March 12th

The First Step

I stood by the edge of the lake to catch my breath.  A man?  As I searched the horizon for answers, I remembered the glasses, and the image of that dark-haired man.  But how could that be?  Keiran’s barely gone and I’m getting involved with another man?  That made no sense.  I wasn’t ready; my kids weren’t ready.  I know I said I’d start a new film, but I had no intentions of making it an adventure.  And what next?  If I weren’t so squeamish about all the bacteria floating in the lake, I’d jump in and swim across, clothes and all.  I needed to move. Like a lab experiment gone wrong, so many conflicting thoughts churned within me, if I didn’t release them somehow soon, I knew I’d explode.  With swimming out of the question, running seemed my only option.  Walking just wasn’t fast enough.

I went back to my room to dig out my shoes and sweatpants.  As I laced up my shoes I realized the last time I wore them was just before Keiran died.  We used to run together four to five times a week.  And though I needed it for both physical and psychological therapy, I just couldn’t.  I tried once or twice, but I never made it out the door.  But I had to now.  I didn’t think about it; I just went – out the abbey and down the first road I saw, wiping my tears with my sleeve and working hard to breathe.  But the more I tried to compose myself, the harder I cried.  At one point I ran into the woods, leaned against a tree and just let go.  After a while I didn’t even know what exactly I was crying about – Keiran, the idea of replacing him, Prometheus’ sacrifice, Hecate’s change, all of it?  Until I settled my soul – or exhausted myself, my thoughts could not process, so I dampened my sleeves more and resumed my run, first at a jog and then as the tears subsided, much faster.  I kept going until my lungs burned and my legs cramped.  When I stopped I found myself just past the lake, near a clearing where purple wild flowers spotted the terrain.  Heedless of what lay under me I collapsed on the ground and waited for my breathing to regulate.  As I lay there, the afternoon sun added its healing warmth.  And although I still felt troubled, I knew the run served its purpose.  I released a good portion of the stress – at least for the time being, and now, perhaps, could think rationally about what lay ahead.

I realized during my run that what I probably needed to relinquish was my attachment to Keiran.  I could not bring him back.  I recognized, as well, that my holding onto what was did little to help my daughters with their recovery.  If anyone expected me to forget him altogether they were crazy, but I also knew if I expected to live the rest of my life in mourning, I’d go crazy.  I didn’t know how I “moved on,” but I suspected it was time I learned.

Hamlets and Crafts on Lenore

To the south the land slopes gently towards the sea, and is lightly wooded, with the occasional meadow clearing scattered with wild flowers – cowslips, primroses and a patch or two of tiny wild strawberries, sweet as honey.

Gilead is the town and the main trading centre, but there are several small hamlets dotted about the island too.  Each hamlet seems to be connected to a particular craft, and the crafts seem to be family concerns with the skills being passed from one generation to the next.

One of these I found by literally following my nose!  The scent of lavender and rose was on the air and it was my intention to pick flowers.  Instead, I happened upon a soap-making enterprise.  The perfume was coming from two large vats which were being stirred by two older women.  Younger women were shaking the set bars of soap from their moulds, and the children were wrapping the bars, in threes, in brightly coloured cotton squares.  They were secured with a blob of shiny, black wax and imprinted with a celtic knot – the family’s sigil.  The work was accompanied by chatter and laughter, and they were happy to show me how the soap was made.  One of the children took me to where there were boxes packed ready for the market and I bought a pack each of Lime Blossom, Rose Geranium and Sandalwood.

I hadn’t really intended to buy anything on my outing and the weight of the soap, although not very heavy, was added to the weight of my lunch and drink bottle.  I hadn’t gone very far beyond the village before I decided to lighten the load by eating my lunch and having a drink.  I hid the soaps in the fork of a tree where I could pick them up on the way back, and headed towards the beach for a paddle in the sea.

I collected one or two pretty shells and put them in my pocket – little mementoes of my visit.  Rounding a small headland I came across another track and decided to see where it went.  Another small hamlet of six cottages.  These were the basket weavers.  I had noticed the nuns using beautiful baskets for a variety of things.  This village must be where they came from.  Men and women were sitting companionably in a circle, engaged in their craft.  Dried rushes, willow canes and hazel wands were heaped inside the circle.  The men appeared to be making the utilitarian baskets, while the women were making smaller, more decorative ‘art’ baskets.  These were made from fine twigs and grasses and had small, brightly coloured bird feathers and beads woven into them.  Some looked very much like birds’ nests and were quite delicate.  I was amazed at how quickly they could produce a basket.  Their fingers were very nimble and also quite calloused.  They invited me to join them and try my hand at a small basket.  My attempts caused a great deal of good-natured merriment all round.  I ended up with something that looked as if it had been walked on, but it was a colourful disaster with the beads and the feathers.  I purchased a tiny ‘art’ basket woven with feathers of aqua and blue.  It sat neatly in the palm of my hand and weighed almost nothing. 

One of the men was loading a couple of donkeys with baskets for the marketplace and asked me if I would like to accompany him part of the way. He put my backpack onto one of the donkeys and we set off towards Gilead. I explained that I’d left my soaps in a tree and gave him a rough idea of where, and he pointed me down the right track when we got close.

I was quite tired by the time I reached the tree so I sat a while to get my strength back.  When I put the soaps into my bag I felt the walnut shell against my knuckles.  I’d heard some of the others talking about its teleporting abilities but had no idea how to operate it.  It didn’t come with a manual.  I re-examined the tiny items it enclosed but couldn’t make a connection.  I decided to hold it firmly in my hand and visualize where I wanted to be.  It worked, but it was the weirdest sensation.  I felt as if my stomach had fallen through the floor. There was a whooshing, whistling sound and again the lurch of the stomach as I stopped, but I was exactly where I had imagined I would be – back in my room at the abbey.  I can see me making interesting use of this in the future.

March 10th

The Meeting

 

As I lay in bed that morning, around 6:30 according to my watch, I took several minutes to reorient myself.  When I replayed its events, yesterday seemed like a few scenes out of a B-rated scary movie.  As far as I was concerned, that movie ended.  So today needed to be the start of a new film, a new page in the script of my life.   And once I met with the abbess I’d know exactly what type of film my next one would be.   At least that’s what I anticipated.

While still on my back, I reached over to the table, grabbed the slip of paper, and read over my notes from yesterday’s trip to the library.  That Hecate goddess certainly covered a lot of terrain – the earth, the sea, the skyand the Underworld.  Thank you very much, but I’d like to keep my feet on this ground as opposed to the one below it.  And I hoped to God, Hecate was similarly minded.  I sat up in an effort to move toward getting out of bed and noticed some papers under my door.

I picked them up and found a note attached to a pamphlet entitled, “Life in the Abbey.”  The note read, “You have been granted an audience with the abbess at 2:00 P.M. in her study.  P.S. I thought you might want to read the attached to help you prepare for your visit.  Signed, Sister Sara.”  Considering I’d never met with an abbess, an abbot, or any religious leader higher than a priest before I appreciated Sister Sara’s foresight, thinking she’d probably just saved me from any major embarrassment.

I knew breakfast was served promptly at 7:00, so I figured I’d read the pamphlet after I ate, not to mention that I needed the food to help with my concentration.  Although I lived without the mirror yesterday, vanity played a small part in my make-up, so I needed to consult with the one in the common bathroom before I made my way to the dining hall.  Although not too pleased with its response, I figured I looked presentable enough for eggs and bacon.  And so off to breakfast I went.

Only a few diners sat at the table when I arrived, and all at the far end.  Not wanting to make the same impression today as I did yesterday – new day, new frame – I moved to the occupied end of the table and sat next to a woman I didn’t recognize from the night before.  Feeling especially brave, I introduced myself to her.  Turns out her name was Brenda; she and her friends were here at the abbey on a retreat.  With her sixty-hour a week job back home and in-laws living next door, I could understand why she might need a get-away now and then.  Several of the other guests at breakfast were with her, and we chatted about their plans for the week.  They even invited me to join them that afternoon for a trip around the island, but I told them I had other plans.  After a basic breakfast of scrambled eggs, biscuits, and bacon, we parted company promising to meet up again at dinner.  Surprisingly, I hoped they meant it.

When I returned to my room, I read through the pamphlet Sister left, and brushed up on my abbess etiquette.  It sounded like I needed to approach the abbess like I was going up for communion, with my palms up, and after she gave me a blessing, I’d kiss her hand.  I wondered what happened if I didn’t follow procedure.  Considering I needed her advice, and for her to be in a cooperative mood, I vowed to try to carry out the greeting process properly.  Now all I had to do was figure out what to do with the next six hours while I waited for my appointment.

****************************

At 1:30 I came back to my room after spending about five and a half hours doing something I hadn’t done in a very long time – nothing.  At first it seemed wrong; like driving on the left side of the road, but I got used to it. After spending years in full throttle, in the wife/mom mode, it felt good just to park it in neutral, to observe my surroundings and the contemplative demeanor of the sisters who inhabited them.  I envied their seemingly simple life, and tried to imagine myself as one of them.  But I just wasn’t that creative.

Time to move on.  I grabbed my list of questions and headed off to meet the abbess.  I felt the tension in my body heighten as I moved toward her study.  Considering I felt intimidated when I met my children’s teachers, this meeting with the abbess terrified me.  And I couldn’t just go in and sit down either; I had to bow and kiss!  Deep breaths, and more deep breaths.  So much for the serenity of the morning, all of that just got sucked into my lungs.  Then I thought, maybe I could just try to figure this out on my own; or, maybe I could summons Hecate to help me.   But as I looked up I realized, maybe the abbess was standing in the doorway of her study awaiting my arrival.  Too late to turn back now.

In a lilting voice, the abbess sang out, “Welcome my dear.”  My first impression was of an elderly Maria from The Sound of Music, an image that strengthened as our visit continued.  I stumbled through my practiced motions without any rebuff on her part, and followed her into her study.  As there were only two chairs in the room, and she sat in one, I, of course, sat in the other – on the edge with my hands on my knees, ready to spring (and flee) at a moment’s notice. 

In a reassuring tone she asked, “So child, what is it that bothers you?” 

No introductions or anything?  Her directness took me off guard because I hoped for some small talk to calm my nerves.  So at first I hesitated, not knowing where or how to begin; then, as if a dike broke, yesterday’s events poured out in a seemingly endless flow – from the glasses to my dream to my trip to the library, including the questions I formed as a result.  She listened, raising her eyebrows and uttering “Oh my”’s in all the right places.  When I finished she pushed her chair back and gazed out the window for several minutes.  I didn’t know what I was supposed to do next.  I thought perhaps someone or something caught her attention, but when I leaned to look, nearly falling off my chair, I saw nothing but the landscape. 

My clumsy gesture must have broken her trance.  She pulled her chair closer to me, taking my hands in hers. “I’m sorry my dear, you will not find much comfort in my words.” She barely blinked as she spoke.  “I cannot tell you what to sacrifice or which path to follow.  The one will decide the other.  You will know when it is time to let go.  Once you do, then you will stand at the crossroads.  Then and only then will God guide you in the right direction.”

I tried not to let my disappointment show, but when the abbess squeezed my hands I knew I didn’t succeed.  “I’m not finished, my dear.  There is still the last question.”  She let go of my hands, but still held my attention.

“Although I cannot tell you under what circumstances, I can assure you that a man will be entering your life within the next several months, a man who will play a significant role in your future.”

 I started to speak, but she raised her finger to silence me.  “That is all I know.  Be patient my child.  Open your mind; change needs an entryway.”  

She stood up and walked over to the door, my cue to leave.  I bowed as I left, realizing I never read any rules on departure.  “Thank you very much for your time, your abbess.”  I bowed again and walked first out of the study then almost ran out of the abbey.  I needed space.  I had to breathe.  I had to process what the abbess just said – there’d be a man entering my life in the next several months.  Not the film I had in mind.

 

Hermitage Cells on Lenore

The last week has been spent in semi-solitude. I have been roaming the island at will, only coming into contact with the other guests at breakfast and the evening meal. Each day I have wandered in a different direction and have covered quite a bit of the island.

To the north of the abbey, where the rocks rise up almost vertically from the sea, I discovered hermitage cells carved into the rocks. I don’t have a head for heights, so I only ventured as far as the topmost one. I was not aware that the cells were there, but a paved path led gently down from the cliff-top and I dared myself to see where it went. I was very careful to keep my eyes on the rock face and not look down while I negotiated the pathway. There was a thick, rope handrail attached to the rock, to which I clung with both hands. It was only a distance of a few yards, but I was sweating and weak-kneed by the time I reached the cell, and I had to sit down for a good ten minutes before attempting the return trip. The view out over the ocean was magnificent, and the cave was deep enough that I couldn’t see down, so I quite enjoyed it.

There was a metal plaque on the wall of the cell:

These cells, although no longer in use, were occupied at
various times by members of the order serving a self-imposed
penance of solitude and reflection. A single meal for each
penitent was delivered daily at sunset and left, with a pitcher
of pure spring water, at the top of the pathway.
Some penitents spent a few days here; others months and, one or
two, years.

I studied the tiny cave I was in. A slightly raised slab of stone was obviously the bed and there were three niches in the back wall and a kind of shelf hewn into the rock. A small crucifix made from a couple of pieces of bleached driftwood, and bound together with hair, hung in the centre niche. The others possibly held candles or maybe some ceremonial items. Very, very basic. I wondered if the occupants of the cell found the experience uplifting or depressing, and if that was part of the penance? Did they write or pursue some other craft during their stay? I really can’t imagine it.

I sat on the ‘bed’ until my knees regained some substance and then climbed back up the pathway, clinging to the rope and keeping my eyes firmly closed. At the top I sat down again and congratulated myself on conquering my fear long enough to see the cell. I’m still afraid of heights and feel quite sick at the thoughts of walking along that path. I suppose it was really quite stupid of me. I was alone. What if I froze and couldn’t get back up to the top? No-one knew where I had gone. At my age you’d think I’d have more sense! Proving once again that age and wisdom don’t necessarily go hand in hand. Sometimes age travels alone!

My Trip to the Library

“I..I’ll be right there,” I called out. 

After a few seconds I heard a knocking farther down the hallway as Sister Sara beckoned another guest to supper.

Still disoriented from what I now realized was just a bad dream, I sat up and moved over to my writing table.  I wanted to jot down some notes about my dream before it became – like most of my dreams – a watery blend of nonsense, but there was no pen, only the ink and the paper.  Then I remembered I’d stashed several of my colored pens into my suitcase, so I rummaged through my bag until I found them, of course on the very bottom. After I wrote what I could remember, I felt a bit of my anxiety alleviated.  Who needs a therapist when you have a pen?

I went to look in the mirror before I moved on to dinner, but I realized there was none in my room.  Just as well, I’m not too fond of the fixtures anyway, and there was no one in the abbey whom I needed to impress.  So, I just ran my hands through my hair, straightened my shirt, and left for the great dining hall. 

About ten guests – all female – and six nuns aligned both sides of the long wooden dining table. Both ends remained unoccupied even though places were set at each.  I figured that one place was for the abbess, but I wasn’t sure for whom the other seat was reserved.  (Another question for my list.)  Before we served the food, Sister Sara led us in a lengthy prayer.  At her close I quickly and quietly added my own, “Dear God, please help me sort out this mess.”

As we passed around the dishes, I ladled small servings onto my plate for two reasons.  One, I’m not much of a fish-eater, so the main course didn’t appeal to me.  Even the mashed potatoes and green beans looked plastic. And two, my nerves were still reacting to the dream.  I really hate how something so unreal can impact me for hours, sometimes a whole day, even though I keep telling myself, “It’s not real; it’s not real.  It was just a dream.” 

I knew I needed to eat something just so I could maintain some stability in my mood.  I learned that lesson long ago.  So, I managed to force down a few forkfuls of each fare.  The women seated around me probably thought I was some type of mental patient because I said nothing and just smiled here and there, probably not even at the right moments, but I had neither the desire nor the energy to engage in small talk.  Unsure of the protocol regarding when we could leave the table, I waited until one of the nuns got up before I excused myself, which caused a few stares from some of the guests.  I didn’t know whether it was the fact that I spoke or that I was leaving before everyone else.  I didn’t stay for the verdict.

I needed to find the library, which turned out to be just a few doors down from the dining hall.  Surprisingly the abbey’s library outrivaled our local one back home.  Reading must be a favorite past time here.  There were at least ten stacks of fiction, and thirty dedicated to non-fiction.  What I didn’t know was where to start.  And asking the librarian seemed out of the question.  Once I explained to her my problem she’d probably divert my attention and then run to find the local psychologist.  Searching the computer was out.  No technology, only the old card-catalogue system.   I looked at the ancient filing case, which brought me back to my elementary school days, and pulled open the top drawer, unleashing a musty scent that reminded me of my grandmother’s attic.  The reminiscing triggered related thoughts of homemade chocolate chip cookies and the constant click-clacking of my grandmother’s knitting needles, but a cough from somewhere behind me, unfortunately, brought me back to the present. 

I closed the drawer and sat in a nearby seat.  I needed a plan and opening every drawer and reviewing every card entry was not the most efficient one.  So I considered what I knew.  I knew it all started with the glasses, and Sister Sara identified the first person I saw as Prometheus, a Greek god.  And from what I remembered, the Greek myths contained many a bizarre character, like Cronus who swallowed his children whole and Medusa whose hair resembled a snake pit.  The three-headed woman in my next vision who walked a three-headed dog, and the three-headed monster in my dream could easily fit into the peculiar category.  Perhaps all these visions connected somehow to Greek mythology.  At least it was a place to start.  

I approached the card catalogue a bit more confidently this time and pulled out the drawer for Gr – Gy.  I found multiple titles concerning Greek Myths, but I decided to narrow my search to the illustrated ones.  I needed pictures to speed the process along.   The cards indicated the library owned several of these picture books, and I hoped at least one of them was on the shelf.  

Turns out, they all were.  I pulled four of them off the shelf and took them over to a nearby table.  Thinking the largest book contained the most pictures I started with The Illustrated Greek Mythology, about the size of a small suitcase, and just flipped through its pages.  An image caught my attention as its page fell onto the next. So, I thumbed slowly through the previous pages until I found, just like in the glasses, a picture of a three-headed woman in a flowing gown, walking a three-headed dog.  Several pounds of worry just fell to the ground. 

Since I’d been standing up until now, I pulled up a seat and began reading about this woman/goddess named Hecate.  I wanted to take notes, but realized I had neither pen nor paper, but I remembered seeing some half-sheets and pencils near the card-catalogue.  With those in hand I went back to the book and noted the following:

·    Goddess of the crossroads

·    aka the Moon Goddess, Goddess of the Underworld

·    Ruled over earth, sea and sky

·    Could see the past, present, and future

·     Appears when the moon shines.

·    Also reputed evil witch?

·    Often portrayed with three heads – dog, horse, and lion!!!

More pounds shed.  Okay, so I still didn’t know exactly what the vision meant, but considering Hecate stood at the crossroads, I suspected she represented some decision I’d have to make in the near future regarding what direction I needed to take.  Sister Sara said Prometheus, my first vision, symbolized my need to sacrifice or relinquish something.  Now, the way I saw it I had three questions for the abbess, which I wrote on the back of my paper:

·      What should I relinquish?

·      What crossroads will I face?

·      What’s with the handsome young boy?

Since I wouldn’t be meeting with the abbess until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest, I replaced the books on the shelf, returned to my room, prepared for bed and slept a deep and dreamless sleep.

 

March 4th

In My Room

Within minutes after taking off the glasses I sought out and returned them to the cloaked woman, whose name I then learned was Sister Sara. I guess she wasn’t willing to impart any personal information until after I passed the time test – no need for introductions for those who weren’t staying.

“And how do you know I actually wore them for the requisite five minutes?” I asked her. “You weren’t even there after I put them on the second time.”

“I can just feel it,” she said as she balanced the glasses in her palm.

Okay. Who was I to question her response? So, I moved on to my next concern, “Do you know where I can find the abbess? I need her to help me interpret some of my visions.”

She considered a moment and then said, “What day is today – Tuesday? I’m sorry to say she’s gone and won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon. Tuesdays are her days for visiting the elderly on the other side of the island, and then she spends the evening with a good friend who lives there. If you’re in a hurry, there’s the abbey’s library to the right of the great dining hall. You might find some materials there to help you.”

“Uh, thanks. Maybe I’ll try that later. I’m thinking I should go lie down for a bit; all of the sudden I’m feeling rather tired, like I just ran a few dozen miles.”

“Seeing can do that to you. Sometimes we’ll find people sleeping with the glasses still on. At least you have the energy to return to your room. Has it been set up yet?”

“Well, I suppose. If ‘setting up” means that there are sheets on my bed, as well as a candle, an ink well, and some paper on my table.”

“What else should you need?” she asked as though it was normal to live with such sparse accommodations.

“Um…” I didn’t want to say, “A computer and a table lamp would be nice,” knowing how deliberately technologically deprived the abbey was, so I simply responded, “Nothing really.”

“Then dinner will be in two hours, if you’d like to dine in the great hall with the rest of the guests. Will I see you then?”

“Uh, sure. Two hours.” As far as I knew if I didn’t eat in a couple of hours I wouldn’t eat at all. We were miles away from any commercial activity and transportation to and from the abbey was pretty much nonexistent after sunset. Of course you could canoe on the lake at any time of the day or night, but that was more for meditative purposes than an expected mode of transport. And besides that, the last time I tried to maneuver a canoe I wound up with my oar stuck in the bank.

Sister Sara turned to talk to another nun who walked into the entryway, so I snuck off down the hall toward my room to avoid any further conversation. My brain felt like the oatmeal I had for breakfast, pure mush. I heard my bed calling me and I knew if I didn’t respond to it within the next ten minutes I’d most likely end up curled up somewhere in the middle of the hallway. I actually turned into the wrong room first, which in the abbey is easy enough to do since there are no locks and no room numbers. It’s more count how many doors down you are from the beginning of the hall – and counting, even to nine, proved a challenge at that particular time for me. Fortunately no one was home in the first room. And, to be honest, the only reason I knew it wasn’t mine was because I didn’t recognize the suitcase.

I cautiously opened the next door down, relieved to see my paisley bag sitting beside the bed. No sooner was I in the room that I sat, more fell, onto the blue quilt that covered my sheets. I expected more of a give in the mattress, so was a bit stunned by the impact, but I recovered quickly and pulled the pillow beneath my head, nestling to find a comfortable position.

Seconds later a howling awakened me. Not having seen any animal of any sort around the abbey earlier in the day, the suddenness and the nearness of the cry confused me. I opened my eyes to see the moonlight shining in my room. No, I take that back, not shining in – filling the entire frame of my window. A low, cathartic howl seemed to come from directly behind the moon, and then as if it were a beach ball, the blinding orb was lifted from my view only to reveal a person backing through the window into my room. Too frightened to react I watched as the intruder’s body, barefooted and dressed in a long, flowing gown maneuvered over the ledge, and then turned toward me, but it was not human – its body was, but not its head; it was a dog and once she stood next to my bed, she threw back her head and howled again. I wanted to run, but there was no opportunity for me to even move. I said nothing because I feared the reaction of the beast that stood over me. I just lay there, willing my terror to remain contained within me, unleashing no sudden movements or telltale scents. I’d heard many a story of how an animal can sense your fear, and I knew unbridled panic stirred within me. Just as I felt my terror ready to explode, a noise outside my window drew my guard’s attention. As she turned her head, instead of hair where the right side of her head should be, a lioness’s face appeared. I moved to rise, but she leaned into me and let loose a deafening roar; the heat of her breath and the smell of her most recent catch warned me to be as still as petrified wood. I’m not certain how long she intended to stay in my room or for what purpose she had come. If I were to be her next meal, I wanted it to be sooner than later because my bowels could not wait much longer. A knock at the door startled us both. She raised her hand to signal me to stay and then turned toward the sound. I calculated I had a second to make my escape through the open window, but the growling of the dog’s head as it passed seized my moment. I felt the pressure from the anxiety like a weight on my chest, and just as I closed my eyes, giving way to the strain, a horse whinnied from somewhere in the room.

I awakened to a persistent knocking and the sound of Sister Sara’s voice, “Madam? Madam? I just wanted to let you know that dinner will be served in five minutes. Madam?”

I turned toward the noise, and struggled to understand how the setting sun could be casting shadows across my empty room.

Lil’ Owl Tangle

More of Molly’s Zentangles here:

Seeds of Change

The potting shed on Owl Island has been calling me. It’s mid-February and my body and bones ache for warmth; my mind and soul yearn for the promise of renewal that planting brings. In times past, I’ve planted seeds for creativity and watched them quickly sprout, strengthen and flower, but not this time.

I’ve come to plant seeds for a friend who’s very dear to me. The seeds I’m looking for can’t be purchased at home and I don’t even know if they’re available in Lemuria. The sign nailed inside the shed door reads, “Here we can watch ideas germinate, grow and develop.” Hmmm, not quite what I had in mind.

None of the categories listed on the numerous drawers will help:seeds of wonder, seeding your poetry garden, fancy rhizomes for fiction writers, character seeds, journalistic bulbs, Harry Potter mandrake roots and on and on. It seems all the genres and needs are here but the one I need.

Then I remember, this is Lemuria, the hidden continent. These seeds will be tucked away out of sight. As I turn slowly, in the tiny shed, a shaft of light illuminates a corner of the sloping ceiling and reveals a packet the color of old wood and forest moss. Fading letters spell out “Seeds of Change”. The paper crackles when I touch it. It’s never been opened–either I’m the first to discover it or it’s been rejected by people who hate and fear change.

I choose a fairly large terracotta pot and fill it with ample soil mixed with a bit of peat moss to lighten it and help it hold water in a parched climate. The seeds are varied–some fine as dust others thick and tough. With my penknife, I make a slit in three of the larger ones, then soak them a few minutes to give them a head start. After they are planted deep, I sprinkle the delicate ones on top and cover lightly with soil and mist the pot thoroughly.


I pierce the packet with a stick, label it Heather’s seeds of change, and plunge it into the pot.

The Glasses

“I cannot wear them!  I refuse to!” I told the cloaked woman picking up the green-tinted glasses from the flowerbed.

 

“Madam, everyone who visits the abbey must.  It’s the only way for you to see your truth!”

 

“But what if I don’t want to see the truth?  Besides, I already put them on; doesn’t that count?”

 

“No Madam.  You know the rules – a minimum of five minutes, a maximum of ten.  You only wore them for a matter of seconds.  Here.”  She took my hand, turned my palm upward and placed the glasses in it.  “You would never have come to the abbey if you weren’t interested in knowing the truth.”

 

I grasped the glasses and quickly closed my free hand around her wrist.  She offered no resistance.  “I’m afraid; can’t you see I’m afraid?”  I started to cry, but continued my plea; I needed to make her see, “In those few seconds I saw a hanged man; I cannot handle anymore death.”

 

She gently lifted my fingers off her wrist, and stepped back one pace – probably to find a safer distance.  She pushed the black hood back off of her head, removing the shadow that covered her face. “My dear, these images are not what they seem.   The hanged man does not necessarily represent death; he is Prometheus – the god who died and was reborn every day for thirty years.  He sacrificed himself to what he knew would be the ultimate torture just so that man could have fire and live a more godlike life.  Certainly he symbolizes suffering and surrender, but all sacrifice is not of a physical nature.  The truth is in knowing what you need to relinquish in order to move forward.” 

She took another step back, “I will leave you now, Madam.  Put the glasses on; be patient.  The truth takes time to develop.  You cannot understand its part without knowing its whole.”  Then she turned toward the abbey and disappeared into its massive structure.

 

I stared at the abbey’s plated doors as they closed behind the cloaked woman, willing them to reopen, for her to come back out and tell me the abbess offered me permission to stay without donning the glasses, but the doors remained shut.  I looked at the glasses in my right hand.  Mirrored lenses, tinted green, in a tortoiseshell frame – seemingly harmless as they rested in my hand.   She said I could not understand the part without knowing the whole, which would require me to keep the glasses on for at least five minutes.  I knew I must if I wanted to stay in the abbey, and leaving here was not an option.  No other place offered me the solace I sorely needed at this time in my life.  It was my warm fire during those bitter cold winter’s days.

 

To clear my vision, I wiped my tears with my shirtsleeve, took a deep breath, and put the glasses back on, my hands trembling as I adjusted them.  The hanged man, Prometheus, reappeared, and I forced my hands to my side to prevent them from throwing the glasses off once again.  As I fought the urge and looked closer at the image, I noticed the serene expression Prometheus wore, no panic, no sign of death – just a sense of acceptance or resignation.  Perhaps there was no fighting whatever this was that lay in store for me.  A calm passed over me, as if gravity pulled the resistance out of my body, and I watched while Prometheus unlocked his chains and walked confidently up the mountain. 

 

But just as he reached the peak and then descended from my view, the world within the glasses turned black.  Blinded by the darkness I stumbled backwards but caught myself before falling to the ground.  I tried to reach to pull off the glasses, but my hands would not move.  Out of the night emerged a woman in a white gown, walking her dog.  As the two approached I turn to move away from them, but the glasses were still on and I could not escape the pairs’ image.  They both had three heads and on the woman’s was a moon; I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound emerged.  What truth could be represented by this monstrosity?  Was my truth that I’m going crazy? The woman and her dog continued to walk toward me.  Since I could not remove the glasses, I closed my eyes and waited, hoping the two would walk out of my vision.  After a few seconds I opened my eyes.  The sun was rising and I stood next to a blue pond.  There was no sign of the prior apparition. 

 

I breathed in the serenity that now surrounded me, thankful to be freed from the specter of the three-headed woman.  As I took in the scene in which I now found myself, I noticed a young boy kneeling near the pond.  His attention was not on the water, but on a golden goblet that sat in front of him.  As I leaned over to see what had his interest – expecting some creature to be swimming in the cup – I realized he was mesmerized by his own image – that of a young, handsome page.   When he noticed me standing beside him, he gently pulled me down next to him, urging me to look likewise into the goblet.  As I peered in, the water rippled and the boys’ image disappeared, although he still knelt beside me.  In the ripples I saw what looked like my reflection, though not of today.  My hairstyle’s shorter, my face tanned, and my expression more relaxed.  As I continued to gaze into the cup, a face appeared beside mine, one I didn’t recognize.  The image was vague, but there’s no question it was of a dark-haired man.  As I’m straining to sharpen the image I felt my hand being squeezed, and then the scene vanished.  I was on my hands and knees in the front garden of the abbey.  There’s no pool, no cup, no young page, just the garden where I spoke with the cloaked woman minutes ago. 

 

I looked around to see if anyone had seen me in this unusual position, but the yard was unoccupied except for me.  I sat back on the ground and grabbed my knees.  With the glasses still on, I tried to recreate the scene by the pond, but they only revealed the here and now.  Who was that man in the reflection?  Clearly not Keiran; he was a redhead and I’m fairly certain my truth didn’t involve the rebirth of a deceased husband.  Was there, could there be a man in my future?  How could there ever be anyone after Keiran?  And what does a three-headed woman have to do with any of this?  I knew my next step was to find the abbess and consult with her about my visions.  At least, for now, regardless of what lay ahead, I found comfort in knowing my residence was secure at the abbey.  I wore the glasses. Now it was someone else’s turn.

 

a white owl

I spotted this owl on a recent visit to White Owl island.

It’s a collage made from torn newspaper.