Flowers are made of stories, every colour a different genre, every form a different journey.
A yellow flower lived high on a tree; it sang and danced along with the wind. One day the yellow flower fell on a passerby who looked up at the tree, then down at the flower, smiled and left. The passerby loved its story.
Flowers are the best storytellers, just a glance and the job is done, allowing the story to unfold, to bloom within the seeker slowly.
A lotus once told me an epic and a night jasmine a love story and a marigold a fairy-tale saga.
Flowers are made of stories which the mind forgets but the heart remembers.
After crossing the vast desert, sailing through the green ocean, the Little Prince reached another desert. Golden sand waves welcomed him or so he thought.
The Little Prince walked alone. And the narrator’s voice followed him, sometimes foretelling and sometimes sharing.
“But this is not possible, for I cannot hear this voice”, says the Little Prince.
“Still, you can feel it”, replies the narrator.
The Little Prince inquires, “Feel the voice?”
“Yes, you can feel what the voice says, the emotions, the connections, the ideas, the realisations… this, you can surely feel”, says the narrator.
The Little Prince sat on the sand cross-legged and pondered over this thought. The desert wind tried to disturb him, but he stayed still, allowing the wind to settle in his golden hair.
“Yes, I surely feel… and I am glad I do… then what you speak is true”, says the Little Prince as if reciting a haiku.
“True for you and true for me… true for those who can hear me”, replies the narrator in a cheerful tone.
This made the Little Prince laugh loudly. The narrator and the desert wind joined him.
“Hey voice, yours is a pleasant sound… keep following me, keep foretelling and sharing, for I am on a long journey”, standing up says the Little Prince.
“I will, I will… for every journey needs a narrator”, says the narrator.
The Little Prince nodded and started walking, allowing his feet to sink a little and then rise, allowing the wind to tease him, holding his gaze up at the sky, waiting for the stars to show up.
For he knew a star that would lead him to his destination, he felt it deep in his heart. He felt it!
Eyes gaze at the grandiose being, follows its path, amazed and overwhelmed by the unbelievable. What is so grand in the way dragons fly? It is just in its element, it is its utmost self.
The dragons are awed by every mind that is familiar with its stories. Fire breathing, winged, snake like, four legged, cave dwellers, treasure keepers, proud and wise.
Flying high above the clouds, quasi-free from bondage, they come back on the ground to quench their thirst. They don’t kill for joy, they understand the laws of nature.
Mythical or not, dragons are glorious creatures. I say mythical or not for a storytellers’ imagination is an entity in itself, very much alive, though in thoughts, formless and fluid, but true.
Found in a story, the dragons thrive in this other realm.
Storytellers gave something more than just a pair of wings to the dragons, that something is splendour and beauty. Thus, right in the thought there was magnanimity and ferocity. What else is a dragon if not a magnanimous lovable beast?
Ah, here is what sprinkles magic in a dragon’s story, they are lovable beasts. Our storyteller friends didn’t suffer, at least, and I thank every heaven, from poverty of mind; they dared to imagine and realized that nothing is more powerful than true love, not even a dragon.
So rhythmically every dragon’s story is about love; a hero either fights back or fights along the dragon and wins back her love/ life and is showered with unheard grandeur.
Always a talk of antiquity, dragons are, but worth noticing is not the ‘antiquity’ bit, it is the ‘always’ bit. Always remembered, locked in the heart.
But what is so grand in the way dragons fly? It is just in its element, it is its utmost self.
Exactly, it is its utmost self. Like the storyteller who thought of it with utmost concentration, power, passion and love. Maybe just for a few minutes the storyteller was in her element, she was her utmost self, and thus, she gave birth to the dragon.
These legendary creatures ruled the sky once upon a time, and they still do, just travel to their realm and witness how majestically they fly.
To keep walking is hard. Repeatedly dying on the way is a normal occurrence, but no less significant.
What breaks the heart often is not the crude world or a passer-by, but the heart itself. It allows itself to be crushed.
And as funny as it may sound, the truth doesn’t change that the heart also heals itself.
Let us keep aside the magical part for it blindfolds the ones with sightless minds and talks about reason and logic.
Oh! But that is already done – heart breaks itself and heals itself… very straightforward indeed. Brain, heart, brain, heart… and this is the journey.
Carrying on kills, but so does not-carrying on; carrying on also gives you a chance to live and to experience the universe. It is a long, long, long journey and then you reach nothing.
At nothing, you become everything.
Read about Antonio Porchia, the Argentinian poet here.
Endless footprints following footprints/
When suddenly a few of them rise/
To bloom like a flower.
Greetings!
A storyteller, following the ancient tradition of cave chroniclers, standing in vrikshasana (the tree pose) on a hill top (it is sunny, but windy), breathing in and out stories (relishing it all, but at times overwhelmed), declares animatedly that she will continue to – tell stories, share rare story gems, and connect with the pacy universe while also keeping the website ad-free.
Big thanks to my readers. Stay tuned!
Also, a humble request to the new subscribers to check the spam folder after subscribing. Silly (but necessary) confirmation emails often land there instead of the bright inboxes. Merci!
Ya-hoy!
Chiming Stories (formerly Home Chimes)
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A Tribute to Jean-Luc Godard, the Film Philologist who Reinvented Cinema.
Yes fly! For walking on the second track is dull and usual, but dreaming high, high, high requires tools. Tools like the right pair of shoes, a chirpy, gritty soul that eats butter-jam dreams, a soul that drinks milky-milky creams.
Silver cascade shimmering the night sky, music to the waves and surreal beauty to the eyes, the Moon loves the art of discipline.
It may be difficult to believe for the Moon’s splendour defies time, it stupefies the clock, it follows the path of a dreamer, but how could this be possible if the Moon knew not discipline?
In this moment, I am a little bit of this and a little bit of that, I am complete and incomplete, I am pleased and uncertain, I wish for nothing and I know I have to wait.
Because the distance covered reminds me of the hurdles I have crossed and the ones I could not, it reminds me of a throbbing past and a dreamy future and it reminds me of how much time is left.
Meredith and the Green Lake
Illimitable Splendour
A joy so complete without any rise or fall, so free without any time corners, so real without true being false, false being true.
