Tuesday, 24 February 2015

Cascading Sky, Curious Water © by Irina Serban

There are many miraculous places in this world, but the most astonishing are the ones we imagine.

What if sky and water were one and the same? What if the sky was cascading into the water, whereas the water reached the sky? What if Creation itself strolled at the threshold between vaporous beauty and watery rage? What if a voice said:

"I'm water! And I'm laughing now because you certainly imagined a crystalline, placid spread beautifully mirroring the fiery colours of the sunset, or the pale face of the moon. You pictured its banks shaking with emotion at the sight of lovers murmuring eternal words into each other's ears. Instead, my peaceful appearance is deceitful for it hides in its depth ancient turmoil, which gave and is still giving birth to abrupt cliffs, which eroded and is still eroding all-mighty stones until they become dust in the wind. Yes, I am angry!

This peace you see walks hand in hand with nurturing destruction—I destroy to let new things spring into life. Yes, I am a creator!

This placid tranquillity shelters hunters and weak creatures nurtured by me only to become the hunters' food. Yes, I am ruthless!

I steal treasures and lives to hide them in the deep never to be found again. Yes, I am a criminal!

The storms I have inside raise waves taller and more feared than the mythological giants. Yes, I am boastful!

I am all that you imagine and all that you don't, all that you see and all that you don't. I am even more than that! Aren't you the same, human? Probably, after my confession, you’d grow to despise me, but remember this: I am Love transformed in water, for in the end, I chose you to enchant your days with my beauty and faults. Aren't you the same, human? You have to! You are water! You enchant me! Otherwise, I wouldn't be that curious about you!" said the Ocean pushing a last wave gently under her bare feet.

She took the seashell washed ashore by the wave and saw in its mother-of-pearl the cascading sky where Creation strolled on the bank of a raging cloud. Maybe, It, too, heard a voice!

© Copyright Irina Serban. All rights reserved   

Wednesday, 11 February 2015

Universe © by Irina Serban

     The silence of the Universe has the sound of the reeling planets, of dying stars, and of repetitive clash.

The voice of the Universe has the silent wisdom of millennia of creation and destruction.

I heard both of them, once, when I was watching the leaves dance in the wind.

"What are you?" the Universe asked.

"A part of your vast unknown."

"Who are you?" the Universe asked again.

"I am the detainer of so many secrets, of so much knowledge. I am the one who can shape the surroundings as I wish, who can change the course of a river and give birth to a plain where  hills were once. I can laugh. I can cry. I can wish for more. I can feel! I am human being!"

"You are only a speck of dust on a tiny stone clinging to my mantle in a fragile balance!" the Universe answered back laughing and laughing. 

     I think I felt its breath in the gust of wind that broke the tree in front of my house as if it were a twig. Or maybe, it was only the wind, whereas the Universe was silent.

© Copyright 2015 Irina Serban. All rights reserved  

Friday, 6 February 2015

Sand © by Irina Serban

It was written in the sky with wind letters. They said: “Think like a grain of sand!”

What did she care of grain of sands? She felt only the storms inside her. The wind outside was nothing else but a feeble breeze in comparison with her inner tempest. She found and lost. She tried and lost. She did her best and lost. She loved and lost. Her heart was melting and mingling with the sand. She became a mere grain of dust, one of the many, carried here and there without any force to oppose the movement. Maybe, that was what the wind was trying to tell her: surrender!

What did she care about the wind? She used to fly with it, to feel as light as it, to run with her heart on fire, to settle down with her soul at peace. Now, all she desired were the tempests that destroyed and shaped her world differently, dune after dune. Maybe, that was what the wind was trying to write: create!

What did she care about what was written? She wanted to find the core of that tornado, to drain the life out of it, and then, re-emerge as pure and strong as the lighting. For meeting him might have been written, but losing themselves was their choice, just like the grains of sand: some that stay put forming the dunes, others that are carried away by the mischievous wind and forced to get lost on foreign dunes. Maybe, that was what the wind was trying to say up in the sky: maktub!

What did she care about the sky? Busy creating its clouds to cover up the sun, it couldn’t care less of her thoughts flying to the other end of the desert where, serene, he imagined luscious oases.

But what if rain fell on his side of desert? What if he was a grain of sand just like her? One here, one there, one staying put, one pushed by winds, both struggling to do the opposite. How could two grains of sand lose each other? They were both made of sand but never belonged to one another! Belonging was strange to the desert! The same was losing! How could the desert cling to all its grains of sand and make them pile up in one huge sandy mountain? Would it be a desert, then? It just surrendered to the wind, created its dunes, and accepted what was written for it: to exist only as long as the grains of sand existed.

 So, maybe, that was what the wind was trying to tell her: surrendering to the voice of the desert, they should continue creating with the same force as that of the sand storms for they never lost each other being contained in one another.

© Copyright 2015 Irina Serban. All rights reserved 

Wednesday, 28 January 2015

Waiting For A Dream (9) © by Irina Serban

Painting: Working For A Dream 09 by Monika Mori https://www.facebook.com/moriartmoo

A.N. Dedicated to Monika Mori a great artist, a great human being whose light shines so humbly and strong that in her presence you cannot help noticing the immensity of her soul. One of the few persons I know who lives the meaning of 'unconditional giving' fully. 

     Sometimes even the Sun is afraid. I know you see it as I do: as an omnipotent star tracing our lives silently, lives that are tied to its moods with a thin thread—an outrageous burst, and we’re gone. But rest assured that it feels fear, too.

      Maybe, you heard of those forests, which grew so wild and thick that no one ever managed to see their end and depth. The Sun didn’t either, and it’s their depths that it fears. That’s why it touches gently only the tips of the trees’ crowns, shying away from disclosing the land that feeds their roots. It knows that mystery needs the shadow of the trees to unfold.

      One such forest had always been the refuge of one human being who sought peaceful contemplation, who found in that forest a faithful companion to his worries, failures, joy, and achieved dreams.

It is exactly about this that I want to tell you: dreams.

I’ve heard that he had a special place, somewhere in that forest, where he used to go every time he needed. He knew that place so well, that even with his eyes closed he could tell where a certain tree was, what plants surrounded him, how many mossy heaps were there, so on and so forth. But something strange happened one day. Falling asleep under one of the hickory trees, he had a dream: the place where he was sitting became a meadow circled by the trees, and he heard a soft voice calling him. He startled, and upon opening up his eyes, the view made him panic: the hickory that he leaned against was part of a tree circle that surrounded a meadow, which wasn’t there before. He thought he was still dreaming. He wiped his eyes and looked again. The round meadow was still there, the trees guarding it majestically.

      This was not the end, they say. Every time he went there, a sudden weakness took hold of him inducing him to sleep and dream again, and again, and again. With every dream he had, the forest shifted and shaped accordingly. After the round meadow dream, he had another one with him in the middle of that circle, and the same soft voice calling his name. Needless to say that upon waking up, he was not under the hickory tree, but in the middle of the meadow.

A third dream followed, and this time, a strong and old oak tree sprang towards the sky right in the middle of the meadow. The voice again called his name.

In the fourth dream, night fell and engulfed the meadow in a strange silvery light, which source was invisible to him. The same voice called him again, giving him the impression that it was closer.

The fifth dream brought forth images of surreal beauty: it started snowing without an ounce of cold, without a pale of wind, without the snow covering the land or the trees. Only soft falling of white flakes! He felt the warm breath of the one calling him. 

The sixth time, the meadow became as silvery as the moon, with grey spots here and there, which he realized upon waking up that they were nothing else but stone slabs. A silhouette shaped itself out of the darkness as vaporous as the mist.

The seventh dream grinded the stone slabs into small pebbles and placed them in a sinuous line a few steps away from the old oak, thus cutting the perfection of the circle. This time, the silhouette whispered: “We’ll meet soon!” Who was he to meet? Who was that mysterious appearance? By now, he grew eager to come into the forest and see what dreams have in store for him.

The eighth time he fell asleep, a wide, peaceful lake spread its crystalline waters up to the sinuous line of pebbles. The voice was silent. The misty being was absent. He realized he didn’t care about all the shapes the scenery took. His soul wanted to meet the one that woke him up every time, the one whose voice resounded in his heart even when wide-awake.

      Thus, he entered the forest for the ninth time, somewhat disappointed and not so eager as before. What if it was all an illusion, what if there was no creature to be materialized by his crazy dreams? He waited and waited, but this time, sleep refused to make his eyelids heavy. He looked around at the circle of hickory trees, at the old silent oak, at the never-ending silver night, at the soft snow flakes, which continued to fall in a somewhat resigned dance, as it seemed to him now, at the sinuous line of pebbles, at the unmoved mirror of the lake. He was still standing by the oak tree that guarded his dreams since it appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the meadow. He was still gazing at the river when the stones rose, melted, became translucent, swirled around a silhouette tore from water, with water instead of hair flowing on diaphanous shoulders, with eyes as silver as the night of that place, with face as white as snow. She was half water, half being. He could not tell if she really emerged from water or the water was part of her.

      “I was waiting for a dream!” he said, more talking to himself than wanting to disturb that presence with his wishes.

“The magic of 9!” she smiled. She was holding two spheres in her hand: one spreading a grey light, the other one a bluish, iridescent light.

      “Choose!” she said.

      He did one step towards her, when she stopped him with a shake of her head.

      “You mustn’t touch them! Just choose!”

      (This is what the Sun fears, they say: if it sends its rays as a reckless proof of his almightiness, it might touch the lights, and who knows what that can bring forth in his infinite realm.)

      Instinctively, he closed his eyes trying to visualize the two lights, and he chose. When he opened up his eyes, the whole forest was spotted with blue, iridescent orbs. One was floating in front of him as if encouraging him to touch it. Upon doing so, a thread of light of the same colour sprang in the direction of another orb, which in turn did the same until a path of light unfolded in front of the man.

      “Do you think you’re dreaming?” she asked him.

      He looked at her with astonished eyes. How could he say ‘yes’ and offend such an appearance, be it in a dream? How could he say ‘no’ and seem one who lost his reason?

      “Is this a dream within a dream?” was all that he managed to utter.

      “This is a painting within a painting. The canvas of life is not an empty canvas, but an enormous canvas of possibilities. Why? As on any painting both light and dark shades are employed to give consistency, shape and meaning. This is how we live, too: sliding between darkness and light, choosing one over the other. It is like a forest where you see numerous grey lanes spotted here and there by small lights. If you choose light, you tend to go on searching for the next spot of light. If you choose greyness, you tend to ignore the presence of light. But both are there all the time. What's the third and most important element that keeps the painting hanging in the vastness of the universe?” she asked again.

Whenever he used to hang a painting on his wall, he was the one choosing where and at what height.

“Our capacity to choose freely!” he answered.

“Yes! Life is nothing but a painting made with the three primary colours: our own light, our own darkness, and our own capacity to choose freely one over the other. The nuances are infinite, and the canvas of life is limitless. As a skilled painter can create a masterpiece with only three basic colours, so can we by harnessing the three important elements at our disposal: light, darkness, and free will. As with painting, accidents can happen, and mistakes can cause damages to the canvas, we get lost, or fall into some seemingly never-ending pit, or maybe, the colours don’t mix well. But out of mistakes, out of misfortunes, we gain better insight on which to choose and in what quantity. Some are lured by silvery greyness, others by iridescent blue. In the end, they all have to learn to use them both, and when they learn to use the darkness in order to make the light grow, then, the path of light unfolds, and darkness becomes only little specks of dust trying vainly to annoy the traveller.”

She ended abruptly by calling his name again while disappearing in the blue realm of water.

He looked around, and all he saw was his beloved forest in the distance, the snow falling gently, the flames dancing in the fireplace, and the unfinished canvas on the easel.

“I was right!” he said smiling. “It was a dream within a dream!”

He took his brushes and approached the painting. On it, he saw a small drop of bluish paint exactly above the forest lake he had been painting. To its left, there was a grey one. He decided to use them both, and out of a mistake, he started tracing the lines of the beautiful silhouette of the Lady of the Lake.

© Copyright 2015 Irina Serban. All rights reserved  

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