The Land of All Seasons
Maimunas: an attempt at creating a Utopia
A blue jay sees the land from above as a skein in flight sings the song of freedom. Rivers peacefully weave through the rolling, tree-covered hills of Maimunas. Like the crisp currents of air, the blue jay dances in. Waterways flow as far as the eye can see, as if longing to explore the vast landscape of copses, forests and shores. Turquoise, jade, and Prussian blues soothingly complement the flushing greens and burnt sienna sky of eventide. A breeze of pine sap spirals in the air. The blue jay descends and at every few turns in the Masla river — Maimunas’ main river — settlements emerge from within the forest of mine. The bird softly settles on a frozen branch — a soft twinkling of ice crystals.
Every few turns in the river, a settlement lies. Each of the four settlements is a season, as Maimunas is an entrancing maelstrom of them all. Tangerine and pumpkin coloured trees lay among the evergreen. Leaves make the forest floor rustle in the gentle breeze. Seamlessly, Autumn melts into trees daubed in white, as the next turn in the river reflects the snow’s white in a sea of cherry blossoms and delicate bell flowers. My seasons live in harmony to supply each other. Boats powered only by the lullaby of imagination transport supplies among the current of water.
Within Autumn, people dressed in a palette of lively colors move along pathways made of carpets of moss and lined with pine saplings. Those pathways are a road not defined, a home for boundless magic, as possibilities unfold with every newborn leaf. Sounds of laughter fill the air and mingle with the comforting smell of sparking fireplaces. A little girl, dressed warmly in a knitted wool scarf from Spring, sits on a fountain’s edge, a book open on her lap. People move to the sway of leaves, to the song of the birds, the gentle trickle of a creek’s water that so resembles the faint sound of a sea of Monarchs lifting off in Spring. Intriguing, how a hurricane of words paints over reality so perfectly. If there is such a thing as perfection.
The sound of serenity sails through Maimunas like early morning mist. In Maimunas, books disseminate wisdom, just as the bees in Summer’s fields sprinkle pollen. Time is unheard of as the heart beats not every second, but in symphony with the pulsing light of the syncopating sun and moon. A boy joins the reading girl. Skipping, they set out to explore beyond Autumn’s pathways, for they know — I will always have more secrets they are yet to unveil. 1 2
Round houses of glass and timber, ivy and pea vines growing on the facades. When pure water falls from the sky, the roofs catch it. Autumn’s people use it. And so they are part of my water cycle. If I provide too much, trickles of waterfalls run down the houses’ sides and find their way to creeks. Once in a fortnight, water and sun enhance each other and dozens of rainbows shimmer throughout Maimunas. Bridges over the Masla river. This is the land where my unfathomable displays of colour and light are walked on. For here, people flourish through their imagination. Inspired by the soft motion of the Masla river and the colors of my realm, they create unique worlds within themselves. Once in a while, they grow so detailed in motion, color and smell, that I bring them to life. And so, solstice by solstice, the settlements flourish like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. Those settlements are rooted in me, as I gave the imagination they were formed by, ground to grow on. Is everything created by my elements, by definition, perfect?
Bells of an arriving boat start chiming so beautifully, every gong filling the air with the fragrance of life. A shipping from Winter and Spring has harboured. Ice and meltwater from the mountain streams where Winter meets Spring. Potted flowers, apricots, radishes, wool. The warming smell of rosemary and sage. Without my aid, the people of Autumn justly circulate Winter and Spring’s supplies. In Maimunas, the circles of life flow as freely as the winding river of Masla. Balance is innate as there is no suitable ground for seeds of greed. With the boat’s onset, the chiming fades into the crisp evening air.
I provide a realm of circular harmony. I am the fertile ground for Spring, Summer, Winter and Autumn to create all the heart desires. They provide each other with supplies the other lacks. Even the settlements themselves reflect my circularity, as people live as part of my cycles of life. When the element I live by is broken by an individual’s greed, the circle is blocked. Such individuals start losing their vision of Maimunas. Greed cannot be sustained in my realm of harmony. Those people slip into the world of perceived, man-made reality. In their mind, the trees’ roots wriggle, clasping around their ankles and wrists. The person’s imagination is flushed from their mind. Circles distort into sharp-edged rectangles and with my strongest gales, I blow them to the world of reality, where I quiver under the weight of material greed and greyness. There, people are tied to the mundane reality of what only their eyes can see and the labels their brains have given it. As the last of my light is cast out, that place lets its circus of blinding colours loose. Lurid colors shine from the huge screens, changing not like the gradual flow of seasons, but like the spinning display of a slot machine. A city sitting in its own grave of greed for more. Relieved, I seek the harmony I need, in Maimunas.
Why be tethered by what perceived reality defines things as?
A single snowflake falls and is cushioned by the blanket of snow, as the blue jay lifts off into the turquoise, jade and Prussian blues.
Thoughts while writing.
As I struggle to find words to awake Maimunas, I notice how distant it is. It is a lovely thought experiment, a way to enhance this mundane reality. Isn’t it lovely how words, when just the right ones are found, can create a novel layer to reality? Thoughts swirl in my mind and tangle with each other. Tighter and tighter they pull, a knot tangled. All my ideas are encased in such a miserable mess, I cannot see through. Words don’t seem to come. Imagination is blocked
by the space that knot takes over. So many thoughts, yet not one to grasp at. I don’t know what I’m thinking of. A mess. A mess.
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