The house was old and tired, horizontal graying slats of wood, some pieces had fallen down…..in this house’s dreamscape. It was quiet, but with a low hum of wind from somewhere while surveying this image of solitude.
As if I was searching for, something that could not be found, I began walking carefully step by step towards the old tired graying slats of this wooden home. At the moment of one breath’s time, I was standing on the welcome mat outside the front door. As if multiple meanings were now present for interpretation, as the door slowly opened to a darkened inside world…. were these new insights? Old emotions? Or some kind of dark Cathedral of thought?
The interpretation was open to my imagination, which created the situation in the first place. And now, I found myself feeling used by my imagination, as much I used my imagination! This was quite surprising yet, I thought it must have been inevitable at some time. For imagination, I’ve known for quite some time, is a learning entity, a faculty of perception not simply a built in fantasy machine.
As unknown possibilities, the Jasmine smell of anticipation in the air, as I entered the home. The smell of warm cookies with chips of chocolate in the kitchens stove, it seemed. I could hear laughing of an older lady. In the background, perhaps she was in one from the old days. And I could hear faint music coming from somewhere. Playing an old thirties tune, on what sounded like a phonograph. As I walked through the living room, I realized its appointment was winter. It was white walled with a cool blue ceiling and all the furniture around looked like, made of snow. The carpeting was all white, and even the stones around the fireplace were beautiful bright white. I saw my breath, so cool was this strange home. As I stood there behind the white couch, looking at the Winter living room, I turned to my right and felt called to some beautiful light, which was emanating in an uncertain pattern from down the hall. As I walked down the hall the light became brighter and friendlier, and I could see that it was light that was like the reflection of water, when light hits it in the morning - through the sunshine.
I turned and looked inside the room, where light came from. So bright, So fair, and all from the room. It was clear I could see the room was fall, and it was covered with leaves. Beautiful orange and red and Brown, incredible arrays of fades and combinations. There was hardly no furniture, but logs, old trees, laying on their side, waiting for some passerby to rest their weary legs, as they pause in the room of fall. The soft winds spin through the center of the room the leaves all came up from the floor and around, and around and around they went, it made me laugh it was fun, time well spent. The Fall room left me feeling free.
I was excited by this point of what was ahead to see, the rest of the house before the end of the dream. So I walked through a door to find myself in the freshest times, standing in the middle of spring time. It’s hard to explain the smells in the luster, the aliveness, the living sanctity, the wholeness.
Yes it’s the spring room and I don’t need an umbrella. I’m witness, can see anyone clearly here, to a House of Seasons, the seasons of abode. It’s enjoyable because you can go to any room you wish, at a moments notice - I think to myself ’I haven’t seen the room of summer.’ And so I noticed one door I had yet to walk through. I opened it and slowly step into the room I realize that my afternoon TV show is over, and I have a crick in my neck from sleeping crooked on my couch.
“No image aims at or points to itself. It rather points to the object of which it is the image.”