The Story of the Storyteller’s Attar: Chapter 3

The air smelled of sweet grasses and water plants, it smelled of the water, the biome, the river. As I walked my feet squished through the mud – the cooling earth sliding up between my toes. She grabbed at each step – trying not to let me go.

The water gently pattered past while the leaves rustled and the birds called. The frogs croaked and the crickets cricked. The moon illuminated the water all the way across to the other bank – the water peaks dancing in the moonlight. The occasional radial ripple from a fish feeding off the surface. And a happy boy tending to his garden. I walked over to him to see what he was doing so late at night. He greeted me with a radiant – dare I say charismatic – smile. I could feel life in my body. He was friendly enough and I was curious – why is he gardening at night? And he took a sniff in the air.

I looked down and it was almost like these little white flowers were breathing and every breath they took they offered a warm and smooth aroma. One that hits right below the navel and triggers comfort. “Night blooming jasmine” he said with a smile, and went along his work. For the moon being so high he was elated – “he must really love these flowers” I thought as he frolicked away.

“Well, I’m here.” I sat crosslegged in front of a flower. It’s as if it turned to me and coughed an offering. Within moments I dropped into my body. I could feel my center, the core of me, and I could embrace it, I could hug and love myself. I could soften and feel like it was all going to be alright. I almost wanted to weep. I had sadness and joy welling up in me. And I felt like the whole flower field was there – supporting me – guiding me to let go. To let go of this thing inside me that I can’t understand – that I can hardly see – but that they just let me bump up against. I looked at them, unknowing what to do. Almost in a panic from seeing something so clearly… but not seeing it… and desperately wanting to hold onto it and see it more, and being absolutely terrified of it slipping away – forever paying the cost of never finding it again. And I looked around and all the flowers were looking at me and I was mad. What do they want? Can’t they see I’m going through something? Why won’t they leave me alone?

And then I realized… They’re not here to judge me, or to make fun of me, or belittle my experience… they’re just – here. That’s why they’re here. That’s why they’re focused on me. They’re nurturing in a way I’m not used to. I’m used to getting a piece of information and sitting with it by myself, and now these flowers gave me a hint and won’t leave me alone. Sitting in the center of this field, surrounded by the onlooking jasmine, I was almost paralyzed. I don’t let people see my process. I preferred the chrysalis or the warmth of a guide under a tree… not this open field with hundreds of flowers staring at me. And the whole time I can still smell that cough. The aroma that’s evolving – it’s turning more… boozey. In fact I notice I feel lighter – less inhibited – less self conscious. The field of moonlit white staring back at me began to feel like a calming serene lake. I could hear the birds chirping again, I could hear the river in the distance and the life that surrounds it… I could hear the boy coming back… frolicking.

He could see the bewildered look on my face as his thousands of jasmine watched me, and he plops a seat to my left. He holds out his right hand, and in it is a little black glass vial. With an open palm he shifts his gaze into my eyes, and after what seemed like an eternity of him enjoying my soul he said, “I want to give you something.”

Puzzled, I looked at him and his hand with a twisted expression on my face. He laughed, grabbed my hand, and placed the bottle in it, curling my fingers around it. Once it was in my palm he squeezed my hand with both of his – he connected me to the bottle.

“There. It’s yours now” he said with a smile. He seemed relieved when he knew I would accept it without anymore fuss.

“I made it myself!” – he said with pride. “My teacher Benzoin taught me how. We went ALLLL across the lands to collect each rose. I married them with my personal favorite” he said with a grin as he looked around the field – “Jasmine!”

“I call her the Jasmine Rose.” He continued – very astute and sure of his creation. “Soft, luxurious, beautiful – boundlessly and effortlessly tenacious.” He danced out the charade while he explained.

“Heads up though… she won’t back away from a fight.” His face, playing serious, as he pantomimed a right hook – almost knocking himself over..

The jasmine rose…

I looked at the jasmine as she looked at me… hundreds of faces – a sea. I felt – empty. Cold. Alone. The boy turned to me – in stark glowing and radiant yellow contrast to the cold loneliness of the moonlit flowers. He was the radiant sun. With a knowing look he said – “that’s why the rose.”

“Jasmine is striking, beautiful, dangerous. She comes alive in the night. She witnesses with the power of thousands and you can feel it – the gravity, the scale, the wonder of it all. Jasmine connects you to space – the space between everything – where anything and everything can exist all at once. That’s jasmine. Mysterious, cloaked in darkness, and you never know if you ever really know her.

But then on the other side we have rose. Warm and red, soft and communal – everyone coming together… If jasmine shows you the individual within the crowd, rose is the crowd inside the individual. Where jasmine comes to life at night, rose comes to life in the day. Where jasmine is deep velvet and vegetal, rose is fruity and bright and lively. Rose is the sun energy to jasmine’s moon. They’re yin and yang. Where one goes the other balances, and within the Jasmine Rose is a beautiful blend – a true harmony of king and queen of the flowers. They come together to teach convergence, divergence, singularity, community, and one’s inner relationship to all. She pushes you to balance – she helps you find where you’re not looking – where you can’t see. She comes in as a presence with force, not a forceful presence.” He took a pause, “This is what she teaches,” he said with an assured nod.

It was almost funny, hearing such profound truth from such a young boy.

“…to find balance.” He said with a yawn, stretching his arms before making a bed upon the earth to slumber. “To find balance…”

I looked down at the bottle in my hand, the words echoing in my head and I sat there. I sat there and sat there and sat there and just thought about it. What is balance? What are the two halves… Who did I think jasmine was, who did I think rose was, and who actually are they? What happens when they come together? What did the boy just say?

When I came to I was still sitting, crosslegged but in front of me wasn’t the white jasmine glittering under the moonlight it was a beautiful field of greens and purples accented with beautiful orange. The sun was rising. Women dressed in festive flowing clothes, tapestries of red, collecting the sacred stigmas. The land shimmered like a mirage. Like fumes lifting through the air… I could smell a gasoline-like undertone, heavy on the nostrils, and there was a deep and rich orange spice swirling up from the ground – like a coating of dusted snow on the road – the deep hues of reds and orange and the glint of yellow dance on the floor. They reach up to the knees for those stepping deep in trance. Like a dream – the women worked weightlessly, unencumbered. There wasn’t just a sense of comfort – there wasn’t just a lack of discomfort – there was something more. An effortless glow – an aura that wasn’t an aura – it was everywhere – permeating all things and everything with a beautiful and divine flow of dream-like nature. The wisps condense and spread like stars in a galactic arm twirling into being – and that’s when I realized… it all twirls into being. The women come and go, fill their baskets with the saffron and vanish to where they came from. More women fade in to harvest, and fill their baskets with what they need, and gently leave. A dream world host to all who are invited to visit. Women from around the world selected to harvest the sacred plant. There wasn’t a sense of duty, there wasn’t a sense of pride – there was deep appreciation and gratitude. Appreciation and gratitude that each woman was selected and invited by the plants to take what the plants have to offer – a connection between our thoughts and our reality.

I realized, these women come here – they transcend the bounds. They are invited to the space between the void and the matter – to the space where everything and all things CAN exist. And they walk what they build here right back into the material world. These women were invited by the saffron to be the intermediaries between the spirit and the material – but beyond that, they are the physical ambassadors – visiting the dream realm and keeping the lines blurred so everyone can dream a new dream – and that dream will come true. This is the saffron, the key between the worlds – the key to do what these women do and travel between. To become an ambassador of the dream state to the material world, and as a material ambassador to the dream state. This is Saffron’s work. To train this skill – and this skill is what these women have mastered.

I stood up to approach a plant and the threads began to glow a rich calling amber. They drew me in and lifted my hand to meet it. My skin touched hers and I too began to shimmer. The few women nearby stopped to share an encouraging smile before resuming their work – they work for their own people – they have their own callings – but they’re happy to recognize another Dreamer.

One woman came over to offer me a basket, she said nothing, just stretched out her arms and handed me something she wove a long time ago. Something she’s loved since, and now wants me to have. I realize she is blessing me with a vessel that can bring the medicine between worlds, that can keep me next to the void, and not fall into it. A gift that allows me to carry the plants that call me back to the world I came from. Her eyes glistened as she watched me understand what she was giving me; then she turned away and left – the plants bestowing her material from themselves so she can weave a new basket – and she did. Imbued with all the life of a fresh harvest.

I followed the plants and filled my basket. It became obvious that I had my materials – that I had my dream… But now what? I have a basket full of potential…

Unknowing what to do I began to watch as the sun began to set. The red and amber dust – the nebulas that dance on the floor began to glow. The women still came and went – gently – with grace, respect, reverence, and appreciation. The plants offered, called, and the women followed – deeper and deeper into the day it went but the medicine keepers kept working – translating the world of what could be into the world that is.

I stood up as the sky began its blue descent into a bright yellow, opening up into a deep deep and striking gem orange… like all the saffron in the world was condensing the space of potentiality into what is. Like the world of the dream and the world of the awake were merging in a brilliance of color – coming together… The saffron began to turn to oil and flood the earth, the air filled, the dream began to drown in saffron as all the dreamers could once again walk the worlds – awake in their sleep state.

I awoke instantly with the feeling of a weird dream. I looked around and I was in the jasmine field, in front of the jasmine flower where the boy gave me his gift. I looked to my side and the boy sleeping next to me, and a bottle of amber gold resin – thick, radiant, shimmering – blurring the lines between living and dreaming – sat by his side.

I picked it up, realized it as what traveled with me between the worlds – realizing it’s how I got out, and how I get back in…

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