The Story of the Storyteller’s Attar: Chapter 5
His presence offered to take the ingredients and make me the blend. I reached onto the table and gently pushed my oils and resins to him – surrendering the journey to him – for him to guide the landing.
He received.
The white neroli blossoms laid gently in a wooden bowl, still fresh from the tree’s offering. The leather sachet with the frankincense tear – hard, crystalline, the woman’s heartfelt sacrifice made solid. Laid by her feet was the vial from Elemi, the sandalwood teaching – her divine sacrifice. Next to that, as if shimmering in a dream was the glowing red-orange saffron – the space between the void ready for manifestation trapped in a bottle. And finally – the beautiful gift from the perfumer boy: the Jasmine Rose. As if the blood had a pulse – alive – like a monster fighting to break free – teeth ready to bite at the chain that holds her back – but soothed by the gentle embrace of the sunlit rose as she wraps herself with her divine beauty and love, cloaked in mosaic red, around and around and around her, enveloping her into a velvety warm sanctuary – her armor complete.
I turned to see him gently arranging sticks and wood shavings – like a mandala he built that reached into the air. And with a snap the flames began to dance. Young orange and yellows – like the moment before the sunset in the saffron fields. Like the dreams that danced along the floors reaching up to meet the women who walk the path. The tendrils leapt into dancing figurines – a ballet unfolded in a kaleidoscope of dazzling colors – more than what should come from fire.
As it moves towards maturity it became insatiable. Gnawing and grabbing, licking the air with intimate ferocity, feasting on every moment of life it grew bigger and bigger… and with a gentle exhale it began to quell. Spread out to find the quick satisfaction the flames found her center – her footing – and the logs began to sing in harmony as what remained of the shavings lifted into the air – celebration – and the moment settled back into the quiet and rhythmic rustling of the fire herself.
The man reached to his side and pulled back a heavy charcoal cloth. Moment by moment the round was uncovered to the light and brilliant flashes of copper greeted the room – as if excited for the moments to come. Glimmering and gleaming, the man stripped the cloth and began to fold it – his movements like a dance with the cloth as he put it aside.
He lifted the deg to inspect it – not for flaws – for its brilliance. He enjoyed the moment before flooding the bottom and placing it over the dying flames. He swept more wood into the fire and before the moment past the vapors began to dance across the waters surface. With both hands he received the Neroli flowers, placed them in a basket, and placed the basket in the still, gently closing and sealing the vessel.
“When done just right… the flowers give their oils to the steam, for it to be taken and bottled – their essence preserved forever.”
I watched as vapors poured through the cracks of the sealed deg, the fire heating the water below and I could hear the dance clearly again. This time, there was a new melody, a new singer – the water as she released herself into steam. The partner to the flower, like the women in the saffron field the water transcends state to harvest the oils. I watched as steam climbed across the white blossoms, twisting and twirling over their skin – caressing the petals as she swept the oils up into the air. Within moments the cabin filled with the deep scent of orange blossoms. Heavy but lively. Deeply right feelings of caramelized orange and amber colors mixing to ground the room… My mind became quiet… I could feel the echo of the spiraling thoughts, but the pressure was relieved. My vision brightened, my skin tingled with the sensation of life – I could feel the air, the temperature, the humidity. I felt my pulse became strong, enriched with new vigor – the softness opening up space to be bigger.
He let it run and run, and I sat with it, until the blossoms told him they had nothing left to give. He opened the deg to show the flowers inside: pale, exhausted, empty. They’d given their essence to us – for us. With deep reverence and appreciation he retrieved the remains, the bodies he cradled in his hands. He brought them to their place of birth and lay them once again to rest – finally to be under the tree from which they came. “Thank you.” He said, as he left them in peace.
Upon his return he took a seat. Clearly exhausted himself from the work that’s been done; he collected his composure, and the neroli. A few drops floating on the waters, he gently separated the two: the hydrosol in a bowl and the oil in a small glass vial. He took a breath and relaxed once more. With Neroli safe he turned his attention to Frankincense. “Anger – the frozen tear,” he said as he gently unfolded the leather sachet and took a hold of the woman’s sacrifice.
He looked at me, “to heal ourselves we must first melt the frozen tear.” He sat with the woman’s sacrifice, the tear she makes to heal the world, and thanked it for what it was, and after savoring its presence he placed it in a small copper still. No water. The vessel now floating over the flames. “Gentle heat and time, like a warm hug, heals all things” he quietly intoned with a smile. I closed my eyes and felt the resin begin to weep, to soften, to release its vapor and as it did I felt something in me. A sensation deep in my chest, that grabbed my mind and closed my crown, it began to warm, and burn, and then soften and melt. I could feel its edges turn to liquid and flow, more and more it became a torrent, a flood that poured down – and to where I don’t know. But behind it left a space, an emptiness that didn’t feel void – it felt right. Like I finally had space to feel myself – the real me – that something deep down and stuck was suddenly – melted away.
When I opened my eyes the gaseous fog that formed over the battle field in the desert was here in the room. I remembered the muffled sounds of violence – blades clashing, men grunting, demons being slayed. But it was just an echo, and as the room cleared I didn’t see the woman in red, I saw a small bottle. Clear liquid was held by the man who helped me brew it, “To help liquify your tears,” he said.
“Forged from the battlefield – the purity of the wound – the scab. Refined – Divine – Purified. The sticky resin becoming fluid smoke – the tear finally beginning to melt.”
Time stood still as the space between us settled. The fog receded, as if it packed itself back into the bottle, and the bottle was placed in front of me.
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