The Sacred & The Imagined

The landscape of the imagination begins at a creekbed—lavishly carpeted. Sporangia nod and bob their greetings, while the cascade - fed creek babbles of the goings-on that I’ve missed since last I came. A fallen tree, beginning to forget what it used to be, becomes my seat, and I put in my feet. The water is cold and awakens me, as though I’ve been dreamwalking all along.

My tail appears and I slip into the creek, dipping beneath the silver surface. I propel myself downstream, gently touching the stoney creek bed with my hands as I travel toward the green and gold kingdom of the sea. 

Soon the ground beneath me has sloped away so I dive down, following the ribbons of kelp that reach past me toward the sparkling expanse.

Down to the deep - to the secret place where thoughts and imaginings and ideas bubble up from seeps in the rock, and where revelations echo as whispers among the crevasses.

To listen.

To harvest.

I cast a net to make a catch— a slippery, thrashing thrill of a thought. And up, up to the surface once more, the silvery imagining fighting to be loosed all the way.

Back to the creekbed - to clean it, to scale it, to trim it until what remains is the tender flesh of a story. Then to season and refine it in the fire before it is done. 

And perhaps, one day, I might enjoy the pleasure and honour of sharing a portion with the world.

By Carly Ruiz