The Story Teller from the West
When the storyteller from the West came he started his story on this evening, by mentioning the boards at the end of the lane behind which the story takes place. He told the story of the young man with ass’ ears that had got in control of the older woman, who liked her cups of wine. He was carrying her around at too fast a pace for her liking but she could not get his ears to listen or slow down. He left her on an island called Pattimos. She felt very lonely and abandoned in a place where the only thing she had was a number of wet empty purses she pulled out of the lake. They once were lovely leather purses and she asked who would do such a thing. She considered getting into one of the purses for shelter, for durance, for survival, anything to leave the rock, hard and cold. She just could not make herself small enough.
She was advised by the donkey with a human head to look toward the horizon, as all help came from that direction. She sat on a rock and waited as she contemplated. She kept looking toward the horizon, and memories came to her.
Her father’s old letters, written when she was an infant came to her. She felt that loneliness inside, her own loneliness for her mother, when she was parted from her, hidden for a very long time. She looked into little boxes on shelves, in the home of her grandmother, to find the feelings, long since lost, forgotten, rejected. She felt the holes in her heart, which she filled with wine, to numb them out. But now when the empty spaces in her heart raised their heads looking for the feelings put away in boxes at such a young age, she flew toward the horizon and got in the golden boat, and went to her old house and found the shelves.
The most beautiful feelings, the very thing she needed, to get her off that stone, that deserted island, were in those boxes on the shelves. She notices that the purses regained their original luster and were the perfect place for such feelings. She put a halter on that guy with the ass’ ears and he did not buck but followed along, mesmerized by those purses, in love with what was stashed in them. She thanked the ass with the human head, who gave her directions. And she bowed to the golden boat and let it go again; knowing it would be there when she needed it next. The storyteller ended the story by saying “And were I have come from, at the end of the lane, that I have told you.” He stayed for the music, eating and drinking such thing as they had, enjoying everything and going his way early the next morning. The end.
Rose is having a couple of dreams, in which there is a male figure, young, tall, not anyone she knows but someone familiar. In each dream he is associated with someone who wants to help. When there is a big inundation in the city, three times, he is standing on the rubble and Rose is ok each time. She is afraid and burrows and climbs. She ends up looking out a window, mostly dirty, a glass darkly. She is glad she is safe and has a helper. The most recent one is one where a similar male figure is telling her he will help her with the healing Rose is trying to bring about to cure her, saying he will help her figure out how to use the oil for healing.
I am looking forward. I hope you are too as you sit in the present moment of your life and your dreams. Start your born again life with your dreams and a little recording book beside your bed. You will be happy for this awareness now and for the awarenesses it will bring to you as you go forward. I look forward to hearing from you. All Dreams and Art making are acts of Love. Love from Rose.
If you like the story above be sure to like and or comment. Thanks.