A great white doorway marks the entranceway to the inner kingdom of my imagination. As I step through this portal, it is as if a great guardian, dressed in white light, bids me entry, while also marking the boundary of my sacred space where no other may enter. Here he stands, this illuminated and formidable presence, with sword in hand—held in defense and guardianship never in attack.

His presence contrasts with this soft welcoming room, with white pillows resting upon a luscious carpet of green. Milky white curtains billow like clouds in the sky, stirred by the breeze from an open window.

My desk invites me with clean sheets of paper that call me to the creation of ideas and words that might dance upon their surface. As I sit awaiting the voice within to emerge, I am caught by the sweet succulent scent of lilacs and jasmine, that entice my senses from the garden beyond my windowsill, and from their sweet nectar the humming bird drinks. These scents awaken me to the memory of the first flowers of spring, that stir us from winter’s deep slumber, and my mind begins to open, receptive to inspiration.

Inspiration arrives in the form of a ladybug visitor who crawls across the blank pages, upon which my pen is poised. Rather than words engaging this cumbersome metal object, it instead becomes a source of play for this delicate creature—an obstacle course for miss ladybug’s spindly legs. I observe the contrast of these two worlds that my pen and this creature represent, one being the creation of man, from the realm of thought and ideas that are executed with an exactness and control that is at times stifling, the other being the natural world of miss ladybug, where everything flows in curves of momentary experiences that are caught by a sudden breeze—that casts the seeds of the old oak tree to fertile ground.

Miss ladybug takes her leave, knowing that the objects so alien to her world might be fun to explore for a little while, but they pale in comparison to the adventures she might find outside the open window. I ponder the strange and beautiful worlds that her instincts may carry her to, free as she is to go where her heart may lead; I also ponder the adventures of my soul, that has danced upon rainbows, followed shooting stars, and journey to places that are beyond my physical reach, as I sit here in the imaginative realm of my writing room.

With the flutter of inspiration that visitor, to my room, bestowed, my soul is set free, with wings that carry me to a distant realm that takes shape in a mind, that has been ignited by nature’s beauty. I soar over ancient ruins and distant landscapes, to then settle by a cooling sea. Like glass, its surface of blue green shimmers in the morning sun, with gentle waves that do little to disturb the peaceful surface. I settle in this natural harbor, that is sheltered from the world by great mountains that seem as old as the world. All is quiet, serene, and beautiful; it is an idyllic place, truly a Garden of Eden.

Nestled in a valley just beyond the ocean’s reach, on firm ground and fertile soil, lies a gathering of dome-like structures, that exude whispers of smoke exhaled from a fireplace within—busy in its purpose of warming the broth that breaks the fast of the inhabitants. 

A crooked figure, leading a mule carrying baskets heavily laden from the harvest fields, labors home to the valley, perhaps to provide the grain for the later day’s meal. Not close enough to see his face, he appears merely a silhouette in the morning sun, and yet he seems to turn, to pause, and to embrace the view of the ocean’s quiet, before returning to his task of the day.

I again turn to the cool surf before me, and become quiet, reflective, and peaceful, enjoying the paradise of this place. It needs nothing more; it's complete within its own being and beauty. I decide to rest within this scene, for a while….

The increasing warmth of the sun now stirs me from slumber and tells me to find shelter from its power, as it climbs towards its highest point in the sky. 

On a nearby hillside, overlooking the ocean’s vast plane, stands a small house. It seems familiar, reminiscent of another existence, another life. My curiosity drives me to my feet, so that I might explore the spiraling pathway that is interwoven with the tapestry of that hillside. My eventual climb, to this curious destination, soon brings me to its garden gate and then on to an open doorway. The house seems to be calling me to enter, as if I have a right to be there and am known in this place.

As I enter its corridor of white billowing curtains and soft green pile, I realize now why that sense of the familiar overwhelmed me, as I find myself invited again into my writing room where I nestle at my desk. The view of flower buds and oak trees have been replaced by the blue green ocean, and the salted air disturbs the pages on my desk; such pages have danced within the realms of my imagining and are now filled with the inscription of a journey from which my soul can now rest.