason or another, Perhaps it's the glinting of sea glass on the nightstand, Or the hypnotic beauty of the moon at this hour. You don't slip as easily into sleep as usual. And when that mystical melody arises, The one that beckons to you each night from the edge of dreams, You find that your curiosity for once overwhelms the need for slumber. And after some hesitation and convincing yourself that the rising music is not, In fact, Coming from inside your mind, You get to your feet and go to the window. The scene below is mesmerizing indeed. The near full moon hanging so low over the coruscating water that it almost kisses the surface, Its reflection swimming dizzily just underneath. Your eyes drift downward to the space where the waves meet the sand, And you audibly gasp to behold the spectacle there. The rolling waves are positively glowing, With a phosphorescent blue-green. The effect is breathtaking, And it takes your mind some time to identify the source. It must be, You decide, A lustrous tide of bioluminescent algae, Or something of the sort. You'd never known this beach to experience such tides, But then again, You've never observed its patterns this late at night. What a marvel, You think, With a surge of gratitude for your friend's invitation to see this place one more time. You watch the dazzling tide, With its entrancing color shifts, For a long time, Letting the cool breeze kiss your face and hair, And the mysterious, Alluring melody wind around your mind. You breathe in the scent of salt and flowers, Until your eyes have drunk of the beauty long enough, And sleep beckons. But just as you go to turn away from the window, Something catches your eye that you did not see before, So swept up in the spectacle of the bioluminescent waves. It's the silhouette of one of the rocks that protrudes from the edge of the shallows, One whose shape you know well from years of imaginative play. This was the rock you and your friend once pretended was an approaching pirate ship. With the moon so wide and golden behind it, The silhouette of the rock seems transformed. The moon's glow is so bright that you must squint to bring its fuzzy edges into sharpness, And then it becomes clear. There is, You're sure of it, A figure perched atop the rock, All dark against the moon but unmistakably organic. There's someone sitting on the rock out there in the water, But who and how? Emerald Cove is far from any public beach, And it's hard to imagine anyone out this late for a solitary swim. And then the haunting melody sounds again above the sound of waves, And it occurs to you. Might this mysterious figure on the rocks be the voice of that song? Now overcome with curiosity, You descend the steps from the loft and slide open the French doors onto the porch. You don't even think to put on shoes or slippers, And your bare feet meet cool sand as you tiptoe out onto the beach, Hoping for a clearer look at the mysterious visitor. You stop just as the waves flick at your toes, And for one brief moment you can see her, Framed in an aura of moonlight, Her hair long, Falling damp about her shoulders and tangled with kelp. Her skin takes on a greenish glow from the lights on the water, And at her waist, Her human form gives way to a slender tail covered in iridescent fish scales. Your eyes widen in disbelief, But at the very moment of realization, The very second you realize what she is, The singing stops. Her hair whips as she turns her head, And you catch the gleam ever so briefly in her eyes. Before, With a flash of gold and green and moonbeams, She dives from the rock, Disappearing instantly under the waves. You're left with lapping water, Incandescent and humming, Creeping with each wake closer to your feet. You're alone with the ocean and the moon. By the time you've returned to the cottage, Rinsed the sand from your feet, And crawled back into bed, The whole affair has taken on the quality of an especially vivid dream. You can't believe what you've seen, Can you? Was it only the hypnotic enchantment of the tide and the moon that conjured such a fantastical image? You turn over in bed, Facing away from the window, And let your mind slow down as you at last succumb to sleep. By daybreak, The evening's strange encounter has all but faded into the aspect of a surreal vision — you're hardly sure if you even witnessed the bioluminescent tide, Let alone wandered out onto the beach, Entranced by the silhouette of a mythical creature. You go about your day's task, Packing up the last of the loose items in the pantry into neat boxes and stacking them intentionally in the living room. In the afternoon, You take a longer walk along the dunes, And even meet an older couple out with their dog. You learn that they're the closest neighbors to Emerald Cove, Retired and living at the beach year-round. Inspired, You ask them whether the area experiences the phenomenon of bioluminescent tides. Oh, Isn't it marvelous, The woman replies with a smile. Last night was the first of this season. And you have good timing. It only happens a few nights out of the year. Back at the cottage later, You find yourself heavily preoccupied with thoughts of the curious figure. You count the hours till sundown, Keeping busy by sweeping floors and scrubbing countertops. The afternoon drags by slowly, As if some cosmic force knows how insatiable your curiosity is for the wonders of the night. You end up pacing the living room, Ready to unpack and reorganize all the boxes you've put together, If it'll only keep your mind occupied until dark. That's when you recall the cover of a book you packed on the first full day at the cottage. You find the tub of books and unseal it, Rummaging carefully through for the one in mind. It's a volume you remember seeing on the shelf from childhood. It's sort of a silly thing if you really think about it. A coffee table book of sprites, Fairies, Elves, And other magical creatures, Designed to read like a biological reference. It's filled with illustrations and diagrams of gnomes and sylphs, Brownies and household spirits, Each accompanied by summaries, Folklore, And instructions for interaction. A sort of field guide to the magical, Couched in the language of the mundane. Charmed, You flip through to the section on mermaids. There are fascinating illustrations of merpeople, Some which resemble the characters of your favorite childhood films, And others that look like outgrowths of aquatic plant life. You read about the sirens of Greek mythology, Bird women whose alluring voices could coax weary sailors into the depths of the sea, And who later came to be conflated with naiads and the human-fish hybrids of other folklore traditions. There's mention of Rusalka, A Slavic water spirit, Andeans, Who appear in the alchemical works of Paracelsus, And permutations of merfolk from all over the world. You read the tragic tale of Atar Goddess, So defined as the First Mermaid. This Assyrian goddess of the moon, Water, And motherhood fell in love with a mortal shepherd. When her husband died, Atar Goddess was so overcome with grief that she threw herself into a lake. But the waters loved her so, And wanted to look upon her loveliness. So she was transformed into a beautiful creature with the tail of a fish. The story moves you and stirs faint recognition, Though you're sure you haven't heard it before. You read on to learn about many other variations of water sprites, Nymphs, And fairies. You become so absorbed in the book, The wonderful pictures, And the tidbits of folklore, That you hardly notice the light changing outside the broad windows. Soon, The day dims to an orange and violet dusk around you, And the sunset on the water reflects in glimmers across the walls. You make something to eat, Then prepare to sit your vigil by the water's edge, Hoping to be visited again by the mysterious creature. By moonrise, You're feeling extremely serene, Seated in a lounge chair, Watching the waves roll in and out. Here and there, You almost doze off, So content in this meditative state. But when you cast your eyes upon the moon, Full and bright and reflecting almost scarlet on the water, You're left breathless and in awe. You feel a twinge at its rapturous beauty. Though you've enjoyed the peaceful solitude of the past few days, You long to share the spectacle with someone, To confirm that you're not just imagining this celestial majesty. And soon, The tides are glowing again, With that neon blue-green light. All of Emerald Cove transforms by the light of the moon and the tide, Becoming a sublime haven for the mystical. Will she come again, You wonder. Will she sing? Or was it all a strange and beautiful dream? You look to the rock again and again, Awaiting her silhouette, But it does not come. The moon climbs, Your eyelids tire. You decide to hang it up for the night and dismiss it all as a surreal visitation, Something to always wonder about. But as you rise from the chair and take one last look at the luminous waves, There comes again the haunting melody. It rises from the water like a ribbon of silk and reaches your ears. Your gaze falls on the glimmering, Golden circle, The moon's reflection, And there, In the center, It is broken by a darkened silhouette, Unmistakable, A head and shoulders protruding from the water. You take a cautious step forward and the opal light of the moon hits just right, Illuminating the upturned face, Eyes bright and sparkling. She is lovely and wild-looking, With unruly hair that would blend seamlessly with plumes of seaweed or tangled aquatic mosses. Her skin from this perspective takes on a greenish tinge, Though you're unsure how much of that comes from her, And how much from the reflections of bioluminescence in the water. The very strangeness of her, The alienness of her appearance makes her all the more awe-inspiring. This is not a fairy-tale beauty, But a creature who inspires wonder. You think back to visiting an aquarium in your youth and being awestruck at the curiosities, The unusual colors and shapes of those who inhabit the depths, How they've evolved and transfigured, And you are inexorably drawn to her, This unfamiliar being out of another world. Before you realize it, Your feet are in the water, Kissed by lapping waves glowing under the algae. You must meet her. The mermaid's song acts like a bridge as you walk out into the shallows. You feel no sense of fear or danger, Like those unsuspecting sailors of Greek myth. Those were stories dreamt up to warn of perils on the open sea. This is something else. There's an innocence, A childlike quality to the fascination you feel, As if she holds the key to something you've been missing for a long time. When you reach the edge of the moon's gilded reflection, Her singing stops, Her eyes lower from the sky to your face. You are shoulder-deep in the mild water, And face-to-face with the mermaid. She floats there, A playful smile in her glowing eyes, And an air of inquisition. She is as curious about you as you are about her. A thousand burning questions enter your mind. Where does she come from? Are there more like her? Is she a creature of flesh and blood, Or something more ethereal? But you bite back on the flood of inquiries, And let only one fall from your lips, Hoping she can even understand your language. Why do you sing? You ask, Then add with some haste, It is such a lovely song. The mermaid's eyes flick upward toward the moon. She is framed in its golden haze and the rippling reflection. I sing to please my mother, She replies, Her gaze still firmly locked on the heavens, And she is smiling tonight. Her mother, You think, The moon, Mother of the tides, And your mind swims back to the pages of the book that lies in the cottage, To the myth of Atargatis, Moon goddess and mother of mermaids. It makes a sort of poetic sense to you, Submerged in her waters, And acquiescent to her tides. Here, Says the mermaid, Holding out a hand, Come into her light. You take her hand, And with the lightest gesture, She pulls you into the golden circle of the moon's reflection. It's funny, And maybe it's in your head, Because the moon, Unlike the sun, Does not radiate heat, But the moment the moonglow falls upon your face, It's as if rays of tender warmth cascade down upon you. You turn your eyes upward, Smiling, And feel a sort of tingling throughout your body, Bathing here in moonlight. It's like your whole body drinks of the glow, Soaking it up in light form from above, And liquid form from the water. You've never felt anything like it, A purely rejuvenating experience from head to heels. Then, With no warning, A look of puckish jubilance crosses the mermaid's face, And she plunges underneath the water, Vanishing from view. All you see is her hair, Blooming behind her like algae. Can this really be the end of your encounter, You wonder? Then with a burst of courage and curiosity, You inhale deeply, Hold your breath at the of the inhale, And plunge your own head underwater. The moon's brilliance, Combined with the bioluminescence, Provide more visibility than you could have imagined in the night sea. You blink against the salty brine and find the mermaid's face again, Shining in the water, Her hair swirling around her face like a cloud of sea moss, Her scales a greenish gold glitter. On the sandy floor are gleaming shells and starfish, The flash of bright coral further off. The mermaid reaches toward you with both hands, And places them gently along the sides of your neck. Something changes in you at the instant of her touch, A bright, Cool breath seems to enter your body, Energizing you throughout. It's like taking a drink of cold, Refreshing water after a long thirst, And you realize that you can breathe. The moon's light penetrates through the waves, Rippling and glimmering against the ocean floor. The mermaid opens her mouth and utters a note of song, This not so clear as the melody you heard carried on the waves, But dampened and tremulous in the water. It is no less enchanting, You find, Like the aural embodiment of a moonlit wave. The song ebbs, Dispersing like foam. In a few moments, Splashes of color erupt all around you until they coalesce. Little fish, Orange and turquoise, Are emerging from the depths and shallows, Coming together to form a school around you. They swirl like a milestone, Encircling you and the mermaid, Their glittering fins catching the moonlight in motion. Each one is a delight to the eye, So shimmery and bright as they move. Your gaze jumps between them following the flashes, But soon you try to focus on one at a time, And in narrowing your gaze, You notice that each of the bright, Iridescent fish has, Tucked under one or more scales, A brilliant gemstone or a shining pearl. They are a swirling school of precious treasures. The whirlpool made by the movement of the fish whips your own hair out of place, So you imagine it plumes like the mermaid's. She is smiling still, With pure, Bewitching revelry in her eyes. You follow the mermaid as she kicks back to the surface, Breaking the water with a splash. Your lungs fill with sweet night air. It feels different now to breathe normally. The moon seems to have drifted further away, To have shrunk in the night sky almost half its size. You no longer feel like you could reach out and touch it. You sense your time with the mermaid growing short, But there is still so much you want to ask her. So much you long to know. Why me, Is the question that rises to your lips. Why have you called me out here? The mermaid laughs, A bright, Musical laugh, Like the breaking of bubbles. You were landlocked, She responds with a smirk. Welcome back to the water. With no more parting words than that, And with only a flash of fins and moonlight, The mermaid dives again below the surface, Leaving a trembling wake behind her. You tread still in the shallow water, In the dwindling reflection of the moon, Its glow fading to a pale silver. The bioluminescence in the tide slowly recedes, Then vanishes, And soon there is little light on the water, Save the reaching moon and the twinkling stars. And in a bit of a daze, Your body still tingling from the kiss of the moon's rays, You slowly swim back to shore. With your damp clothes tumbling in the dryer, You change into linen pajamas and brew a pot of tea to sit with by the fireplace. Seated in front of the fire, You have a view of the midnight ocean through the French doors. The flames reflect off the panes of glass with playful orange and amber, Creating the illusion of a fire blazing atop the rolling waves. The tide is a bit stronger now than before, When you were submerged. You drink your tea and ponder the mysterious encounter with the mermaid, The memory of it still buzzing in your fingertips. At last, Sleep overtakes you, And you extinguish the fire and make your way to the loft. The mermaid does not return the next night, Even as the waning moon hangs low over the ocean, And does not visit again for the rest of your time in the cottage. There are times when you wonder if the whole event was something you imagined or dreamed. But other times, When you feel yourself inwardly swoon toward the tide, Or your heart lift at the laughter of waves on the shore, You have no doubt that she really called to you, Inviting you for a brief moment into her moonlit world. And soon, The time comes for you to pack up your belongings and take your leave of Emerald Cove. It's a bittersweet parting as you leave behind not only memories of a beautifully restorative week, But a childhood of experiences and imaginings. Before leaving, You stand on the beach for a final time with your toes in the sand, And you offer thanks to the ocean's spirit of clay, To the pirates and sea creatures you once masqueraded as, To the mermaid who sang you to sleep under the waxing moon. But you're not really leaving, You realize. You carry Emerald Cove, The silhouette of the rocks, The feel of the water, And the song of the sea with you. You had been so thirsty, You realize, Before coming back here. And you leave, Sated, Having drunk of the very essence of the ocean. You fill your bag with the gifts of the cove, The bits of sea glass and the unbroken shells, And the conch, Which brings to life the sound of the ocean waves. There's another sound, Too, When you hold the shell to your ears, Though you'd venture to guess you were the only one who hears it. A whispering melody, A haunting song that sings to you as if from beyond the veil of dreams. A song that swells like the waves and changes with the phase of the moon. You carry this song in your heart, Henceforth. It breathes from and with you, And ever binds you to the tides. Thick grows the grass on the rolling Arcadian hillside. Here is the land of plenty, Of pastoral splendor. Green meadows dotted with woolly white sheep, Shepherds following behind with their crooks. This is a land that most enchants from a distance, When the looker can appreciate the vastness of sky, The mightiness of mountains, And nature's great majesty compared with the smallness of humankind. These valleys, Carved by centuries of movement, Of forgotten wars with titans, Of giants' footprints, Now shepherds traverse them with little knowledge of what walked here before. They have not the minds for ancient memory, But only for work and for romance and for joy in the treasures of the here and now. They have minds for moving sheep and wooing nymphs, For effervescent life that feels both painfully fleeting and everlasting. Memory is what gods are for, What you are for, Each of you, With your own domains. You hold in your immeasurable hands the dominion and thus the memory of the sky. To your brothers went the memories of the deep earth and sea, And your many kin hold the keys to the dreams of humanity, Animals, Trees, And everything else in the cosmos. Even now the sun, That shining child of long-lost titans, Drives his golden chariot across the sky, Showering each blade of grass and mountain crag with bright wonder, Waking shadows on the undersides. He rises each morning splendid and hot on the heels of his rosy sister, The dawn, A reminder to those who remember, Of the forces that shaped this world and this day. The winds, Those four mutable suns of dusk and dawn, Recall every sail they've filled or meadow they've turned to rippling waves. Even this place, This unspoiled paradise, Is home to Pan, That horned god of the wilds, Of the shepherds and their flocks, Of music and revelry of the rustic sort. Here on wild nights and under waxing moons, The satyr dances among his blithe band of nymphs, Playing merry tunes on his pipe, Waking the flowers in the spring. And you? Well, The air is changing. In the sun's warm wake, It gathers a tension and a moisture that heralds rain, Fall becomes instantly cooler, More alive, Poised on the precipice of change. A storm is gathering, And Arcadia trembles beneath, That glowing, Golden tremble that precedes a shift in the atmosphere. You imagine the shepherds, And more likely their sheep, Feel the quiver in their feet. It's as you roll in, Adrift on a heavy cloud, That the tiny figures of the shepherds and their flocks begin their inevitable journeys toward shelter. Their retreat leaves the grass all a-quiver, The trees groan and the mountains shudder. This is a land so old and wild it cannot be tamed by shepherds or city dwellers. It can only be danced with. But it may be subdued, Temporarily, By forces older and grander than mountains or fire. By storm. The back of your neck prickles with the first inklings of what's to come. You are, After all, The master of the storm. Its inception, Its fullness, And its denouement, All in one. You are the sender of rain and the bringer of thunder. With your great intake of breath, A congregation of clouds assembles, Blooming like flowers of night. They obscure the sun's glistering chariot, Bringing shadow across the hills. And with your long, Conscious exhale, The clouds quake and release, Dropping the first thin showers over the land. The grass wavers under a tumultuous breeze, Here standing on end, There flocking in an elegant dance. You watch the drops of water descend, Slowly darkening the soil and the green in patches. With wordless gesture, You direct the clouds to multiply their efforts, Summoning more voluminous cascades. In mere moments, The rain comes to fall in curtains, Filling the countryside with a tingling white noise and the heavy scent of damp earth. And it's now that your accomplices begin to arrive, Dancing between the raindrops come the Hyades, The sisterhood of nymphs whose tears have watered many a forest grove. In them, Glistening with the rainfall, Sorrow waltzes side by side with bountiful love and devotion. You hold these rainmakers, These weeping ones, In high regard, As they were the nurses of Dionysus, The ecstatic god of theater, Wine, Fertility, And transformation. For their efforts, You fashioned them celestial thrones, To which they retreat each evening at moonrise, Bright teardrops on the night sky. You watch with admiration as they trip across the raindrops, Wringing water from their clothing and hair, Drenching the countryside. Soon comes notice, The capricious southern wind. You feel his presence, Warm and blustery before you see him, Mutable and gray, Approaching over the hills. He excites the atmosphere, Mixing heat with the spark of the growing storm. He blows the rain in all directions, Creating brief patterns and spirals in the air. The nymphs spin dizzily in his wake. Together, You orchestrate a rapturous symphony, Winding up the fury of the skies. The energy rises till palpable vibrations shake the air, And you can no longer delay the inevitable. In a quiver, Slung over your back, Quake the tools of your trade. Forged for you by the Cyclopes, Thus making you the master of the cosmos, The thunderbolts begin to glow, Emitting warmth and vigor. You reach behind your head and grasp one which is hot to the touch, Sending a vibrant shiver through your body. Retrieved from the quiver, The thunderbolt sings in your hand, Pulsing with light. With grace and strength, You cast the thing forth from your hand and let it fly. Time slows in the moments to follow, As if old Cronos holds back the sands in his glass, Letting them fall with utter grace, One at a time. As the thunderbolt, Bright and golden, Meets the southern wind, And the tears of the dancing nymphs, It seems to halt, Suspended there, Till it splits and branches in the sky. From the once solid streak come forking tendrils, Which scatter and weave in many directions at once, Tracing fern-like fractals toward the earth. The central spike of liquid fire extends its reach toward a towering cypress, Where a reciprocal barb ignites and yearns forth to make the connection. When the two prongs meet, All at once, The lightning flashes, Changing the sky from miles around to icy platinum. Then, In an instant, It's gone, And the gray returns, Settling like a cloak over the smoldering embers of cypress. The tree sizzles until the tiny flames are extinguished by rain, Its trunk standing as mighty as ever. The torrent never abates, But pelts the ground, The grass, The mountains even more. This is the work you were made for, The power only you were meant to wield. Lightning drums through your fingertips, And a crack of thunder splits the sky, Making your chest hum, And the ground shudder. Gods are the keepers of memory, Of time untold. In the hurling of thunderbolts, In the pulsing thereafter, In the thrum of the thunder, Is contained all the passion of the cosmos. The stories told around dancing fires of your triumphs, Your family's defeat of forces titanic, How you lived to walk the green earth. Humans are forgetful, This you can forgive, But a single spur of lightning in the crescendo of a storm is enough to ignite countless memories, It's enough to waken their sense of smallness. The reverence for the cosmic, And their responsibility to nature. Rain cuts new rivers through the grassy hills, Joining and parting, And joining again. With practiced hand, You toss another thunderbolt toward a cypress grove. The trees swoon and sway under the breath of the wind, Then singe and smolder with the kiss of lightning. With the satisfying sizzle of power and precision, You too are moved by the resilience of earthly things, The trees that take the lightning and persist. A sweet smell fills your senses, And the thunder that follows your thrown bolt extends beyond its usual duration. That charming echo, You realize, Is the clap of feathery wings, And another stormy friend approaches. He glides down from the stars, Where he passes idle nights, Unable to resist the tempest's call. Pearly white is his coat, His eyes deepest brown, With golden mane and tail. Pegasus, The winged stallion, Soars past your eye line quick as a flash, His hoof and wing beats thunderous. He catches the wild wind and whirls past the dancing hyades, Shocking rainbows into the cascades of water through which he passes. Slung across his back is a saddlebag, Bursting with bright bolts, He brings reinforcements of lightning for your quiver. This pack you grasp as he skates by again, Refilling your quiver and hurling bolts across the mountains. They spark through your fingertips and light the sky, Thunder reverberating against the rocks and hills. Pegasus, Purest white, Shines almost entirely golden in the glow. He dances with the rush of rain and wind. All is reaching a mighty crescendo, Quaking mountains and flattened grasses seem to collectively inhale to brace. But after the peak must come the inevitable fall, The denouement. You empty your quiver, Almost lazily tossing the last of the thunderbolts, Which gives a half-hearted flash and rumble. Notice the stormy south wind, Blows less blustery, Losing momentum. The space between the heavy raindrops widens, Giving ground. The hyades are shaking the last of the water from their fingertips, Weeping the last drops of rain over the countryside. They climb the clouds toward their starry abodes, Blowing you kisses on their way to the firmament. Pegasus slows his wingbeats, Gliding instead between the lightning clouds. And soon, A shy and rosy ray of sun shines through the feathers of his wings. Helios, The sun in his golden chariot, Pushes against the billow of storm clouds, Which dwindle in deference to his light. What sun gleams through the lingering moisture in the air catches the droplets and splits into dazzling spectra, Tiny rainbows that assemble soon into a collective arc across the sky, Its tail disappearing behind the mountains. And as the hanging moisture begins to evaporate, You, Body all abuzz from the work of thunder, Descend. A stairway forms of cloud wisps to guide your way to the ground, The feel of grass beneath your feet, The tremble of the earth. It is good, Every once in a while, For gods to feel this too. These mountains, The hills, The sunken caves, The sacred groves, Are all the curves of Gaia, Mother of the titans, Gods and all. It is good for you, Who wield such power and might from the skies, To remember how she holds and steadies you. A storm leaves traces on her surface, Split cypresses still singed from lightning, And the long-worn grooves of heavy rain in the soil and rock. But how easily mortals forget the strength of those forces that drive them into shelter and hiding. Already, As you walk the grassy hills of Arcadia, As if summoned by the songs of the emerging birds, Shepherds are surfacing anew. Mirth and merriment are in their faces, Mingled with relief at the storm's passing. You heave a hearty sigh, Watching the shepherds and their maidens return so fleetly to the hills where the mountains so lately shook under your hands. Will they ever learn, You wonder? But there is something sublime, You suppose, About the carefree way they revel, The utter exuberance with which they approach life, The blissful ignorance of sorrow and decay or any change. What heart have you to trouble the shepherds and the nymphs they woo with portents of winter's reckoning and the fading flowers? Strange the way your perspective shifts with feet on the ground, How much you come to prize these worldly pleasures when you leave behind your lofty seat, Even for a moment. The rainbow is more vibrant when you must look up into its face, And the strings of golden sunlight warm you more readily. The music of a shepherd's flute rises to meet a lyrical swell of birdsong. The two melodies twine effortlessly under the auric cascades. The lingering twitch of lightning at last fades from your muscles, Slowly sinking through your feet and into the soil. You feel earthly, Earthbound, Momentarily disconnected from godhood, And there is a curious thrill to that realization. And now it comes to you how much you have forgotten. As the ruler of the heavens, Bringer of storms, And keeper of the memories of the skyward plain, How quickly you can lose your connection to the soil, The feeling of being grounded, And with that feeling, All the delights of the earthly plain. The flute melody floats around you, Twisting joyfully, Bringing a wondrous lightness to your head, And all the love you have for this fleeting world rushes back on a warm, Rain-scented breeze. Tonight, Fires will be made and danced about, Love songs will be sung, And your carefully crafted storm will fade to yesterday, A thing lost, Forgotten, Until the next roll of thunder crackles over the hills of Arcadia. Until then, You'll walk amongst the shepherds, Join their fires, And share their merriment. You'll bask in the bounty they bring, Then rise with the moon to climb again to your throne on Olympus. In the storm's wake, The sun shimmers with shades of lavender and diaphanous pink. What a wondrous thing it is, You think, To hold two worlds within yourself at once, To command the skies and know their secrets, And yet to have your feet firmly planted, Your heart rooted in earthly bliss. It is a oneness you can only hold briefly in the moments of threshold crossing, For with every step you leave more of this sky world behind. But for these moments, You are vast, Boundless even, Containing such multitudes. Now you walk in the footsteps of the wild god Pan, And into the throngs of frolicking shepherds. And the skies, At last, Become clear. Tonight is the night, Says a whispering voice, An incantation on the breeze. Tonight is the night for flowers. Tonight is the night for frolicking. Tonight is the night to work in the light of the moon. All down the day, In the lazy, Lengthening sun, It echoes like a drumbeat in the mind. Tonight is the night, Like the buzzing of bees, Or the flutter of butterfly wings, Which will soon return on the breath of spring. Tonight, Tonight, In the light of the alder moon. For half a turn of the earth, You've sheltered long inside, Cocooning yourself in the warmth of the hearth. On crisp, Light days, You've walked on crunching leaves, Admiring spindly, Bare-limbed trees, Even let your feet fall on powdery snow. But always, You've nestled back into the comfort of four walls, Toasty by the fire, And safe from wind and weather. Now, As the earth softens, Frost melting from the soil, You can feel yourself softening too. The buds are breaking open on the trees, Seeds sprouting in the ground, And familiar bird songs return to the sky. The robin and the myrtle warbler, The chatters and ticks of tree swallows, The gurgle of the red-winged blackbird. Spring, They sing, Spring has come. The trouble is that you've grown used to winter, Accustomed to the snug safety of the home. Like rabbits, Snug in their warrens, Hidden away from the wilds. To welcome spring again is to step beyond the threshold, To open your heart once more to the wildness of the earth, And to shed layers that have become a second skin. But under the thawing frost, Is that which you've missed most in this time of winter, Your garden. A seed, A sprout, A bud, These are all potentialities. Like an egg unhatched, Each seed contains immense possibility. Each sprout is only at the beginning of its journey, But it is imbued with the natural wisdom and magic of seasons past, Or of the elder plant that shed it. A chorus of questions come with spring. What will bloom? What will return? What will wither in the ground, Never growing to fruition? It takes courage, You think, To be a plant, To break free of the seed shell and leave the safety and warmth of the soil, To coil upward toward the sun, To flower and to bear fruit, Knowing you put yourself at risk of pelting rain and snow, Or dry weather and sustained heat. It takes courage to grow. You brew a pot of tea, Made from winter herbs harvested and dried, Sage and mint whisper forth on spiraling steam, Fresh and savory. You sip it slowly, Blowing on the hot water to cool it, Enjoying the end of your homemade winter tea mixture as you pass the time till dusk. It is your own personal tradition, A valued ritual, To welcome the spring by night, Planting seeds in the silver of the full moon rather than by the golden light of day. And so close to the vernal equinox, When the day and night are equal measure, The full moon commands great magic. It is an auspicious time for sowing, For cultivation, And for rebirth. The rest of the day is spent baking fresh bread, The scent of which conjures immediate coziness and feelings of abundance, Sweeping the hearth to clear out the dust and stagnant energy and reading a few pages from a book of poetry. The poems resonate with the voices of the natural world, Of impossibly deep roots, Of the irresistible call to migration, Of the sublime majesty of mountains and lakes. And you are ever conscious, These days, Of the stretching daylight, The added minutes each day in which sunlight lingers, As though holding fast to the horizon, Aching to see only a moment more of the Earth's beauty. The quality of light is changing, Too. Every day, Stone grey melting to halcyon honey, The moon is visible long before twilight, Like a reflective disc over the trees, A blank space overhead that's perfectly round, Imbibing the active light of the drooping sun. When dusk approaches, You notice the rustling of leaves and renewed activity in the shrubs around your cottage. You spot two little brown rabbits, Almost spherical in shape, Grazing near the green-stemmed forsythia, Which is just beginning to bloom with delicate yellow flowers. When they become aware of your presence, The rabbits scurry out from beneath the bush and out of sight. You smile. It's good to see the return of the crepuscular creatures. Some gardeners might see rabbits and their kin as pests, But you can't help it. Your heart melts to see their fluffy tails and twitching noses. At last, The sun sets, Leaving traces of violet and orange to linger in the sky before deep blue darkness takes over. You've had a little supper, Accompanied by the still warm bread fresh from the oven. A bit of homemade elderflower syrup in your evening cup brings a wave of soft contentment over you, But heavy sleepiness remains at bay. It's time, Whispers the little voice inside, It's time to shed your skin. You fill a basket with supplies, Seeds, And gardening tools. You carry a small lantern to light your way. Stepping out the back door of the little house onto the stone walkway which it seems was so recently blanketed and entirely obscured by snow, You make your way under the garden arch. It drips with evergreen clematis, Now sprouting buds of the white flowers that will soon open to the world. The hanging leaves tickle your face. Beyond the arch, And surrounded by borders of rich green holly, Is the moon garden. You feel an almost immediate sensation of opening, Or unfolding. It's as though you've passed from ordinary into sacred space, And your mind and body have unfurled like the dew-dappled petals of a rose to greet it. Somewhere in a nearby tree, A mockingbird is trilling sweetly. He's singing a song to the moon, You think. The moon tonight is surely one to elicit song. It climbs the horizon's ladder with pale and pearlescent brilliance, Nearly dazzling as the sun. Just now, You can see it cresting over the hedges, A nightcap on their deep emerald, But its glow falls effortlessly upon the garden, Reflecting on the silvery Artemisia. Since you last set foot in this soft and sublime place, Untamed ivy has climbed the stone garden bench in a way that's rather picturesque. But the ivy and wormwood are all that thrives tonight, So early in spring, There's much for you to do in concert with the moon. You find yourself humming a little tune as you set about your work, A tune with no discernible melody and no repeated phrases, But a winding and wistful one that climbs the night air like unruly ivy from your lips to the moon. With every seed you sow in the soil, You plant an intention, Too. Every seed is a spell you cast in the earth, An offering to nature and her myriad spirits. Over your shoulder, The moon is rising high over the hedges. You don't even need to see it to feel its presence, For its light bathes you in cleansing coolness, Falling on your shoulders and hair like a gentle mist. It feels good to have your hands in the earth again, It's cool and rich to the touch. Your fingers meet the soil with warmth and love. Moonlight dances across the ground and in the place between your fingers, Nourishing the soil and the seeds therein. You feel a timid thrill as energy trickles from your fingertips like water, Infusing the earth and blessing the seeds. This is the very alchemy of spring, You think, The awakening of that which was dormant. The re-energizing of the earth and all her interconnected systems. And you, Scatterer of seeds, Mindful and deliberate gardener, Are a catalyst of sorts. You can feel roots being put down and sprouts emerging until, Where moments ago there was only a tiny seed, Now there is a blossoming snapdragon. Rippling petals of pale pink, Open to drink the mead of the moon. Your touch and your magic waken a whole flowering row of pink and yellow snapdragon, Narrow stalks with blooming bells that revel in the moonlight. It gives you a little burst of pride to see them spring to life before you. But you may not move mountains, You are grateful for the natural magic you possess. The blessed connection with plants and cycles feels grand and important. If every seed is a spell, Then a flowering garden of your sincere intentions must create meaningful change in the vibrations of the planet. Oh, The moon at this moment, How it hangs high and gleaming, So near, So magnified that it seems you could reach out and touch its cratered surface. The cascade of honeyed light sweetens every corner of the garden. It's no wonder, You think, That every culture tells such extraordinary stories about the moon. It's impossible to look upon such a wonder in the sky and not sense its magic. The Greeks, For example, Personified the moon as a goddess, Selene. Like her brother Helios, The sun, She drove a chariot across the heavens each night to spread the sweetness of her light over the world. Casting her eyes and tender rays upon a field of sheep, She beheld for the first time the beautiful shepherd Endymion, At rest beside his flock. And she was taken by a dizzying passion. How lovely he was in that peaceful state, The dreamy smile curled across his lips. And how perfect, How pure he appeared when bathed in her light, Reflecting back her own serene glow. Selene entreated Zeus for his assistance, For she would have the mortal shepherd be hers forever, And always be so tranquil and so beautiful. Zeus agreed, And he enchanted Endymion to eternally sleep, Retaining his youth and beauty always. The charmed Endymion slept on through day and night, And remained lovely as that first night. And every night he dreamt he held the moon in his arms. So often the moon has been associated with the feminine, For its softness in contrast with the harsher light of the sun. But the light of the moon is only a reflection of the sun, You remember. The moon's true power, Though unseen, Is in its closeness to the earth, And its dominion over the tides. Drawn to and by the satellite, The oceans swell and surrender to its cycles. As wielders of unseen but undeniable power, The Greeks identified two other goddesses with the moon. Artemis, Of course, Was goddess of the hunt. Your Artemisia plant is named for her, The eternal maiden who ran with deer and was wild as the woods. And then, There was Hecate, The three-formed goddess who guarded thresholds and crossroads and walked with spirits beyond. She was a goddess of magic, A protector of witches, And a teacher of herb lore and poisonous plants. The three-fold lunar goddesses occupy your mind, Standing at crossroads, Tearing through wilderness and driving chariots over slumbering landscapes. You hold them in your thoughts, Distinct but interlaced, As you set yourself to the trellis on the garden's south border. You must tiptoe over the pale yellow blooms of evening primrose, Which must have crept into the garden through pollination in your absence, For you never planted them. You catch a whiff of candy-sweet perfume from them as you go. It's the moonflower vine, Wilting on the trellis that you're drawn to. With tender hands and an open heart, You reach in and out of the gaps, Retrieving and retraining the vine, Tying it to the scratchy wood with lengths of twine, Carefully handling the leaves. Under your nimble fingers, The shriveled blossoms pick up their heads, Encouraged, And one by one, Each with a little pop and a burst of lemon-edged musk, The buds spring open. The trumpet-like blooms seem to swoon toward the moon, Each nearly as big as the palm of your hand, Soft and white as fresh linen. The magic of the moonflower is its impermanence. These sweet blossoms, So like their namesake in shape, Hue, And luminescence, Open only for the night, Closing again as soon as they're touched by morning dew. Lost in admiration, Your gaze tracing a spiral to the center of the flower, A rustle of movement sparks in your periphery. Very close to your feet, You catch only the faintest glimpse of another rabbit, Disappearing into the hedgerow. It's fitting that rabbits should make an appearance under the full moonlight. They are resurging just as the Earth is, In her springtide garment of green, But they have powerful connections to the moon, Too. In Asian folklore, There are tales of the so-called moon rabbit, A companion of the lunar goddess Chang'e. You turn to the brilliance of the moon and squint to see if you can make out the patterns in its surface, Suggestive of the moon rabbit, Mortar and pestle in hand, Pounding the elixir of immortality. The Kree people, Too, Saw a rabbit in the markings of the moon, And they told stories of an ambitious rabbit who wished to ride the moon. The crane agreed to fly him there, The rabbit clinging to his legs as they went. That is why, They say, The crane has such long legs, Carrying the rabbit to the moon stretched them. With the moonflowers blooming brightly and in abundance, You work your way around the borders of the garden to tend to other shrubs and flowers. It's a mild night, With a dewy breeze just skimming over the hedges. You're struck by an urge to feel the grass between your toes. You remove your shoes and let your bare feet fall on the turf. How soft the earth is, And how comforting the cool grass. The snowdrops lining the garden path are already blossoming, Like little white teardrops against the green. Each delicate one seems to exhale as you walk past. The moon has risen to its zenith in the sky. Still without the illusory magnification of the horizon, It appears dazzlingly large and close, As though you could stretch your arms out straight upward and embrace it. You find you hardly need the lantern you brought. The silver veil of moonlight transforms every surface upon which it falls. Every blade of grass. Every bloom. Every catkin. As the moon affects the tides, You can feel a tug within yourself, Mind and body both succumbing to its call. As if the drops of water that make up your person are pulled, Like magnets, Toward the heart of it. You are in its sway. You set about working with the hellebore, One of your garden favorites. Kneeling to the plot where the roots reside, You place a hand to the earth, Feeling the subtle vibrations there. The hellebore, Like you, Can be reluctant to leave its chrysalis. It may need some convincing. Nature cannot be forced to obey your will, But it can be guided by the natural magic of the year. It takes courage to grow, You remind yourself. How can you make the space welcoming, Safe, For the hellebore to join you? You sit beside the roots, Hands in the soil, Slowing your breath to align with the shiver of the earth. You send a message to the sprouted seeds and to the deep roots through your intentions. A message not of expectation, But of compassion and unity. We're in this together, You aim to convey. If I can soften, Open and stretch, Perhaps you can too. It's safe, And I'm here beside you. In the soil, In the spaces between your fingers, And in the tremble of the deep earth, You sense resistance, Hesitation. It's okay, You whisper. Take your time. I took my time too. You sit with the roots for some time, Letting go of expectation and acknowledgement of the passing minutes. Somewhere in the trees, The low, Familiar call of a barred owl sounds. Moonlight penetrates the slipping sands between moments, Infusing all with light and hidden music. And then, Something yields. At first, Feeling a sensation of swaying forth, You think the earth is giving way. But the earth is as solid as ever, Supporting your hands and body. You realize, In a moment of clarity, That you are the one bending, Swooning. The vestiges of resistance you felt in the earth, And the hesitation you attributed to the hellebore, Was your own uncertainty. You hadn't realized you were still holding anything back, But as you finally let it go, You feel lighter, More open, As though your heart space unfolds like butterfly wings. You're able to take deeper, Cleaner breaths, And your body feels more relaxed than before. You even feel a fluttering laugh travel from the depths of your belly to your lips. It feels so good to laugh in the garden. As if responding to your easing, To your unbinding of emotion, The soil sparkles. Up from the ground twist spindly green stems, And from them sprout leaves and elegant petals. Each one drips from the stem till the blooms are full, Though cast downward and demure, As though the blossoms are afraid to behold the full moon. Ombres of green, Pink and white bleed to dappled patchwork in their centers. A sigh escapes your lips. All this time you thought you were encouraging the flowers to grow, When in fact they were waiting for you to break through. It's one of the consistent surprises of magic and of nature. That which you put into your work comes back to you, Challenges you, Awakens you. Perhaps you're drawn to hellebore because it's such a mercurial flower. It can heal or poison, Depending on the circumstance. It must be handled with care and firm intention. In Greek mythology, It was used as a cure for the maenads, Driven to ecstatic frenzy by Dionysus, And to heal the madness of Heracles. That must be why it casts its gaze toward the ground, Away from the moonglow. The moon, Of course, Works magic and mayhem on the minds of men. You lean back on your hands, Inclining your face to drink in the cleansing moonlight. So bright, So full and heavy that it looks to droop, To sag toward the earth, The moon agitates the tides of the ocean and the inner tides of human bodies. You have half a mind to cast a net around it, Like a butterfly, Bring it inside, And keep it as a nightlight. But the moon is only a mirror, You remember. It does not have its own light to shine. It reflects the radiance of the sun, Just as it reflects the stirrings of the mind. Every culture, Across the wide world and throughout the seas of time, Has gazed upon its surface and seen a dazzling reflection. A man in the moon, A rabbit with mortar and pestle, A god or a goddess. In a way, Your garden is also a mirror. It transforms as you look upon it, Interact with it, But it only gives back what you put forth. It anticipates your hesitations, Embraces your intentions, And reminds you of the march of time. The oft-repeating cycles of life, Death, And rebirth are present in the phases of the moon and in the abatement and resurgence of the plants. Even as they hide, Dormant beneath the soil, They live, Awaiting the return of spring. There is value in spending time in shelter, Withdrawing, Turning inward. But there is equal value in stepping forth again, Into the light of the sun or the moon, And opening once more. The garden teaches you to grow, And it takes courage to grow. The east wall of the garden is stone, Covered now with rich green ivy. An old fountain in the wall is untouched by the vine. In fact, It grows so precisely around it that the ivy must have known to leave this space uncovered. At present, The fountain is quiet, And no water moves through it, But it's marvelous to look upon all the same. The face of the green man adorns the fountain's head. Smiling eyes peek from behind acanthus leaves, Which frame the face on all sides. When one of the decorative stone leaves begins to flicker, It turns your head. Soon you discover that it's not a stone leaf at all, But a pale green moth perched upon the head of the fountain. A luna moth, Named so for the Roman goddess of the moon. Her tapered wings, Curved and leaf-like, Dawn small, Colorful patterns that resemble eyes. She twitches, Flutters slightly, Then returns to stillness, Apparently content in such camouflage. So, You think, You're not the only one readjusting to life beyond the cocoon. The whistling trill of a nightingale in the trees beyond the garden. The night grows cool and restless, A chill wind shaking through the leaves. The flowers bend and sway. The moon begins to recede. Before you leave the garden for the night, You take a deep breath, Calling in the fragrance and the fellowship of the flowers. How brave they are, You think, To shine their petals in the open air, Whatever may come their way. They breathe with you, Some of them stretching, Lengthening toward you, As if they long to go with you beyond the hedges. Carrying your shoes in the basket of supplies and the diminishing lantern in the other hand, You tiptoe back up the garden path, Up the porch steps, And into the little cottage you call home. It's very warm inside, In contrast to the cool air without. At once a drowsiness falls over you, Making your eyelids heavy. You extinguish the lantern and step softly to your bedroom, The floors lightly creaking beneath your feet. Before you climb into bed, You open your windows a crack to let in a light breeze. The welcome air immediately brightens the stagnant atmosphere of the room, Bringing the sweet smell of night-flowering plants to your senses. You can see the moon through the window, Now with a pale yellow veil, Swollen and shining over the evergreens. If only you could, Like in the fairy tale, Grow a flowering plant so tall it becomes a ladder to the stars. Then you could climb all the way to the sky and dance on the moon. You could search its surface for the rabbit who makes the elixir of life. You could meet the goddess who smiles down on the night. You could ride the moon like a chariot across the sky. With a softened self, An open heart, And a cleansing breath, You crawl into your bed. You get snug under the blankets, Warming your feet and feeling the cool breeze on your face. You imagine that the moon, The light of which streams in gently through the open window, Is kissing you goodnight, Bidding you adieu, Until tomorrow night when it returns to the sky. A little smaller, But just as present. You dream of deep roots coiled in the earth, Of brilliant flowers unfolding, Of butterflies and beanstalks. Before this becomes your story, It belongs to the tree. Every tree has a story, And it seals that story into the patterns in its bark and leaves for us to decipher and dream. Many trees tell similar stories, But the wise can distinguish that no two tales are exactly alike. This tree's story began like countless others in the ground, But the world had rather ambitious designs for it. Once, This tree was a seed in the soil of another world, Beyond the river and the sea. The seed burst, Overflowing with potential, And sprouted above the ground, Small and vulnerable. That was when it met the sun, Whose name the tree did not know, And yet, It revered the star as much as any priest of the sun god. The tree was brave, Sending its roots deep in search of water in the ground, And it unfolded its first fronds, Thinking itself beautiful. It must have been very lovely indeed, Because one day, It was dug up and placed on a boat on the river. Surprise! The one who takes the tree from its first home is Enki, The wise traveler and lord of the Apsu, The sacred groundwater. It will be a gift to his people, For Enki can see that the tree will grow to bear delicious fruit, But even Enki, Whose domain is the freshwater sea beneath the soil, Cannot control the waters that fall from the sky. His boat is tossed and pummeled by rain, Which falls in torrents and raises the waves high, Until at last, The vessel is overturned. The river, Which answers to Enki, For it originates in that subterranean sea, Carries him to safety on the nearest shore, But the tree travels onward on the fierce current. Its roots drink the waters of the Euphrates and the waters that continue to fall in the tempest. It braces its slender trunk and its young branches. The tree fears it might be dashed to pieces in the rapids, But it holds its strength until the waters calm and then, Under a pink dawn, It is brought lovingly to the banks of the river and washed ashore. It languishes there, Lapped by river waves, And then, You come. The storm that raged throughout the night is past, And you emerge from your house to sparkling sun. The moisture left behind is swiftly evaporating into mist. The mist will not linger long. Soon, It will be warm and dry again, And you will yearn for shade. Your feet are bare. You like to feel the grass between your toes and the damp sand on the shallow bank. Rocking gently against the sand is an unfamiliar visitor, A sapling, Its roots exposed but holding strong, And its branches battered but still clinging to a single frond. It is a very young tree, And one you've never seen before. You suppose, Even under the circumstances, The tree is beautiful, And now it has a chance. What fortuitous grace, You think, Has brought it right to the foot of your garden. With the tenderness of one cradling a little child, You lift the dripping sapling from the banks and carry it through the gates. There is a little plot behind the plentiful roses where you have not yet planted anything for the season. If the tree is to survive, It will make a striking centerpiece for your beloved garden. It may even provide the shade you so crave in this oasis. You dig diligently and secure the root ball in the hole you make, Then covering it with damp soil. Your hands absorb some of the water carried by the tree from the Euphrates River. And somehow, By this contact, You feel you come to know some of its story. It's as if the droplets make the shapes of the tree's memories deep in your mind. You can see the streaks of lightning and the overturned boat. You can faintly see a distant shore, A far away place. These are only images, Only feelings that evoke a history. You wonder if the tree can feel your memories, Like trickling water around its roots, Too. But now, As your fingers travel reverent over the narrow trunk, You find more secrets singing through the bark. The tree is supple and springs against your palms, Responding to you. You can feel its potential, The first spark of the fruit it will bear, The song of the sap in its core. The tree is small, So very young still, But already you imagine it reaching its full height, Towering over the garden and projecting long shadows across the desert. Already you know the sweetness of the shade it will cast. And the thought comes to you, What a mighty throne you might carve from such a magnificent tree. What a luxurious bed you might craft from its trunk and branches. Each day you come barefoot to the garden. You come at sunrise, When the morning star winks through sheer mist. You tend to your roses, Prickly beauties that they are, And gather sweet mint. Every day you observe the subtle changes in the tree that washed ashore, Whose roots must be very strong, As it stands firmer and taller with time. The year ages, And the seasons shift. Soon harvest is upon you and the great festivals in the city. These bring visitors to your garden. They marvel at the unusual specimen at its center. Already the youthful tree is replenishing its lost bronze and sparkling with green. Its bark grows rough and spay-like. No visitor has ever seen the like of it, You find. Soon its name arrives on the autumn winds. This is the Hulupu tree. The tree only continues to grow, Surviving the winter heartily, And bursting anew with fresh fronds in the spring. Taller and taller it climbs, Daring to tickle the undersides of clouds, Until its shade makes the heart of your garden a welcome escape from summer's heat. You sit beneath it to think, Or to compose poetry and song. To light fires and talk with others of love and war. Time slips by, And months turn into years. The tree strengthens and stretches higher still, Its trunk widening to a formidable girth. In its fifth year, The Hulupu tree bears its first fruits, A whole bundle of them. These are sweet, Tender morsels with the taste of prosperity. They appear with such abundance that you send baskets upon baskets to the city, Allowing them to share in the tree's gifts. Sometimes, While sitting in your garden and snacking on the exquisite fruits, You recall that you once had an ambition to cut the tree down and fashion from it a throne and a bed. You can no longer imagine doing such a thing. You can no longer imagine your garden without its fronds to shade you, Its fruits to nourish you, And its trunk to lie against. For five more years, The tree brings plentiful fruit to the river valley, Feeding hundreds each season. The summer comes again in the tree's tenth year, And with it comes a blistering heat. You carry water from the river to the gates of your garden, Offering more than usual to your plants. Their thirst is palpable, And even your hearty tree at the center drowns lightly at the edges. As you bend to pour the water over its roots, The dampened soil seems to dry before your eyes. You will need to go back to the river once more, You think. But as you turn, You catch in the corner of your vision a pair of eyes peeking from under a thin layer of soil. You try to get a better look, But the creature flees swiftly from your gaze, Disappearing into a knot of roots and dirt. You see just enough of the long, Curved body to deduce that it is a serpent, Now burrowing deep into the spaces between the tree's roots. This serpent will drink the water I offer, You think. It will steal nutrients from my beloved hulupu tree. So you whisper a prayer to your older sister, Nareshkigal, Queen of the Night and the Underworld, Begging her to banish the serpent from the roots of your hulupu tree. But your sister is not listening. She sends no aid. A new day dawns, And when you come bearing water on your shoulders for the tree, You find another unexpected resident. High up in the branches, Between the fronds, Now there is a nest made from the thorned brambles of your roses and other debris. In the nest sits a resplendent bird, Nearly the size of a man, With the glorious wings of an eagle and the head of a lion. This, You know, Is Anzu, The great storm bird whose roar can summon thunder. He preens and cleans his feathers, The tree swaying subtly beneath his weight. Then he stretches out his neck and plucks one of the tree's ripe fruits in his mouth. He devours several more, Letting others drop to the ground at your feet. This bird will destroy my harvest, You think. He will eat all the sweet fruits that feed my people in the city. You cast your eyes to the heavens and cry out a prayer to your twin brother Utu, God of the sun, Asking him to banish the Anzu from your tree. But he ignores your plea and only beats down with summer heat. The next day, You return with water from the river. You stoop to pour it over the roots, Muttering your displeasure with the serpent in the soil and the bird in the branches. You try to put them out of your mind, To lean against the trunk of the tree and meditate, Hopeful of restoring your peace of mind. But something is different about the trunk against which you sit. It does not respond to you in the same way. You knock against the bark. The quietest echo comes from within. The tree, It seems, Is hollow as it was not just yesterday. You circle round its base until you find a splinter-thin split in the trunk through which you peer presently. There, In the hollowed-out trunk of your tree, Someone else has made a home. All you can see in the darkness are her eyes, And these are eyes you know, Owl-like and dark in color. This is the wind spirit Lilith, Once your cherished and devoted friend. Now she resides in the hollow of your tree. This is too deep a betrayal. She will kill my tree from the inside out, You think. Already you have been ignored or spurned by your two most powerful siblings. But another dwells nearby, Your brother Gil-Gamash, King in the city of Uruk. You haven't called on him for a favor in a long time, But perhaps he will be the first to answer your plea. By now, You're willing to do anything to save your adored Hulubu tree. The last time you spoke, You informed him of your plans to build a throne and a bed from its trunk. You go to the gates of his palace, Where you are admitted without question when the king's guard sees the eight-pointed star in your crown. You find Gil-Gamash in a sunny courtyard, Licking his fingers after savoring another of the sticky, Dried fruits you sent him. This, You think, Is a good omen. He loves the lush fruit your tree bears, And he will be inclined to save it. You do not know that the serpent, Winding its way round the tangle of roots beneath the earth, Is creating pockets of air in the soil, Spaces for growth and renewed absorption of resources. You do not know that the serpent is only yearning for a place of safety, And that it lives in harmony with the tree. You do not know that the Ansu eats only the fruit unfit for human consumption, Letting the rest fall for an easier harvest. You do not know that when it flies, It spreads the seeds of your tree beyond the gates of the garden. You do not know that Lilith has preserved the terminal heart of the tree and made her hollow at the least vulnerable point. You do not know that when her winds blow in the night, They shake the leaves and carry the seeds of the Hulupu tree across great distances. These are secrets only the tree knows, And it takes one of great wisdom to listen to the stories of the trees. And so, When Gilgamesh, Full of righteous rage as he comes to the gates of your garden, Prepares to banish the creatures and spirits who have taken up residence within your tree, You do not know the damage he will cause. He is a proud man, After all, And one who loves to play the hero. He is strong, And he tends to become swept up in the dance of might and excess. He does not always listen carefully to the concerns of others, Caring more for his own glory and stake. Coursing with adrenaline and seeing the many eyes of bird, Snake, And spirit peering out from the corners of your well-loved tree, Gilgamesh throws his arms around the trunk and pulls the majestic arbor up from the ground. You look on in silent distress, Unable to cry out for your brother to stop, And knowing it's too late to save the tree. Did he not hear your outpouring of love for the Hulupu tree? Your ardent desire to help it grow for another hundred years or more? Your gratitude for its gifts to the people? He shakes it with all his might, Loosening the serpent's coil around the roots. The creature disappears into the ground. Lilith shrieks and flees the hollow, Vanishing into the wide wilderness with a bluster of wind. The Anzu, Lion-headed eagle takes wing, His nest in tatters. All the residents of your tree are now scattered to the winds, But the sorry thing lies dormant on the ground. You kneel and weep for the tree, Your tears drying in the soil. Gilgamesh is puzzled at first, Then his eyes fill with sorrow and regret. There might have been a chance to plant the great tree again in the ground, But all the commotion has damaged the roots and the structure. It was such a beautiful tree. Realizing what he has done, Your brother is eager to make it up to you. He will build the throne and bed you once so desired, He insists, And then you will be connected to the tree and its memory for all your days. You agree to his proposal, But you cannot bear to see a single inch of the tree go to waste. So you harvest what is left of the fruit and send it in baskets to the people in the city of Uruk. You peel long strips of the bark to weave those baskets. From the sap, You make a sweet syrup for flavoring wines and cakes. You dry the fronds and leaves, Weaving the fibers into rope and textile. In the heart of the tree, You cook for a decadent feast. The Hulupu tree makes wonderful foods, Domestic items, And medicines, And its reach stretches far. It does good work in your community for all the sorrow at its loss. For Gilgamesh, You fashion a ceremonial drum and stick from the crown of the tree, And he, At last, Carves the majestic throne from its base and your luxurious bed. You find untroubled sleep beneath the quilts and blankets in your Hulupu tree bed. You remember Lilith, The wind spirit who made her house in the tree's hollow. You wonder if she felt the same tranquility which you find nestled here. The polished wood of the bed still smells faintly of the sugary sap. Riding on the scent like rapids of tempest-tossed river, The tree's story sings through your dreams. Some nights, When you sleep, You seem to grow wings, Loosening your roots from the ground and floating untethered through a moonlit sky. Other nights, Beyond the gates of the dream world, You light small fires in your garden, And the shadow of the tree looms overhead. Or, You travel deep into the earth, Calling out the name of your sister, Nareshkigal, And blessing the roots you encounter. For the first time, Through the veil of sleep, You come to understand how your rivals cared for and benefited the tree. These dreams feel like memories, And like prophecies. Each morning you wake with a new longing, Though it takes you many nights and many mornings to know its object. Finally, When the harvest comes again, Another year aging and turning to sleep, You wake with fresh knowing. You understand now what you have so longed for, Though you might not have believed it. From your garden oasis, You call to the winds, The earth, And the sky. You call back the serpent. You call back the Anzu. You call back the wind spirit, Lilith. You ache to see their faces, For they loved the Hulupu tree just as you did, And they made their homes in its generous shade. You want to forgive them, And more so, You want them to forgive you. The tree never belonged to you, And you've seen firsthand its impact on the wider community. What friends you and the tree's residents might have become had you only overcome your greed and had the tree continued to grow. You hope they hear your call. Chanting a dirge, They meet you at the crossroads of the House of Sighs. You wear the eight-pointed star. Anzu is the winged one who calls the thunder. Lilith, The wildest wind. Serpent, Traveler in the earth and water. Here, Where once the Hulupu tree grew and let fall its shade in all directions, A circle cast. Here, Where the waters of the Euphrates once nourished the spiral roots, Where wind shook its leaves, Where flyers were made at its base for the sharing of stories. Where you all, Winged or no, Found your footing, So to speak. The four of you are older now, Not wiser, But wilder. There are four of you here, But more are present if unseen. Utu, The sun god, Glistens from the above. Ereshkigal, Queen of the underworld, Glistens from the below. All stories meet at the center. Your gathering is a funeral for the Hulupu tree, A space for imagining its last dream. When the tree released its roots, You wonder, Did it imagine itself rising up to the clouds? Did it find pleasure or regret in the memory of your time together, Or its long travels over the waters? You present each of your friends with a hulupu wand, And these you burn to release your regrets. The smoke climbs a spiral, Like roots in reverse. But the great hulupu tree is with you still, Listening from the below. You do not know that it released seeds, And that already, They are gathering warmth inside their shells, Storing up secrets and nutrients for the coming winter. Those seeds traveled on the serpent's back to nestle deep in the soil. They clung to the wings of Anzu, Who scattered them unwitting over the world. They shook from Lilith's hair into the wide wilderness, Where they'll one day find relationship with the other trees, Creatures, And fungi of the forest. They'll be home someday, To owls and insects. They will feed thousands with their fruit, And heal many hurts with the medicine they make. You do not know that you have already watered the seeds with your tears. The hulupu's countless children wait in the ground for renewed spring. What's lost can be found again, Home can be restored. This dirge, This reunion is proof. You are the circle, The roots, The branches, And the legacy. You are home. After this is your story, It will once again belong to the trees, The mature ones that whisper in wondrously tall groves, The saplings that weather storms in river valleys, And the ones that wait in the ground, A universe of potential within the shells of tiny seeds, Gathering warmth, Waiting to birth anew. Come to stillness and soften your mind, Soften your inner gaze, Notice the sounds that surround you, The sounds in this room, In the building, Outside the building, And far off in the distance. Simply notice them, And then let them dissolve into a low background. Take a deep breath in with the energy of the land around you, Hills, Mountains, Plains, Desert, Or coast, And breathe out, Softening, Feeling the energy of the earth, Strong, Supportive yet supple, Shifting imperceptibly, Vibrating with invisible change. Take another deep breath in with the energy of the waters around you, Rivers, Lakes, Reservoirs or oceans, And breathe out, Letting go of tension, Feeling the energy of the waters, The motion and constant movement of waves, Ripples, Rapids, And reflections. Take a third deep and cleansing breath with the energy of the sky, The clouds, The wind, The air, And the far away stars, And breathe out, Releasing any worry, Feel the limitless energy of the sky, Expansive, Generous, And all-seeing. Let your breath return to a natural rhythm and begin to visualize, If you like, A garden, An oasis in the desert at the brink of sunset. The garden is lush and beautiful, Bordered by roses and ferns. When you're ready, In your mind's eye, Approach the garden gate adorned with peacocks and pass through, Leaving behind the dry desert for this place of growth, Abundance, And water. There is a crystal clear pool of water at the center and a tall, Majestic tree growing beside it, Throwing shade over the garden. This is a place of absolute tranquility and sacred solitude. Walk slowly around the edge of the pool, Noticing the luxuriant plants that grow around it and in all the corners of the garden. Let your mind fill in this space with herbs, Flowers, And foliage. Notice how it feels to let your feet fall against the grass, How the earth springs back as if anticipating your footsteps. Continue to walk the garden in a circle which widens as you repeat the perambulation so that you make a spiral path, Spinning outward from the pool at the center. Pick up the scent of roses in the atmosphere, Listen to the sound of leaves rustling in the wind. Understand that this garden is a sacred place, A pathway beyond the ordinary, Where time slows down and all is quiet growth and exquisite peace, A place of rejuvenation. As you continue to walk your spiral path, Allow any thoughts, Worries, Or cares to simply fall away like unneeded layers, Leaving you feeling light, Unburdened, And pure. When it feels right, Complete your last spiral circle around the garden, Let your mind come to stillness for a moment, Sensing your connection to the earth, Then, In your mind's eye, Reverse the spiral, Traveling inward instead of outward, Deepening the journey into yourself, And also moving slowly closer to stillness and sleep. As you move inward, Finally approach the pool and the tree at the center of the garden. As you peer into the reflective surface of the pool, Become aware that night has fallen over the desert, See the moon reflected bright in the still water, And a single star nearby. This is the star of the morning and the evening, The planet Venus. Observe her beauty in the reflecting pool, And then, Turn your mind's gaze upward toward her celestial position and notice how the image of her in the sky differs from its reflection below. Breathe in the scent of evening in the garden, Breathe out. Turn your inner awareness now to the tree beside the garden pool. What kind of tree do you see in your mind? There is no wrong answer. If you like, Put your hand against the tree, Noticing the texture of its bark. Observe any visible roots. Gaze upward to its limbs, Noticing whether it has green leaves or colorful ones ready to fall. Is the tree flowering or bearing fruit? How does the wind sound as it travels through the branches? When you're ready, Visualize yourself sitting down beside the tree, Maybe with your back against its trunk. Feel it pressing back, Supporting you. Breathe. Soften into the tree, Trusting that it will hold you. Sense the depth of its roots, The tree's strength and its ambitious reach into the sky. Feel how your breath creates an exchange with this tree and with all the luscious plants of this garden in the heart of the desert. Breathe in deeply, Thanking the plants for their gifts. Breathe out slowly, Offering your own gifts in return. Feel the harmony in which you coincide, Like gentle music that rises and falls with your shared breath. Let the tree nourish you, Drawing nutrients from the land, Water and sky to replenish itself and you by extension. Filling you with new, Serene energy. Charging your batteries, So to speak, So that when you wake, You'll feel rested, Rejuvenated and content. Breathe in with the energy of the roots curled deep in the soil. Breathe out with gratitude for the land. Breathe in with the energy of the trunk, Drawing up the waters to feed the fruit and flower of your tree. Breathe out with gratitude for the water. Breathe in with the energy of the highest branches, Sweetly touched by the passing winds. Breathe out with gratitude for the sky. Blessed Be.

Reviews

Wonderful. I like to sleep with a story. I am somewhat an insomniac and the long story is great!