The Story of the Storyteller’s Attar: Chapter 4

The boy stirred in his sleep, and his peace highlighted my turmoil. I gently got up and began to walk around the jasmine field. I felt around my pockets and found the Sandalwood from Labdanum, the Frankincense from the red woman in the desert, The Jasmine Rose from the perfumer boy, and something new. I took it out and let it sit in my hand… the bottle and my hand shimmering the way I had when I learned about saffron. I walked, confused… What just happened? What is all this that’s going on? First I found the three men in the woods, then I found the woman in red, then I found a boy, then I found a place of dreams, and now I guess I’m back?

I sat on a log in turmoil… what does it mean? What does all of it mean?

The weight of it weighed heavy on me – what I saw and what I learned. Seeing the parasite inside the tree, seeing the tree accept the parasite so she can produce the pure oil of divine maternity. Seeing how even though she does all this she still gets cut, and how she uses that wound to produce the medicine to heal the world – because the world is her parasite. WE are her parasite. And it is US who she heals. And watching her get cut and stabbed and bleed, and how her men would pull weapons from the wounds to keep fighting, and how it was all a dance to create medicine – to create healing – to solve the problem. And in order to do that I was given the gift of the Jasmine Rose – to learn to be perfectly balanced, and in center – to be married within myself as the jasmine rose is – to acknowledge my oneness and my connectedness. To realize my separation is merely to heal the part of me that’s broken – the part of us. That’s the task – that’s how the jasmine rose becomes a warrior that can bleed medicine – because she knows her purpose is to use her body to feed – to grow – to nurture. And she does that for herself because she does that for others, and she does that for others because she does that for herself…

I sat on that log uncomfortably. Taking in it all and wondering if I really have to be a part of it… can I sidestep it? Does this part of nature not apply to me? Is my body not designed to do this very process? Is this not the spiritual equivalent of what my body is set to experience? Is this not the spiritual journey I’m set to based on the body I was given? Based on the material I was gifted in order to live here and experience all this? Is this my part? Is this literally defined by nature? WHAT AM I?

I sat and sat, my mind twirling, spinning with the visions of the three men and their kaleidoscopic exit, the pain and suffering… the woman in red, their fierce battles. The pain and suffering. The Boy with the perfume, the yin and yang of the flower he gave me – balance to avoid suffering. And my most recent gift, the vial of saffron, to condense and transition dreams into reality. All these pieces and I don’t know what to do with them – I don’t know how to deal with the knowledge… I got up and began walking.

And walking

And walking

And walking

And walking

I found myself deep in the woods, and eventually I saw a little glow – a small cabin – the beautiful soft light contrasted against the deep blue sky and dark underbelly of the forests. The hints of green that glint when the blue moon hits it. Like a moth I moved towards the hut – drawn by its peaceful and warm presence. I reached the steps nervous about where I was – what I was doing. I felt self conscious. I felt confused. And I felt the answer was inside that door. So I walked up the steps.

Each one creaking, or groaning, or moaning – maybe they were celebrating – I was too self conscious to tell. But I could tell they were loud and had a lot of personality – and I was scared. I slowly approached the door, step by step, and when I reached it, I froze…

Knocking seemed too loud, barging in seemed rude… I could wait here and see if the door opens or someone comes… I don’t want to scare whoever opens it so I’ll take a step back. And I waited, and I waited and I waited. I watched the door to see if I could find the timing, and I waited. Intentionally. Waiting… And I felt a wave slowly flow down my body. Like a thick resin in a bottle every passing second I felt more grounded and present.

The more grounded I became the more I could see, and hear, and feel what was going on around me. I could hear all the animals around us, the insects, the birds. I could hear the sounds of the plants singing as they brushed their leaves together and clacked their sticks. I noticed the gentle pitter patter of rain as the gentle sky blessed us with liquid life. I could hear, and taste, and smell the harmony of the moment.

I spent what felt like an eternity being with everything around me, and before I knew it the doorknob was turning and the door gently opened. Just inside the doorway was a nice man who ushered me in – he reminded me of Benzoin and Labdanum. He sat me down and offered me some tea. The mug he set in front of me was carved from wood with an earthen interior, he poured from a pot nestled by the fire.

I didn’t have words, but I knew he had answers. So I took what I had out of my pockets and sat them on the table. His eyes lit up and he approached – understanding now why I am here. He looked at me for permission to touch what I’ve collected and I gave him a nod.

With care and reverence he picked up each piece. He weighed them in his hands, he sat with them, looked at them, smelled them – he even listened to them. He examined and explored the materials – sorting over them to uncover who they are.

“Oils have memory” he said. “They’ve been traveling with you and they conformed to you, like a shoe. I can look at the oils and tell you about your life – your patterns, how the oils conformed to who you are, the same as I can pick up your shoe and tell you about your foot, and your whole life from that.”

I sat puzzled, still not finding any words.

“Your collection is interesting. Sandalwood – very revered, decimated, she gave herself to people who took too much. Her old forests are gone – and her young are struggling. Frankincense – the warrior who’s pierced through the heart – she learns to turn her deepest wounds into her strongest of healings. And…” he slowed down, savoring his time – intimate. He guided the smell from the bottle into his nose with a puffed up chest and took an animated deep exhale – refreshed, like a kid – “my old friend the Jasmine Rose” – his eyes locking with mine as if he took an eternity to enjoy my soul.

“Tenacious – spicy – flower – sensual and sweet – but dangerous. Some people complain she’s too much. She shows you that everyone has duality in every aspect of their being – she asks you to find balance in who you are. She says we don’t get to choose who that is, or what that is, or even what our journey will bring… but we meet it with grace, strength, love, truth, and freedom. As she grows with you, this is what she teaches.” Proud of what he had created.

He held the bottles together: “I see a mother, bleeding into her cloak, the blood she tries to hide – her cloth turn black. And the little that seeps out she tries to scribble with – to jot down her ideas but the blood washes away – it does’t stain, it doesn’t stick. It just bleeds. She reaches out, to hold a hand, and no one even gives her a root to tap. She’s alone. But she’s pregnant. And she knows she’ll give birth soon as she grows and she takes up more room and they yell at her, and beat her down, to fit her into their dress but she can’t – she knows too much. And with that sadness and sorrow she creates – because she’s a mother – thats what mothers do. She has no choice.”

“And as she looks into the bright new future she promised herself and her baby, she sees its positively filled with suffering and wounds and injuries, heart aches that cause the skin to go necrotic. She’s terrified because she doesn’t want to bring her baby into this world – but she knows the world needs her baby. She feels the dream and the reality start to merge inside her womb – an ache of its own – an ache for creation. And she knows that what she gives birth to will live on as a creator – and destroyer. And while she dreams of who it will become she’s terrified – terrified that it’ll be bigger than her – that it’ll see her hypocrisy and consume her in a fit of rage.”

“But that’s what these ingredients give you… a story, a framework, and understanding. It gives you focus so now you know what you’re a part of (sandalwood), so you know how to move through it (frankincense), so you can find yourself (rose jasmine), and so you can dream a new dream (saffron).”

“But the weight of reality is crushing – and at times we need a lift.” With a gentle twirl that lifted him from his seat he walked into the garden. He floated to a nearby tree and touched the trunk with his right hand, feeling the bark, the density, its presence. He leaned in as if to ask it a question – to whisper in its ear. And the tree heard. As if pushed by the wind a branch swayed to the man and offered 5 white flowers. With divine reverence the man harvested the flowers offered to him, said his thanks, and brought them inside.

“Neroli” he said. “Flower of the bitter orange tree. Some people call her ‘liquid sunshine.’ She shows you that even on the cloudiest days, you can always find the light.”

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