Nous tenons pour acquis qu’un reflet n’est qu’une copie virtuelle de la réalité, mais il est bien davantage que cela. Un reflet est un mélange, une superposition de l’image projetée sur le support qui la reçoit. L’image qui en résulte est un peu de réel, bien qu’inversé, semé dans la substance même de la surface réfléchissante : si cette surface est de l’eau, le reflet épouse sa fluidité et son mouvement incessant ; si c’est du verre, il adopte sa nature éthérée et son apparence presque immatérielle ; si c’est un miroir, il prend les brusques éclats du vif-argent.

Cela est également vrai pour des éléments que nous ne concevons pas habituellement comme des surfaces réfléchissantes ; par exemple, nous ne voyons pas les reflets que nous projetons sur les autres, mais ils sont toujours là. Dans chaque interaction, il y a un peu de nous-mêmes mêlé à l’immense ensemble de leur personnalité, de leur intellect et de leurs émotions. C’est pourquoi il est impossible de connaître pleinement une personne : on ne peut jamais la voir sans que notre propre personnalité ne soit projetée sur la sienne.

Les reflets les plus subtils sont ceux que nous projetons sur notre environnement, sur cette vie plus vaste avec laquelle nous échangeons constamment notre souffle et dont nous faisons partie de façon inextricable. Même dans l’immobilité parfaite, nous transformons le monde simplement en y étant présents. Nos émotions, comme l’eau, comme le verre, comme le vif-argent, déforment l’essence de ce qui existe d’un instant à l’autre, transformant l’enfer en paradis puis le paradis en enfer en un clin d’œil. Elles nous font détester le soleil de mai et désirer les brumes de novembre ; elles nous font percevoir certaines choses comme belles ou laides d’une manière que personne d’autre ne peut comprendre ; elles recréent littéralement notre monde, une émotion à la fois.

Les stoïciens, les esprits cérébraux, les réalistes pragmatiques rejettent cela comme des sottises ignorantes, l’œuvre d’esprits inférieurs incapables d’accéder à une raison plus élevée. Ils tiennent la nature immuable de la réalité pour une vérité de foi et s’ancrent dans son absolu, même lorsque la réalité se contorsionne pour valider leurs croyances.

D’une manière très concrète, nous vivons dans des mondes de notre propre création, constamment influencés par les interférences de la vie des autres, mais dont l’essence même ne peut être transformée que par nous-mêmes, tout comme un océan est sans cesse agité par les vagues, les remous et les courants sans jamais cesser d’être un océan.

Enfin, revenons aux miroirs. Il y a quelque chose d’inquiétant à se tenir entre deux miroirs parallèles. On a l’impression d’être aspiré, reflet après reflet, dans un monde sans profondeur qui ressemble exactement à celui où l’on vit, mais qui ne l’est pas. Votre être se trouve partagé entre la droite et la gauche, et pendant un bref instant, aussi fugace que déroutant, deux versions de vous-même vous regardent en retour, rebondissant à l’infini d’un miroir à l’autre jusqu’à ce qu’il soit impossible de distinguer laquelle est laquelle. Si vous observez attentivement au loin, vous remarquerez que leur point de vue change peu à peu, comme si ces mondes infinis avaient subi un léger mais perceptible déplacement et étaient désormais différents. Et instinctivement, vous savez qu’une fois sorti de ce tunnel de réalité, votre propre monde ne sera plus tout à fait le même.

Donnez à une personne curieuse et obstinée un morceau de réalité qui semble se décoller à un coin, et elle s’acharnera à soulever cette fine pellicule jusqu’à l’arracher complètement, surtout après qu’on lui aura répété de ne surtout pas le faire. Qui pourrait résister à un ordre — même formulé à la négative — martelé dans son esprit pendant vingt ans ? Les ordres et les interdictions sont les deux faces d’une même pièce : tous deux concentrent l’attention et intensifient la réaction émotionnelle envers leur objet, et qu’ils agissent de manière positive ou négative, leur efficacité est diaboliquement similaire.

Très tôt le matin, avant que l’aube ne commence à répandre ses teintes bleues et violettes, Claire descendit l’escalier sur la pointe des pieds, silencieuse comme une souris, s’efforçant désespérément d’apaiser son cœur rebelle. Elle ne voulait pas s’avouer qu’elle avait peur ; elle ne voulait même pas y penser. Pourtant, son corps était incapable de dissimuler les vagues d’anxiété qui parcouraient ses veines et rendaient sa respiration rapide et superficielle. Lorsqu’elle atteignit le grand hall, elle sentit soudain l’air devenir plus froid malgré la chaleur étouffante qui régnait à l’extérieur. Sa densité semblait différente elle aussi, et elle percevait contre sa peau une charge statique qui lui donnait la chair de poule et jouait avec ses cheveux. Tout le sang qui s’était retiré de ses mains et de ses pieds, les faisant picoter tandis que son menton s’engourdissait, afflua soudain vers ses joues.

« Claire, » se dit-elle, « ce serait peut-être le bon moment pour faire demi-tour et retourner au lit. »

Une composante récalcitrante de sa personnalité intervint aussitôt, la poussant au-delà des bords des miroirs et jusque dans l’entrée.

— Génial, marmonna Claire entre ses dents. Il est déjà trop tard !

À force d’entendre sa grand-mère lui répéter de ne pas rester dans l’embrasure de la porte afin de ne pas gêner le passage, elle s’attendait presque à voir une foule surgir de nulle part sur le chemin de ses occupations. Pourtant, les miroirs ne lui renvoyaient qu’une réplique parfaite de son état présent.

— Qu’est-ce que tu croyais voir d’autre, idiote ? se réprimanda-t-elle à voix basse.

Elle rassembla son courage et s’approcha de l’un des miroirs pour contempler les reflets infinis d’elle-même. Tous arboraient la même expression terrifiée, et Claire se fit la réflexion qu’il était décidément trop facile de lire ses émotions sur son visage. Ses yeux semblaient brillants, écarquillés par l’appréhension, et reflétaient les formes vagues qui habitaient son esprit — ces impressions impossibles à décrire rationnellement mais dont on ressent pourtant la certitude — dans leurs minuscules miroirs bombés.

Ce ne fut pas dans les miroirs eux-mêmes, mais dans leurs reflets, que Claire reçut sa surprise du jour. Là, dans l’interminable rangée d’yeux qui s’étirait vers l’infini, elle se vit avec des fleurs dans les cheveux, souriant largement à quelque chose qu’elle ne pouvait pas voir mais qui semblait se tenir juste derrière elle.

— Sainte Grâce !

Elle recula brusquement, presque malgré elle, et aurait juré avoir heurté quelque chose de solide. Elle se retourna aussitôt, mais il n’y avait rien derrière elle, sinon les premiers rayons du soleil qui avaient enfin réussi à percer le voile de l’aube.

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My spirit is heavy with the time I squandered driving in first gear,

one light shining dimly to dispel the darkness,

all the way holding on to the promise my ancestors cherished

that love always is.

I feel it finding my keys when I’m late and frazzled.

It adjusts the blanket over my shoulders when I shiver,

and touches my forehead, concerned, waiting for the fever to break.

I hear it whisper the right answers to those questions meant

to catch me unaware.

So just in case you can’t see it clearly through the tears

and worry you might have dropped it that dark night

when you took out the garbage in the middle of a snow storm,

don’t worry, it is still there, I can see it from here,

love always is.

Ready for more spoken poetry?

Elle ressemblait à une immense ruche humaine, où les travailleurs affairés se déplaçaient à travers des centaines d’ouvertures percées dans les parois rocheuses vers les entrailles du lieu, profondément enfouies sous terre : la vaste métropole souterraine qui marquait le cœur battant de l’Anatolie.

Une grande délégation accueillit les déesses avec les traditionnelles gerbes de blé et de longues oraisons cérémonielles, et lorsqu’ils eurent fini de se prosterner, la foule les entoura comme une eau vive et les guida par des escaliers et des rampes à travers d’immenses chambres et corridors souterrains, longeant des gens occupés à leurs tâches quotidiennes, des galeries taillées dans la pierre, des allées et des arcades, des espaces publics et des puits de ventilation, des temples, des tombeaux et des systèmes d’égouts, des étables, des puits et des réservoirs d’eau — toutes les composantes d’une cité fonctionnant à la perfection, à des kilomètres sous la surface de la terre, éclairée seulement par le don de Prométhée.

Cette métropole renversée et souterraine semblait sans fond, et Perséphone, plus habituée que sa mère aux subtilités de la vie d’en dessous, s’attendait à tout instant à voir luire les flots de lave rouge, tandis que leur descente apparemment interminable se poursuivait.

Le voyage s’acheva dans la salle la plus profonde, une immense caverne voûtée de quinze mètres de haut, dont les murs peints représentaient des batailles épiques et des scènes de la vie quotidienne, des prières pour les morts et les dévotions des vivants.

Les échos des centaines de voix étaient réverbérés et amplifiés par les hautes voûtes de pierre, les murs et le sol, atteignant une intensité assourdissante et désorientante.

Les grands prêtres s’inclinèrent et se prosternèrent aux pieds des déesses, et lorsqu’on leur ordonna de se relever, ils les conduisirent le long de l’allée centrale jusqu’à leurs trônes de pierre, sculptés de scènes agricoles et de symboles des morts, ornés de guirlandes de renoncules jaunes et de coupes remplies de grenades.

Une jeune vierge, visiblement submergée par l’émotion, s’approcha humblement et posa sur leurs têtes des couronnes de fleurs jaunes, puis se retira, terrassée d’émerveillement, afin de porter la main à la joue que Déméter avait effleurée en passant.

Pendant un instant, Perséphone eut l’impression d’être rentrée chez elle et éprouva de la gratitude envers sa mère pour ce cadeau inattendu.

Les voix cessèrent brusquement lorsqu’un groupe de prêtres apporta des céréales, des fruits et des animaux pour la bénédiction, tandis que les feux sacrificiels étaient attisés et parfumés avec de grandes brassées de sauge séchée, de camomille et de menthe.

— Ils ne vont pas les sacrifier ici, n’est-ce pas ? murmura Perséphone à sa mère, qui leva les yeux au ciel avec mépris.

— Maintenant tu as un problème avec la mort ? Bien sûr qu’ils vont les sacrifier ! C’est tout le but du voyage !

Elle aperçut l’expression horrifiée sur le visage de sa fille et s’irrita aussitôt.

— Oh, grandis un peu. Les gens attendent ce festin toute l’année.

L’anticipation des odeurs, des sons atroces de l’agonie, du sang et de la fumée suffocante de la chair brûlée amena Perséphone au bord du vomissement, tandis que sa mère l’observait avec une curiosité pleine d’attente et une légère pointe de satisfaction.

— Puis-je espérer que ton mari s’est enfin rendu utile d’une quelconque manière ? Tu es…

— Non ! Mère, comment peux-tu être aussi calme ? C’est horrible !

— Je suis certaine que le Tartare est une merveilleuse destination de vacances, ma chère. Ressaisis-toi. Tu fais honte à l’Olympe.

Perséphone s’assit sur son trône, le visage figé, essayant de trouver un endroit paisible dans son esprit tandis que le rituel se poursuivait et que les offrandes étaient sacrifiées puis brûlées, reconnaissante pour l’efficacité du système de ventilation et pour l’estrade qui mettait une certaine distance entre elle et le sang répandu sur le sol.

Le rituel prit enfin fin, et les déesses se levèrent pour partir. Lorsqu’elles descendirent de l’estrade dans l’allée centrale, le grand prêtre s’avança vers elles avec un bol de sang frais encore tiède et marqua leurs fronts de l’offrande sacrificielle.

Pendant une fraction de seconde, l’esprit de Perséphone quitta son corps afin de se regarder marcher dans cette allée, profondément enfouie dans les entrailles de la terre, une guirlande de fleurs jaunes nuptiales sur la tête, pâle comme un fantôme et vêtue d’un voile blanc immaculé, en contraste saisissant avec les marques écarlates sur son front — l’image archétypale des anciennes déesses de la mort.

Elle regarda sa mère, toujours aussi imposante, assumant avec une aisance gracieuse son rôle de protectrice des récoltes et de dispensatrice chtonienne des moissons, réconciliée avec la vie, la mort et toutes les étapes entre les deux.

Les dieux ne vieillissent pas ; ils deviennent insensibles.

— Tu t’es bien acquittée de ta tâche, ma fille, commenta Déméter dans le char du retour. Je craignais que tu ne t’évanouisses ou quelque chose du genre. Une déesse évanouie ! Toute la Cappadoce s’en serait moquée, comme si nous n’avions pas déjà assez de problèmes.

Elle observa sa fille, encore trop bouleversée par l’expérience pour soutenir une conversation.

— Il était temps que tu sois initiée à la prochaine étape de ton existence, Perséphone. Tu n’es plus une vierge innocente ; désormais tu es mère, au moins en esprit, dit-elle avec amertume. Nous autres, les mères, vivons pour servir les besoins des autres. Les dieux savent que c’est ce que je fais.

Perséphone se demanda ce que penserait son bien-aimé s’il la voyait ce jour-là, sa jeune épouse innocente disparue pour laisser place à une idole de pierre vouée au sacrifice sanglant, et ces images troublantes lui rappelèrent qu’elle devait encore à Dionysos une conversation au sujet des détails de son futur banquet — sans aucun doute une bacchanale.

Elle sentit soudain monter la colère, songeant que c’était précisément pour cela qu’elle préférait ne pas quitter Hadès et sa paix silencieuse.

Toutes les fois où elle avait vu des âmes en pleurs errer sans but sur les rives de l’Achéron et tenté de les réconforter, elles venaient toutes d’ici, de ce lieu de vie et de lumière où chacun aspirait sans relâche au pouvoir, où les émotions primaires, les pulsions et les désirs honteux gouvernaient tout, un marécage d’ambitions grandioses et cruelles, aussi rouges et impossibles à effacer que la tache de sang sacrificiel sur le sol.

— Voilà ce qu’est la vie, ma fille, répondit Déméter d’un ton plus doux. La vie est brutale. Tous n’ont pas le privilège de traverser légèrement ses épreuves pour atteindre directement les Îles des Bienheureux. N’ose pas juger. Tu es ici pour servir. Alors sers.

— Qu’y a-t-il ensuite dans le calendrier ? demanda Perséphone, mettant fin à la discussion.

— Nous allons à Épidaure. Tu t’occuperas des malades.

Tant que je ne suis pas là pour les tuer, pensa Perséphone avec soulagement, contemplant l’ironie du fait qu’elle, parmi tous les êtres, allait apporter du réconfort aux souffrants. On aurait cru que sa simple apparition était la dernière chose que ces gens désiraient.

— Eh bien, puisque ton promis a décidé de scier la branche sous les pieds d’Asclépios parce qu’il perturbait son futur nombre de morts, et qu’il l’a retenu captif dans l’Hadès pour récompense, c’est à toi de reprendre ses fonctions. Déméter ne put s’en empêcher. Quel harmonieux foyer d’amour et de lumière que le tien !

— En réalité, c’est Zeus qui a frappé Asclépios. Il est dans l’Hadès parce qu’il est mort.

— Et je suis certaine que ton mari n’a absolument rien à voir là-dedans.

— Alors, qu’est-ce que je dois faire à Épidaure ?

— Tu offriras des visites en rêve, des conseils, du réconfort et des remèdes aux malades.

Pourquoi tout ne peut-il pas être ainsi ? pensa Perséphone. Elle aimait son travail — du moins la plus grande partie. Les plantes, les oracles, l’apaisement des âmes. Ce qu’elle ne pouvait accepter, c’était la provocation volontaire et insouciante de la souffrance, et cela, comme elle venait de l’apprendre, constituait le sang rouge de la vie elle-même. Rien d’étonnant à ce qu’elle préfère vivre ailleurs.

— Tu devrais effacer ça, dit Déméter en désignant son front. Cela pourrait troubler les patients.

— Je ne vois vraiment pas pourquoi ! répondit Perséphone avec amertume, recevant aussitôt une serviette d’une des Aurae pour essuyer son front, puis un bol d’eau fraîche d’une autre afin de se laver le visage.

Elle aperçut son reflet à la surface de l’eau, inchangé, peut-être seulement un peu plus pâle. Elle se rappela l’adage selon lequel, passé un certain âge, les gens portent le visage qu’ils ont mérité, et elle fut désormais certaine que c’était faux.

Toute la cruauté du monde demeure soigneusement dissimulée derrière des visages innocents, des visages exactement comme le sien.

Elle laissa son regard se poser sur le paysage qui glissait lentement sous eux. Elle était certaine que, dans le char d’Hélios, ils voyageaient plus vite que le temps lui-même, mais d’une telle hauteur cela était à peine perceptible. Vu de très haut, le berceau de la vie paraissait si beau, si paisible, un véritable Éden béni. Rien d’étonnant à ce que les Olympiens ne comprennent pas son tourment !

Le crépuscule approchait et, tandis que Nyx, l’amie de Perséphone, recouvrait la terre de son manteau, le paysage se transforma en une carte de velours noir semée de points lumineux, presque comme le reflet du royaume étoilé.

Les groupes plus ou moins denses de ces lumières dessinaient les contours des mers et les croisements des routes commerciales, une manière très différente de percevoir les principes qui mettent la vie en mouvement de ce que l’on voyait durant le jour.

La carte de la nuit révélait bien davantage les priorités et les préoccupations des hommes, dépouillée des artifices destinés à embellir l’existence.

— Tu es partiale, évidemment, commenta Déméter avant de se tourner vers le cocher. Nous avons bien avancé. Nous arriverons juste après que les souffrants se seront endormis. J’aimerais éviter le faste cérémoniel et nous mettre directement au travail, pour changer, et j’espère que nous entrerons et sortirons sans délais inutiles. Ce fut une longue journée. Nous sommes tous fatigués.

Elle reporta de nouveau son attention sur sa fille.

— Perséphone, prends un peu d’ambroisie, ma chère. Tu n’as rien mangé de toute la journée et tu seras inutile si tu tombes malade.

Perséphone accepta le bol qu’une troisième Aura lui tendit aussitôt et mangea docilement la nourriture des dieux.

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		I may yet be forgotten by the wind, in its perpetual unrest,
		as I stand here,
		small and quiet,
		watching the waves,
                touching the breeze.

Find the rest

It is exactly that evasive nature that makes it so valuable; it is the layering of meaning and the ability to turn a phrase into its opposite in one change of tone that endows it with magic and it is its slippery quality that makes it so addictive.

There is a hard object underneath the gooey surface which spills through your fingers and turns into nothing the moment you focus on it, and that hard object is so evident to people they don’t think of questioning its existence, they can feel it in a visceral way, but not in a way they can explain, or justify.

An indescribable art.

Music - Dizzy Dissolve by Neon Beach

There is a version of this that held together longer.

It’s here

Mary made her way sheepishly through the small park, lowering her eyes as she passed the rare visitors, because the fire in them scared people who didn’t understand it.

Their unusual color, a muted glow of embers, echoed the ruby of burning bushes and sugar maples like their color turned with the seasons as well.

She’d been born this way, hair snowy white, her porcelain skin the palest shade of alabaster and eyes of fire.

It’s strange how physical appearance shapes one’s fate: Mary had spent her entire childhood knowing herself to be different from other humans, in ways nobody deemed to acknowledge.

Her mother kept giving her scientific explanations with complicated terms like amelanism and genetic mutation, but Mary knew in her heart she wasn’t like the rest.

This truth came to her in her dreams and she’d heard it in her heart, that hers was a special destiny, to embrace fire and tame it, like a present day Prometheus, to harness its transformative power.

She walked the earth in silence, with the bearing of a fairy, barely touching the ground, weightless like breath. In that silence she felt her connection to the wind, sun and rain whom she considered her kin more than she did humans, and she had no bitterness about it, because that didn’t make her feel odd, but rare, and powerful, and special.

Those dreams she had dreamt as a child she shared with no one, they were her secret dwelling, her palace, fit for an elemental, a place where she danced free, undaunted by fear, conformity and customs, to a music only she could hear, which seemed to resonate from all around her and from herself as well, fitting her inside reality like a jewel in its setting.

The young woman lifted her eyes to watch the sunlight sift through the golden trees, shielding her vision with her palm and smiling to a passer-by, who, like most people, was so dazzled by their unusual color he forgot the norms of polite society and fell straight into her soul, lost and mesmerized, until his walking companion called his attention back to the real world.

“What are you looking at, Mary?” her grandmother used to ask her when she was little and got lost in her dreamworld, fascinated by its wonders.

All those treasures her sight had uncovered patiently in time were still there in her eyes, an open secret offered to anyone for a price: the audacity not to avert one’s gaze for fear of their fire.

She smiled and stared into his eyes, and her magic gaze shook him to the core with the uncanny feeling two roses were watching him intently from under a blanket of snow. Something more than human, but still of this world, a part of nature and its equal as well.

“What are you looking at, Mary?” her grandmother’s voice echoed endlessly inside her head.

Sunlight. Air. Nothing.

“I’m looking at nothing.”

Here and there an earthy seed head or a golden plume of grass moves gently with the breeze, and birds sift snow from the tree leaves above looking for shelter. There are no scents, just the unmistakable chill that fills the nostrils and makes them stick.

It almost seems like nature tries to make up for the cold by providing the most spectacular sky displays, the colder, the more colorful. Since today was not exceedingly cold, we are going with soft pastels. The really frigid days are the ones that sing bright orange, red and violet sunsets.

The sleeping stillness of the garden imposes a weird reverence, one almost feels like whispering for no reason. Snow keeps falling gently, quieting my thoughts.

The pages keep what has settled.

The river keeps moving.

so you can wander more

I know what you’re going to say, that Earth doesn’t make noise when it travels through space, ok, so its electromagnetic radiation translated to sound if that makes you feel better.

It’s not like my life is going to change tomorrow, I won’t go to bed smarter, stronger or more enlightened, it is unlikely that I’ll solve the world’s problems, or even my own, but I will remember to welcome that strange, loud and raspy breath of Earth into my lungs while I fall asleep.

This story evolved to a different form.

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You’ll be pulled in the wake of the truth future brings

Where the ghost of reality waits in the wings

You’ll be wary and tired of the trouble it weaves,

And you’ll question its timing, and you’ll fail to believe

But as true as it is that you live and you breathe,

Its ghost will show up in the morning.

You will question the standing of unwritten rules

You’ll abide by the past and you’ll feel like a fool

While your life will get cast in a whole different light

And you won’t be excused from the truth that it brought

And whether you protest, you seethe or you doubt,

Its ghost will show up in the morning.

You’ll get mad at the waste that it made of your time

You’ll find people to blame and you’ll sulk, and you’ll whine

And the light will shine brighter in your tired eyes

Revealing realities you can’t deny

And whether you suffer, you run or you lie,

Its ghost will show up in the morning.

You’ll be shamed by the crudeness that’s thrust on your heart

You’ll be naked and scared, have your soul ripped apart

But the truth will be there, universal and hard

It will outlast your life, and your dreams and your pride

And whether you bargained, you feared or you cried

Its ghost will show up in the morning.

If you’ve come this far, this might make sense:

After Dark

on a bright summer night

when all the stars are out

and by their light alone, you see your shadow?

When the whole world pretends to sleep,

and the air is thick with waves,

and rhythm,

and the smell of salt and seaweed?

When the sand is cold beneath your feet,

and the breeze brings a shiver,

and you startle when you accidentally walk past the water line

into a different substance

you can’t see

but which warns you

you wandered into a no-man’s-land between the worlds?

If you did, what did the moon whisper to you, my kindred lunatic?

It’d be awkward if it spoke to me alone.

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At the age of nineteen Rachel almost failed her college admission. She was anxious and mortified of what people would think of her, she couldn’t fail at anything, so she passed, barely, and therefore didn’t have to worry about opinions and commentary, and life went on, as usual.

At the age of twenty-six Rachel almost couldn’t find a job. She was anxious and mortified of what people would think of her. By this time they were different people, but she was too distraught to notice. She couldn’t fail at anything, so she got a job, eventually. Not the one she wanted, or even liked, but she did, and therefore didn’t have to worry about opinions and commentary, and life went on, as usual, with the amendment that “the usual” was slightly less enjoyable than before.

At the age of thirty-three Rachel quit said job to spend time with her babies. She was anxious and mortified of what people would think of her. By this time they were, again, different people, but she was too self-conscious to notice. She couldn’t do anything that didn’t fit with the generally agreed upon norms of her social circle, so she moved heaven and earth to go back to work. By now she’d already started realizing that the career she had envisioned was never going to happen, so she did the responsible thing, worked hard and kept her dreams to herself. It was the socially acceptable thing to do, therefore she didn’t have to worry about opinions and commentary, and life went on, as usual, with the amendment that the new usual was one without dreams.

She had to worry about opinions and commentary, was anxious and mortified of what people would think of her and people enthusiastically obliged, dumping the entire backlog of criticism, disapproval and contempt at her feet. By now they were, yet again, different people, and, for a change, she did have the sense to notice.

It finally dawned on Rachel that living on anxious and mortified in order to appease constantly changing groups of people was a very unhealthy lifestyle and definitely not one she could sustain long term. She realized she had things to contribute to the world and her views mattered.

She took a stern look at her life, kept what she liked and ditched what she didn’t, got used to opinions and commentary and published her writing (yes, the one she had carefully stashed in a drawer because she was anxious and mortified of what people would think of her). She started learning things again and cultivated useless but personally rewarding skills. She no longer hesitates to voice her opinion in public and stopped worrying about failure.

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Can you hear us, friend?

The thoughts at your temples,

the love in your heart,

the will to remember,

the capacity to overcome,

the things you will make,

the paths you will take,

your life from outside of yourself?

What’s that you say,

oh, most real one

from the realest of realities?

Of course we are all in your head,

where else would we be?

We’re the dwellers of context and content

Your guests from the meta of real.

And this is where the thought settled.

Enter

one small thing that matters,

even an echo in a canyon, 

even a faint scent on a breeze,

then we haven’t lived in vain, 

have we?

The world is strident,

painful loudness,

a babel of shrieks and disorienting jangle,

inside which that small thing

may be the only music that endures

long enough to seed the chaos 

with the nostalgia of order

after its source was silenced.

She’d taken them off because she couldn’t run in them, or dance in them the way she wanted to, and in the process rediscovered the feeling of soft grass under her bare feet, and the rush of the water around her ankles during the torrential rain.

She opened the other pane and stood in the doorway, her back against one of the wide wooden jambs, looking out into the garden at the clear puddles that had formed, here and there, in the gravel path, after the rain. The morning sunshine touched them gently, stirring glimmers and sparkles, almost like a dare to bring Cimmy out into the open. 

The latter giggled, delighted by this game nature was playing with her, and rushed out, barefoot, into the garden, splashing in puddles and getting drenched from above with the remnants of the night rain that the wind brought down from the tree canopies above.

The garden was very large, but Cimmy knew it well, because she had spent her whole childhood in it. She rushed past the tall sages and bent her head, without even thinking about it, when she walked under the arbor, where the roses were in full bloom. She had the wild canes of the climbing roses tangle in her hair more than once, and by now she could bow her head just enough to avoid them, even with her eyes closed.

She wandered past the tall lilies, which reached above her head, and whose dark, pollen laden stamens stained her fingers when she brushed her hands against them. 

Behind them, the umbels of milkweed welcomed hosts of butterflies, which were stirred into flight by the light breeze, only to descend quickly upon the bright orange flowers again, in search of nectar.

The narrow gravel path ended abruptly into the main alley, which was wide, covered in flagstones and lined by linden trees. 

Cimmy walked in the shade of the trees, breathing deeply the sultry perfume, her soles tickled by the moss and flowering thyme which was growing between the stones like a soft living carpet and yielded its spicy fragrance under her feet.

She felt the breeze from the pond and picked up the pace, eager to reach her favorite hiding spot before the rain started again, she could tell from the dance of light and shadow on the path that a second installment of the downpour that had fallen overnight was about to start at any moment.

The gazebo was out on a narrow strip advancing into the lake, strip which broke down towards the end, into a path of stepping stones, surrounded by the water, and Cimmy jumped from one stepping stone to the next with the agility of a mountain goat.

She jumped into the gazebo just seconds before the rain started again, with booming, rolling thunder and bolts of lightning, dancing above the trees; the rain fell hard and fast, drumming on the roof, and crumpling the placid surface of the pond with a myriad of ripples.

The hem of her dress was drenched and heavy, and had turned three shades darker, but Cimmy didn’t care. 

She sat down on the round bench that surrounded the post in the middle of the gazebo and gazed into the distance at the heavy clouds which were moving very fast, dropping their watery load over the heads of the cattails, and on the fleshy petals of the water lilies, and sifted it down through the tree canopies until only a sprinkling of water drops reached the ground.

The warm air over the pond turned into mist in the cool rain, and its soft white blanket padded the water plants, and the stepping stones, and Cimmy’s bare feet, while she sat there, watching, mesmerized, the intricate movements that made it feel alive, somehow, while she breathed deeply the scent of the rain, mixed with the overpowering fragrance of wet gardenias and orange blossoms.

Such was the beauty of Cimmy’s garden, and how proud she was of it! It was the most beautiful place on earth, she thought, this walled garden of hers, this heavenly shelter in the middle of existence, this place where everything was flawless.

She stretched out her cupped hands, and they were filled in an instant by the fast falling rain, and she drank from them eagerly, to appease her thirst. 

She then jumped out in the rain, from stepping stone to stepping stone, shivering and giggling, and ran through the fruit orchard, stirring the wet dirt between the trees and filling the lap of her dress with peaches, whose ripe skins were almost the same color as her wet dress was now, while the rain kept falling, thick and heavy, from above.

She couldn’t even remember how many times she had made her way through the peach orchard, hundreds, thousands maybe, to find the dirt path that weaved through the wildflower meadow and led back to the house. 

During sun baked summer afternoons, the meadow was covered in the bright eyes of chamomile and chicory, but not now, when the flowers had shut themselves tight to keep out of the downpour that was pounding their sappy stems and releasing their fragrance.

The young girl was about to reach the flagstone path when the rain let up and the sun started shining immediately, making every drop of water sparkle. Tiny birds, thrilled by the plentiful water, gathered in flocks to bathe in the puddles, boding good weather.

Cimmy wasn’t in a rush to get to the house, but her feet carried her back to the garden in front of her bedroom, just by the power of habit. 

She reached the little herb wheel, with tall anise growing around the fountain at its center, and there she stopped and sat down on one of the old garden benches, basking in the sunshine, to allow her gown to dry and to munch on a peach, in the peace of this plant realm of scent and wonder, surrounded by bees and butterflies, and the smell of the heated herbs.

Clouds passed overhead, playing with the sunlight, on, off, and on again, enticing the birds to sing louder, until their collective chirping drowned all the other sounds. 

A baby rabbit, a cottontail, jumped at Cimmy’s feet and startled her, and then turned abruptly, to distract potential predators, and vanished behind a shrub.

Cimmy got up to take a look at one of the garden patches, which had not been planted yet, and spent a few minutes in front of it, trying to determine whether she should grow chives or dill, and she couldn’t help notice that the thyme seeds that she had carried on the soles of her feet had already started to sprout in her footsteps, making the whole decision process obsolete. 

She sighed, resigned, when she saw it happen, and allowed the garden to decide for itself, hoping that there wasn’t too much sunshine in that particular spot. 

She picked a few handfuls of purple pods from the pole beans, which were laden with flowers and fruit, all donning the same noble color, and smiled instantly at the sight of the huge squash flowers, whose cheery orange matched the brightness of the summer morning.

She looked at the pepper patch and regretted not planting the more colorful varieties, the purple, yellow, orange and red ones, and her thoughts seeded the fertile dirt, which bore fruit immediately, to accommodate them. 

Satisfied, Cimmy turned around on her heels and was about to return to the house, when a familiar voice shrieked through her beautiful landscape, ripping huge tears in its fabric and making her choke with dust.

“Cimarron!! Curse the evil moment that spit you into this world to burden my life! Wake up, you useless cockroach! Are you waiting for the sun to raise you? There’ll be no food tonight, so you know, we only feed those who work to earn their keep!”

The door slammed behind her, reverberating in Cimmy’s head like the sound of a trap closing. She sat up carefully, wincing because of her bruised ribs, and coughed up the dust that was filling her nose and her mouth. They haven’t seen water in months, and on the barren patches of thirsty dust, creased by deep cracks, crooked and swollen around the edges like scars, nothing grew anymore, not even weeds. Only the scraggly tops of bitter roots, whose sharp and ravenous filaments grasped onto the dirt so desperately that people worked their hands raw straining to pull them.

She’d been born to this place, Cimmy was, to this garden of despair, bitter and filled with harshness, this place where she was lucky to be fed and begrudged for being born, the place that hope forgot. Nobody understood, and Cimmy least of all, where that heavenly garden of her dreams came from, for surely there was no way she could have seen anything of the sort, or even heard stories about it. 

Nobody in the community had ventured past the tall walls of their garden, if one could call it that, in generations. 

When she was very young, Cimmy had tried to describe the pond, and the peach orchard, to siblings and friends, and got a vicious beating for her trouble, so she learned to keep her imaginary garden to herself.

She slept on the dirt floor, right next to the door, a place that was drafty during chilly nights and where the door hit her in the back every time somebody went in and out of the room they all shared. It was hours before the sunrise, but everyone else was already up, trying to get to whatever roots they could find before the others came and picked them clean. Cimmy got up too, dusted herself off and went outside. She was still trying to get the powdery dirt out of her mouth, but behind the crunchy, mineral bitterness that settled in the back of her throat, she could still taste the peach she had enjoyed earlier in her dream.

This is an excerpt from my living novel The Garden. If you’re curious about the rest of the story

Follow me there

Richard, who worshiped the scientific method, tied a little string around the plant and marked its height on the pipe. He tried to snip a little piece of stem with leaves, but the stem was harder to cut than a steel cable. He managed to pull a leaf, after much struggle, placed it in the back pocket of his pants and tended to other things of interest, after all his secret weekend kingdom had so many things to offer. 

He wandered about a little bit, moving from the engine room to the pipe manifold distribution center, the most impressive area in the factory, and Richard's favorite spot. It looked almost like a gigantic organ, with tubes splaying out in every direction, through windows and transoms, along walls and bending around openings, snaking about a few inches off the floor, splitting and reuniting with the twisted patterns of a gnarled old tree. Richard spent hours wandering inside this mechanical forest, following its logical flows, trying to understand which steam pipe fed what, learning the inner works of its vortex flow meters, its pressure couplings, its every bend and elbow.

There was a place inside this knot of metal limbs, a clearing almost, a hollow, from which he could see the entire manifold branching overhead, and when he sat there, on a little concrete base that for some reason had remained unoccupied, it made him feel as if the entire power distribution system was an extension of his person, and that as small and weak as he was, compared to this enormous metal monster, he was its heart, the soul in the machine, the essential component that allowed the whole system to work. Even though he knew the distribution manifold very well, and if he closed his eyes he could see its every detail, he liked to take a walk around and inspect it every time, and then, with the relief of having found everything exactly the way it was supposed to be, he sat there on his concrete base for a while, and dreamed. And, indignity of indignities, that's where he found the plant again, inside his precious, sneaking out between two pressure rated flanges and then back in via an isolation valve. 

At first he didn't want to believe it, of all the places this trespasser could choose to inhabit, to intrude on his beloved pipe manifold was simply unthinkable! He looked closer at the pressure flanges. The plant seemed to grow not through them, but from them, there was no discernible space between the stem and the metal. Richard was dumbfounded by this living puzzle, and in his bewilderment he failed to notice that the temperature in the room was significantly higher than usual until pearls of sweat started beading his forehead.

“What on earth?” he thought. “Do they turn off the fans over the weekend? This place is an oven!” 

He didn't remember it ever being that hot in the manifold room, and since the seasons were moving in the wrong direction for an increase in temperature, he had to accept that the reason for the unusual warmth could only be the other parameter in the equation. He turned around and touched one of the leaves, which was hot. 

“Oh, this can't be good!” Richard panicked. He agonized over the fact that now he would have to tell his father, it was the right thing to do, and face the consequences of his unauthorized access to the factory floor. On the other hand, if he noticed all of these changes, and they were quite blatant, surely somebody else, a grown-up, with any luck the very person in charge of this section, would notice too. How could they not? They'd have to turn down the heat, for one, nobody could work in that sauna.

But then again, what if nobody did, and his precious distribution manifold would end up fully engulfed in hot plant! The vision of a very large and strange tree, a fusion of green and metallic branches, with limbs made out of steam pipes and twisted ropes of green stems running between them occupied his mind. The thought made him burst with laughter with its absurdity. 

He headed home, eventually, so deep in thought he didn't notice the light drizzle that felt bone chilling  after leaving that toasty tropical greenhouse environment. When he got to his room, the leaf in his pocket was still warm. Tormented by guilt and curiosity, he spent all his weekend orbiting around his father, trying to strike up conversations in the hope of finding out if he knew anything about the plant. Surely somebody must have noticed it by now, it was literally taunting people, that cheeky vine, as plain as the nose on their faces.

Listen to the whole story here.

and see how life expands inside a bloom.

Because I’m me I dare to touch the sunset,

and walk at ease under a silver moon.

Because I’m me, my life is filled with wonder,

and every day brings strangeness like a gift.

Because I’m me I can behold tomorrow

before it had a reason to exist. 

Because I’m me I get to be enchanted.

Because I’m me, not anybody else.

I dare to lift the curtain of existence,

to peek behind and see its innocence.

Follow the river

You can’t assert nothing is real while taking in reality through your senses.

Nothing is what you thought, nothing is permanent, nothing has fixed meaning, but everything is very much real, because this is what real is: whatever you perceive, think and feel at the time.

heartening halo on horizon gleaming

silence bares the wholeness of the heart

wishes ring the airy bells of dreaming.

In the hazy gaze into forever

in the memory of thoughts to ponder

things are loved and praised and wished and weighted

by the ever changing scale of wonder.

Nothing goes and nothing comes of nothing

there is essence in the word of truth

we are small and meek into the vastness

of the worlds beyond the sights of youth.

Everything you see and do is easy

everything you watch and shape is too

life is but a softened breath of Heaven

in the conscious splendor of God's woo. 

I can feel grass grow in my surrender

dainty fingers of desire renewed

never soothe the restless lust of wonder

always ban the wares of solitude.

Listen to the wholesome pulse of all

bask in the reverberance of feeling

nothing wears the essence of the soul

when love moves forever into being.