Mis à jour : 26 mars 2020
There was wind coming from the sea, bringing with it the shrill cries of gulls. It was a beautiful spring day; still a little chill, but I felt the warmth of the sun on my face. I found her beside me. She was wearing a warm dress and a woolen shawl around her shoulders. She was smiling gently and holding out her hand. I took it and she led me inside her small house. The floor was carpeted. My feet made no sound. The walls were covered with bookshelves. In the small living-room, two brown, soft-looking armchairs were waiting for us. On a low table, a steaming teapot and two cups. The sweet smell of spices was in the air. She gestured me to sit and have a cup of tea. She still had not talked.
I almost did not dare to look at her familiar face. Her eyes were unsettling – it was very much like looking at myself in the mirror, and finding I was not so helpless after all. I did not know what to say, so I took a sip of the tea. There was almond in it, and cinnamon. Some things did not change. Had not changed. Would not change. I think that is what she was trying to tell me. She kept looking at me with a kind smile. I did not feel embarrassed. She knew it.
I asked her how life was, and this time she spoke. She did not tell me what was going to happen, because I did not want to know, but she told me it would be all right. I saw in her eyes that I would not avoid the pains and the losses. She was sorry that I had to go through those. But I also understood that someday they would become part of the past. That I would move on. Before I left, I asked her what her name was. I was only half surprised when she whispered, “Beloved”. Then she offered me a necklace, a small golden acorn on a chain.
Later, I found myself there again. She did not seem surprised to see me, only glad. We went inside and again, there was a teapot waiting. I asked her what I wanted to write about. She gestured at the bookshelves on the wall and told me those were all the books she had thought about writing. I was impressed. I knew there were stories in me, but not that much. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear her answer to my next question, but I did not even have time to ask it out loud. She turned on her seat, grabbed something behind her, and when she faced me again, she was holding a small pile of books, maybe seven or eight. She announced, her smile getting wider, “And these are the books I managed to write. Or rather, we managed to write.” I tried to ask her what they were about, but there was no more time.
10 February 2016
This text was born during a writing workshop in which the host led us through a two-part guided meditation to meet our inner mentor. We got to ask them one question, and then had to write about the experience. As a very down-to-earth person I wasn’t quite comfortable with the idea, but I trusted the host and her kindness. Later, when each participant read their text, we shared a very special moment.