Old Writing: My Spirit Home

            I once read that there was a place in the Otherworld, the one that exists somewhere outside and inside this one and each of us crafted by our minds and our experiences.  Since the Otherworld is limited only by the scope of creativity, this doesn’t create the same logistical problem as it would here, where things like physics have taken such a hold over the collective unconscious.

            Anyway, when I go over there, when I meditate, or sometimes when I’m dreaming, I always end up in the same place.  Over the years, it’s grown and shaped itself around me as my life and my needs have changed, adding pieces here and there.  No matter what, though, I always feel comfortable, safe, when I’m there.  It’s a way for me to retreat into myself and try to work things out or, sometimes, just to breathe.

            My part of the world begins with a natural clearing, roughly circular.  The ground is covered with soft grass that comes just up to just below the ankle and walking barefoot across it is like treading on the plushest carpet you can imagine.  It’s the deep green of an emerald and it waves in the gentle, omnipresent breezes in a slow, irregular dance, tickling pleasantly.

            At the center of the clearing is a wide pool of clear, still water that, when I stand at the edge and look down into, seems to sink forever into darkness.  There is no fear, though, of drowning or of falling into that unending darkness.  It takes away only the negative, swallows only those things for which I no longer have a need.  That pool is where I go to toss out the parts of me that I can’t, or won’t, hold on to any longer.

            Feeding the pool, but somehow never disturbing the placid surface, is a long stream that burbles over cool rocks polished smoothed by endless ages of constant motion into a thousand unique shapes.  At the far end of the clearing, where one edge is walled by a high, mostly overgrown cliff side, is a crashing waterfall.  It isn’t massive, but it’s large enough to constantly stir the air in the clearing and create an ethereal mist around the base which covers the entrance to a cave.  Though I’ve never gone very far into the cave itself, I have no fear of it, for I know its owner and we’ve had many a long conversation.

            The rest of the clearing is surrounded by thick deciduous forest, the walls of which can make themselves so impenetrable that only those who already know the ways in and out can enter or leave.  There are trees of all sorts, and beautiful flowers dot the edges here and there, bright splashes of color on the natural canvas.  A little more than seven years ago, a tiny path appeared on the far side of the clearing, leading to a little circle of trees beneath the bough of an ancient pine where there is always a small fire burning.

Of course, the spirits of the Otherworld are always welcome, given that they bring no harm or malicious intent with them, and will from time to time make their way in to have a drink or nap awhile.  It’s not uncommon to find someone waiting for me, be it man, animal, or otherwise, when I arrive.  They, and I, know how to make the trees part for us, allowing us passage out of the clearing and into the field.

In the field, it is always a time between (dusk or dawn, I’ve never been sure which).  The sun in the distance is just barely visible over a rolling hilltop, and its touch makes the waist high grasses that surround the path leading out of the woods shimmer as they move, tiny fairy moths gliding playfully through them.

Halfway to the hill is a wide circle of flowers.  The circle is the home of a woman who is sometimes old, sometimes young, but always beautiful in her grace and peace, regardless of appearance, and radiates the peace of the truly ancient.  Though she isn’t always there, this is her place, and I am only given leave to trespass upon it by her goodness.  Now and then, very rarely, there will be a green bench, in the corner, facing the hill, where an old man waits for me instead.  I have never seen them together, and have often wondered if perhaps they are not the same being.  Regardless of my companion, I know that I will always be greeted and welcomed to warm conversation. 

I have traveled over the hill only a handful of times.  There is a garden there, but it is not mine.  I don’t know whose it is, only that it connects somehow to my little piece of the world and, in so doing, to me.  I do not feel unwelcome there, but I know it is not mine alone, if at all.

This, then, is my place, my heartland, as I’ve heard it called.  Should you ever find yourself in the Otherworld, you are welcome to visit, so long as you bring with you no darkness or ill-intent, for my friend in the cave frowns upon such things and can be quite inhospitable to those who would unleash them upon the world.  Welcome, and you have been warned.