There is a silver pool in my head.
Soft green grass grows at its edges and tiny blue wildflowers with yellow centres invite me to take off my clothes and lie in their fragrant carpet. My childlike heart resides here, the one who feels the mystery ever waiting to be discovered.
The one that sings because red ladybugs have yellow lovers and water droplets in spider webs look just like diamonds. There is a little dragon that kisses the silver water and wishes only to fly uninhibited until his wings fall off and his body becomes another under the weeping branches of a wise old woman who knows many things but prefers to say nothing.
It is this heart that knows that things are not as they appear, that the tadpole in the mossy rock pool is not just a phase, but rather a world inside a world inside a world to infinity. It’s this heart that doesn’t care to know the reason for living but is content to wander among the trees, climb the rocks and find every cave in the mountainside.
You don’t need to reveal your secrets here, secrets are the fabric of this place that reveals its underbelly only to those willing to become the very fibres that mould its tiny leaves and run over its riverbeds.
It’s this heart that knows the old gnarled branches are a palace to those unseen and the smoothed sandstone is a playground to the myriad things that dance with their shadows on a full moon night.
It is this heart that doesn’t seek the mystery but rather becomes it when crawling into the tiny space between that rock and another world.
Running my fingers over this silver surface, the coolness touching my fingers as I look to the stories of old and to the stories yet untold, finally coming to rest in this luminous moment where nothing could be said to be imperfect.
There is no one to be here, only that which can be experienced, moving freely from one form to the next without wishing it to be any different from what it is. This is an infinite place that doesn’t care to be right or in order. It wants only to dance in an open field and sing from the top of a giant boulder covered in lichen, fig trees growing from the cracks that will one day become small deaths and big noises.
It wants to draw flowers in the sand with driftwood and marvel at the cocoon that houses alchemy at its finest.
How does this small ant carry a city on its shoulders and work incessantly without thought to its self?
This is an infinite place with every rotting log its own universe and every pool a watery world of life churning without end.
What pause? Everyone here knows they were born to die, so why stop your fervent living until the trees turn orange and then shed their leaves only to live again once the world has turned and the conditions favour you anew? We speak of love and God but these cannot be spoken, they cannot be contained in these little boxes with ribbons and neat little gift cards attached to the side of our heads.
To know the taste of this Divine Love we must become the seedling on its arduous journey through the soil, following our hearts compass toward the sun. How can you even begin to ponder this gift before you run naked through the thicket, thorns tearing at your flesh, marking you prey for the lions pride lying waiting for your surrender at their thrones feet.
Your head will not show you the truth of your being born. The silver pool carries the rippling messages of your struggle to know why. WHY???
There isn’t space enough in your being to hold the answers to impossible questions, instead, the truth is to be inhabited, and felt like warm hands running over your body in soft grass under the star-filled cosmos on a windless night