The clay beneath my feet, the horizon in front of me, the landscapes surrounding me, the sky above me are pages in a book written with quills bleeding earth, air, wood, and fiery colours. The words of this book are laid down differently every day by an unseen hand.
Perhaps, we perceive them as different in accordance with the mood of our Souls, who linger lazily behind heavy or wide-open eyelids. They rest their wise foreheads on the coloured windowsills: some are brown, some black, some green or blue, and all the other shades in between. Irrespective of the eyes’ colour, the Soul sees the world in the shades and hues he chooses to.
I'm going to tell you a secret: the Soul himself is a huge, broken stained glass. Something is always missing, and he knows it, but he can't tell what it is that's missing. Something always seems more shimmering and colourful than what he has already contemplated. So, he sits by his windowsill waiting, searching, leafing through the pages he is painting, day after day, with thoughts that come out in happiness or fury, in hope or dismay, in amazement or indifference, in peace or restlessness.
One day, miraculously, he finds a missing, colourful piece—as colourful as he—that was always there, but which, elusively, got away from its scrutinizing contemplation. It is then that the Soul emerges from his hidden abode, opening the door and pouring himself outside, leaving trails of golden ink on the pages he himself has imagined for so long. And suddenly, it strikes him that what he was looking for remained hidden not because he was not paying attention, but because he, mistakenly, wrote that piece into being with invisible ink, which can be revealed only by heat. And he didn’t know what heat meant and felt like.
He realizes that he had to learn a lesson to make everything visible. The heat needed was love! Not the grandiose kind of love that is so easily uttered and proclaimed by so many. But that tender, shy kind of love, that love, which flies with the softness of a butterfly, that love, which touches with the gentleness of an angel caress, that love, which exists because the whole universe would fall if it weren't. That love! Imperfect, demanding of your Soul more of another’s one. That love! And that love is in there, out there, above, below, everywhere. Let's only pay attention with what kind of ink we're writing! And if it happens to choose the invisible one, we should also learn to live with the heat. If we choose the normal, visible one, we should learn to forge it, smooth it and colour it through heat. Then, the land beneath our feet, the horizon in front of us, the landscapes surrounding us, the sky above us will become poems in the book of our life.
© Copyright 2014 Irina Serban. All rights reserved