Writing Prompt: The moment felt sacred.

Morning all. Have you ever had a close to waking dream that just seemed so random that it really bothered you that you couldn’t figure out what it tied to? Just before I woke up I had a dream of giant cupcakes lined up in a row. Each one topped with a cherry that still had it’s stem on it. Just as I thought ‘I wonder if someone remembered to take out the cherry stones’ The cherries exploded and the cupcakes deflated like collapse soufflés. And then I woke up. That is going to bother me all day. But on with the morning prompt. Perhaps that will clear out the dream. So timers set and we are off!

Nope still wondering about the cupcakes. But I actually like this beginning. It feels like it could go somewhere interesting. Not entirely certain where yet, but I think with a little more time with it, I could take this somewhere, and that is something.

Tuesday, November 9th: The moment felt sacred.

The moment felt sacred.  The light sliding into the clearing was touched with a golden glow as the sun began to sink towards the horizon and the light had an almost sloid feel to it as though we were encased in amber. 

A light breeze kicked up high in the tree tops, whispering the leaves.  The various shades of green whispered softly to themselves like elderly congregants settling into the back rows.

I was barefoot.  My shoes were lost well before my arrival and my bruised and battered feet showed their loss.  But in this moment, their lack felt appropriate, right.  I skimmed my feet forward, barely picking them up as I moved forward.  The grass was cool against my abused feet, the earth below still warm from the summer’s heat.  The contrast felt delicious on my skin and I shivered with every step as I alternated between coolness and warmth.

The clearing was not large and the pond in its center barely reached the definition of the term pond.  It was small, but as I drew closer, I could feel the coolness of its depths.  It wasn’t the widest body of water but legend had it that the pond went down deep, deeper than any other body of water this far from the ocean. 

They had different words for it here, pond seeming too familiar, to easy a term.  Ponds were small friendly things where frogs jumped and small canoes lazed away the summer afternoon.  I couldn’t remember the term used for this body of water, but standing close, I could agree.  Pond was to familiar a term. There were no jumping frogs here and even the most jaded of lay-a-bout would find somewhere else to laze away the day. 

I knew that in times past, offerings were made her to some god or other.  The offerings were given and thrown into the icy depths of the waters.  The water was smooth, not a ripple.  The breeze may have ruffled the trees, but it didn’t touch the surface of the water.  Not even water bugs skimmed its surface. 

There were no bird calls in this area either.  The area was surprisingly silent.  For a moment I looked around, having learned that silence here generally meant a stalking predator.  There was none that I could detect and few places where one could hide.  In truth the water felt more dangerous than anything else.

Perhaps it was the waiting predator.

I swallowed hard and stared at the water in front of me.  My steps were rapidly taking me to its edge and leaving the peaceful feeling of the clearing behind.  The moment still felt sacred, but it also felt more powerful.  The clearing promised restfulness and peace.  The water promised nothing.  It seemed to be waiting for what I asked of it, before deciding how to react. 

Earlier I found the idea of sacred waters interesting in a metaphorical kind of way.  I thought to come here as I had no other concrete destination yet in mind and thought it might be an interesting diversion.  I was beginning to rethink my options, but still my feet carried me to the water’s edge.

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