The path was choked with vegetation but, unwilling as I was to return to the tourist clogged trail, I slogged on, pushing my way through the broad leafed greenery. I began to wish a machete had been included in my walnut shell, but it didn’t, so I had to do with what I had, my arms and legs. It took me three hours to get to the grotto. Distance-wise, it should have taken me only ten minutes at most. When I arrived though, I realized it was well worth the time, the hard slog, and the numerous scratches and bruises.

I was standing in a small amphitheatre with the sparkling waterfall dancing over the moss covered rocks and into a pool that reflected in glorious color the trees that surrounded it, and the huge multi-colored, bell like blossoms that hung like ballet dancers from the branches. So big were they that they caused the branches to bend over. They appeared to be honoring the water.

Having brushed by so much vegetation on the path, I was wet through to the skin. This was not the main grotto where the tourists would mingle, roughly brushing against each other and jabbering like a bunch of loonies. This was the real grotto where I could be with myself and Nature Herself. There was not a soul around, and not a sound other than the dancing water and the drip drip drip from the broad leafed trees. So knowing that I was totally alone, I stripped off my clothes and immersed myself in the inviting pool. The water wrapped around me like a gown of pure silk. I felt my trail weary muscles relax and the weariness leave me; a mist-like cloud that floated for a moment before dispersing into the atmosphere. My movements created ripples in the water causing the reflected colors to become abstracts of such beauty, that I could not describe with mere words and could never recreate on canvas.

I lay back and floated with my eyes closed. I thought about my life…the road I had traveled form the green mountains of Wales to my home in the United States. Memories became jumbled as if they were a page of penciled scribbling. I seemed not to be able to organize my thoughts. Why, I wondered, my memories are usually clear and concise. Gradually things cleared up and I realized that being there in the grotto had somehow eased my mind of any guilt-ridden memories. It was not that I didn’t remember things I had done and of which I was not proud. I remembered them clearly but in a different light. Now they were circumstances over which I had little or no control. I knew the time had come for me to first of all forgive those who I had blamed for my feelings, and then to forgive myself for deeds which I had thought at the time to be best for everyone, but had later come to regret.

I climbed out of the pool and made my way behind the waterfall. I was behind the curtain and in another world. The falling water sparkled like jewels. I recalled the magic of my days in San Francisco, which is undoubtedly one of the most beautiful cities in the world. It was there that I immersed myself in the arts; the opera, the ballet, and the theatre. I loved every moment of my life in the City by the Bay. One might say I lived the high life…for me anyway. I enjoyed dressing up, fixing my hair, and mingling with some of San Francisco’s upper crust so to speak. It is said we go through stages in our lives that are much like chapters in a book, each one takes us another step toward the whole story, or in this case toward the whole person. We do not know when the story will end or how many chapters are left to complete it. We do know, however that each chapter is precious. Each and every life lived is to be found in the universe, complete stories floating forever in memories that live on forever. Those memories are treasures and should be treated as such.

I heard a distant voice and I knew it was L’Enchanteur calling us back to the ship. It was time to move on.

ViJones
©January 31, 2009