Harmony Mountain
My writing lives in a cabin on Harmony Mountain.
The Writing Room is filled with orange tones. Natural wood beams. Warm and soft. There are textures strewn about amidst the curtains and the pillows and a mat at the door. A fire crackles softly in the hearth and the tea is warming in the cozy on the tea table. A sprawling picture window frames the snow-covered vistas outside reminiscent of Monet’s, The Magpie. There are ‘meaningful things’ all around – a brass heart, an empty flower vase, a ring container with a man’s band in it, and sepia-toned pictures from times past. A dense, heavy, fuzzy blanket snakes across cushions on a billowy sofa that would swallow me whole while a hodgepodge of contemporary throw rugs sit like lily pads atop the walnut flooring; padding for wool-covered feet.
As I enter, I am compelled to touch two things: a brass heart that is about the size of my palm and tarnished. It is cold and smooth. And a warm, luxurious blanket with all of its succulent layers in grays and beige.
I take the heart with me, tightly clenched, as I wander deeper into the cabin.
There is a long and narrow hallway with creaky floors. It is very dark and uninviting with doors closed and bolted on either side. At the end of the corridor just one is slightly ajar into a bedroom imbued with vibrant teals, corals and yellows. Outside of these windows it is Spring. I can hear black-capped chickadees and blue jays and see the cobalt sky through windows running along the top that kiss the crown molding. There are glass vases everywhere full of fresh flowers in every variety and hue. Mortar and pestal are speckled about with herbs and tinctures. This is the sanctuary where healing happens.
My writing appears to me as a light source; as if someone has turned up the brightness on everything in the room. She emanates warmth and is willing to appear in the bedroom only, but does not feel safe being with me in the Writing Room even though this is where all the work is done. I feel relieved to be in the room with her even though she is wary of me and as I move toward her, I feel tender and loving. I want to lay my hands on her; to connect. We are not meeting for the first time but she recoils nonetheless when I approach. We both sob softly when she is brave enough to let me embrace her.
Most of all I feel a responsibility to give this precious, voiceless wonder its full expression after hiding her in this sanctuary for so long. Everything I have written thus far has been topical and contrived. I don’t know if that is because I felt I would harm her by letting her be seen or if, to the contrary, she would harm me. Perhaps those are one and the same. But now, in this quietude, I know I must be the instrument to giving her life; to let her move through my veins and flow through my fingers. she has been so long silenced that she is yearning.
This writing is noble and rebellious. She asks that she be able to trust me with her words and implores that I represent her just as she is without regard to what others think, need or feel. I promise her that I will but, in return, I ask her to be brazenly honest and as ugly or as beautiful as she is without apology. So, in that, we arrive at a gentlewoman’s agreement and I sit with her lovingly holding space with touch and time.
And then, while she rests from being seen, I retire to the Writing Room to begin.