Behind The House And Through The Gate

For Magpie Tales #29
http://magpietales.blogspot.com/

The House In The Woods

The house is so deep into the woods, one must stumble upon it, or it will not be found. No road, no path, leads one there, one must simply enter the woods and believe. The house is locked up tight, and trees grow so close that nothing but darkness may be seen through its windows. I know because I’ve been there.

One must make ones way around the house and behind it. There one will find an orchard: old gnarled apple trees, not in any particular order, as though some unseen hand scattered seeds eons ago, and those old trees stand wherever the seeds fell to the ground, found root, and flourished.

And flourish they did. Every type of apple can be found: reds, greens, delicious yellows, but it’s best not to eat. It is said that should one pluck one of these tempting fruits and bite into it, one might never find ones way back around that house or out of those woods. Yet, one can wonder through the orchard, smell the scents, and begin to remember all sorts of things. I know this because I have been there more than once.

If one perseveres, without giving into temptation, and veers to the left through the orchard and just a bit beyond, one will come upon an old wooden gate.

The Gate

The gate is always ajar, an open invitation to pass through and beyond into the realm of imagination where all things are possible, and impossible things are more than a bit probable. And for each individual who crosses this threshold, what lies beyond it is as individual, as unique, as that person who enters. I know this to be true because I have brought others here, and once beyond the gate, even if we held hands, what unfolded was different for each and everyone of us.

You may have already guessed that I have ventured here quite often, have even drawn a few conclusions about what can and does happen when one chooses to take this journey. Have come to know that passing through the gate, one enters the land of ones own inner landscape. Innumerable estates lie beyond that gate, winding paths that lead, each to a different story which unfolds, if only one believes. The stories are told in many languages, sometimes in song, or images, myth-like tales, or simply stories told around a bon-fire, while night breathes its own exhalations. What follows is only one of them:

Behind The House And Through The Gate

There is a rock at the end
of the path that wends its way
through my inner landscape.

I invented this rock,
more rightly defined
as a boulder, large enough
to warrant a climb
so I could sit, cross-legged
on its shoulder,
to think about whatever
was passing as ‘my life,’
and the strife of whatever
I might be becoming.

Found more questions
than answers, frustration
instead of peace-filled
contemplation, but am
an ornery sort, and refused
to be moved by induced
resignation. Continued
to sit, staring out at tall
grasses that waved at river
rolling past my imaginary,
yet decidedly chosen location.

‘Til the day that rock moved,
shuddered to awaken, became
a shimmering blue and green
dragon, who told me his name
was Peter (of course). Grumbled
a bit about people with enough
lip to awaken a creature
that was only half way through
a century long nap, then settled
back to sleep again.

“Hey,” said I, while raising one
bare foot, then dropping it neatly
to the middle of his forehead.
“This is my space, my season.
You are here by my grace, have come
for a reason, so let’s begin. What
possible good, if you only sleep,
never teach me the lessons
that have obviously propelled
your appearance?”

With a sly lazy grin, he flicked
one opened eye in my direction,
then softly drawled, “I was only
checking your perseverance.”

Marananthaheth – Peter’s Mate

Marananthaheth is yet one more story. One may leave this place: the gate, the orchard, the house in the woods, by simply opening ones eyes and continuing ones own journey.

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