I Am Being Called But I Don’t Know How To Answer.
Taking a moment to listen.
I am having cravings.
No.
I am having visions.
Visions of places.
Visions of places that I am craving.
Visions that are so visceral that I know them; I can smell them – feel them – I am connected to them somewhere deep inside my center. They are fleeting, brief images of places that call to me, and I to them.
Visions of places that in this life I have never been to.
Are they places from a past life; some ancient part of my soul that remembers? Or perhaps visions of what is to come; premonitions of a future in this life or the next?
The Coffee Shop.
Small, warmly lit. I sit by rectangular Georgian windows steamed and heady with condensation. It is cold outside, foggy, and frosty, but inside it is cozy, and safe. I can smell blueberry muffins and fresh coffee, but above all, I can feel the wooden seat beneath me, and the table my arms are resting on. In the outskirts, the periphery of what I see and feel, people are working, serving, and quietly chatting, I do not see them but I know it to be true. It is a quiet, warm, cozy coffee shop, and it is early.
This is the place I come to each morning in my mind. It flashes into my consciousness as I drive the morning school run.
I long to find it.
I write here.
In this place, I am a writer.
The Lake.
Vast, beautiful, serene, stretching out ahead of me. I am not close, but I am not far. To either side, and behind me are hills and mountains, they are lush and green, and I can feel the ground is soft beneath my feet. It is springtime, bright, with blue skies, and cumulous cauliflower clouds, it is not yet warm; the air has a sharpness that cleanses my lungs.
Dotted around me are white flowers, not planted by man, wild, yet peaceful, and delicate. I cannot see what is beyond the lake, but it is clear, fresh – and inviting. In it is the reflection of all around me. I know its touch; I have swam in this lake, it is ice-cold, clean, invigorating.
It makes me feel alive.
This is not England, nor anywhere else in the U.K. I feel it may be Norway or some such Scandinavian country.
I am a visitor here. I can taste water, not from the lake, but from the hills and mountains behind me, I cannot see it, but I know I have drunk from the stream; I have cupped my hands and sated my thirst here. I have washed my face and my arms here, and its purity calls to me.
It is this purity that I long for.
The Mountain Top.
This is Scotland.
I know it to be.
There is no serenity here, no delicate flowers or cumulus clouds — here the landscape is hard, rugged, wild; beautiful. The fog conceals all but a few meters around, I am high up but the ground is damp bog, thick with heather, moss, rough untamed grass. The bolder-like rocks that are buried beneath are desperately forcing their way through the earth, taking a breath, reclaiming the land that tries so hard to suffocate their metallic, volcanic exterior. This place, this ancient place, holds stories I cannot reach, there is blood beneath this ground, it is mystical, and these rocks are the secret keepers, cold silent, refusing to be buried alongside the knowledge they possess.
I am crouching, my hand pressed down as if greeting an old friend, elements entwined beneath my fingers. Stone. Earth. Water. My face raised, the wind and the rain thrashing against me, filling me; deafening, violent, challenging. I want to cry out; there is a roar that dwells in my gut that is burning to answer the call of the storm.
I am not afraid, I have been here many times.
I am free.
I am home.
The Cottage.
In this place, I am older, wiser; settled, and at peace. It too is home, but in a different way. It is England, and it is a modest cottage nestled quietly away in the countryside. I am in the sitting room, a small open fire is crackling gently. The cottage is older than I am, it too holds the stories of the lives of others, but it is welcoming, and gentle. It does not need to be silenced, it has always been that way and is happy to be so.
The ceilings are low with dark exposed beams, and there is a long, low window looking out on a garden that has been allowed to wild itself. The room is bright and airy, and there are old wooden floors, covered by a faded rug. The sofas are simple yet soft and comfortable and there are rugs and blankets which I know I have wrapped myself in whilst resting, enjoying the heat of the fire on my face. I have dogs, I can’t see them, but I can smell their warm presence.
This place, this home feels like a future, one I am seeking, or that seeks me, but we are not ready for each other yet.
The Snow.
My final place.
My resting place.
It is silent, soft, cold.
A cold that cleanses every inch of me.
It is dark and there are trees. A fire, smoke.
Peace.
These are the places that visit. Call me, and I to them.
In each place, I am alone and each place speaks to me of a quiet, resolved solitude, of wonder, and power – they bring about an unknown yearning that I do not yet fully understand.
In the coffee shop, I have a purpose, meaning, and creativity — I am a craftsman. At the lake, I am nobody, but not lost, just taking a moment of stillness, reflection, cleansing myself; allowing and embracing the calm.
At the mountaintop, I am fierce, organic, free; I am at my most powerful here, I am as raw and as wild as the environment around me.
In the cottage, I am powerful, but this time with knowledge and understanding. I no longer rage with the storm, I no longer need to.
In the snow, I am at rest. It is my final vision, but I am not sure if it is the end, or perhaps retreat. I am tired, but soothed, content, calm.
There is an energy building inside me that comes each year with the changes of the seasons. I know these places are connected to that energy. Perhaps one day we will meet, these places and I, or perhaps we already have.
If I could only find that coffee shop.
