My age 8, A swatch of dark royal blue satin silk "took me" to exotic lands -- places of rolling sands, diamond bright stars, cycle moons, campfires flickering the night with pungent smells of bubbling savory stews, and cardamom pastries, unfurled below me as I gently, invisibly, sailed a magic carpet over the scenes below, just close enough to catch snatches of laughter punctuated conversation.
This patch of twilight fabric took me to floating shrines, tiny barges with a wise monk where I
apprenticed in the ways of mystic cooking, on bound logs, floating islands in the quiet of mist--objects
appearing and disappearing through the veils of fog.
It took me into velvet black where the emanation of body heat and the velvet of his voice were the only textures, the gentle rush of phosphoresced surf the only sense of dimension, the only stage prop in the depths of the dark.
It took me to places the adults in my life served only as fantasy. I could never figure out why they
always wanted to return to what was not working for them--trading in adventure for their disappointed
bitterness and forlornness. I could never figure out why they didn't want to bring this magical land back
with them, into our world.
Don't get me wrong--I love bitter: bitter coffee, and the depth a little of it brings to to a ladle of gravy. I
love shadows, that bring cooling relief to the eyes from the desert sun, cooling nuances, and
dimension that isn't present in sun-bleached landscapes, that harbor mysteries -- but not the
shadows, the bitterness, in their eyes and hearts.
It's time for a swatch of royal blue silk, again, or a silk pouch--holding mysteries, reigniting the
magic of stories yet to be lived.
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