Tag: mental-health

They say that age is a killer of beauty, that wrinkles, sun-spotted flesh, and white hair is something you should dread.

But truly, I have never seen someone like her carry themselves so beautifully.

The door was always open, and every time we walked up and down the cracked pavement countless times, my head would crane to the door, roving over every detail I could momentarily catch.  A single glance wasn’t nearly as long as I’d want it to be, and neither was the whisper of a citrus scent. I saw dried flowers in bundles, I saw candles and all sorts of oddities that just beckoned a second glance. 

I wanted to wander inside, touch and hold every item, breathe in the scent of its comfort and take it back home with me. 

Now, I’ve had my fair share of experiences when it comes to any pagan store, bright white lights, shelves full of overpriced crystals and a scent so strong it snuffed out my curiosity as soon as I walked in.

Walking in that store felt nothing like that.

The lights were warm, the scent was mouth-watering, and the lack of felt less overbearing.  There were some crystals, a basket of stickers, clothes on wracks and books, but it felt like whoever owned the store truly adored it. Just enough stock for the shop, and the right amount of decoration to tell you a hundred stories about the people in there.  

Smoke curdling in the air, yellow dangling lights, a jingle of something just out of ear shot. 

Oh, this was perfect.

There wasn’t a single moment where my hands were kept to myself. I had to touch, to savor, and enjoy the feeling of authenticity that the store had. I stalled out my time there as much as I could, hoping that my busy hands could keep the group in there a little longer.

It was wonderful.

The keys had captured my attention. 

They were placed around a small altar behind the desk, so I felt a little hesitant to insert myself there. It started with a gradual shuffle of my feet until my right hip clipped the corner of the desk, and if I leaned a little into it, I could see the keys.

Rusted old keys.

I cannot tell you why, call it a coincidence or fate itself, but I had been searching for old keys. Like a snare biting into my leg, the nagging desire for a key had been seated in my chest for weeks now. I had spent hours going to antique stores a few weeks prior, scouring for keys.

And here they were, calling to me like an old friend. 

As if she heard my plea, the woman in the store walked towards me, and I was at a loss for words as she asked me about my interest in the keys.

She was absolutely radiant in every way possible. I wish I remembered her name, a title to give her other than compliments, but unfortunately, just that will have to do. She was an older woman with a grace so profound that it poured out from every facet of her like a babbling brook. Her silver hair framed her features like the feathers on angels wings. Her smile told a story of hundred smiles before now, and down to the very thing she wore, she spoke of a deep, soul encompassing comfort. She looked so serene, so at peace with herself, and I found myself aching for that similar comfort. I wondered briefly if she could feel it from me, the lost disposition I have within myself. If I thought about it enough, could she sense that? 

Such a foolish thought, but I can’t help it, I’m always wondering if someone can tell that something is off about me. 

She was asking about my interest in keys, and if I wanted one.

I said yes.

There was a ritual to the keys, I remember this. To make it my own, it has to be cleansed, and I have to breathe a new thought into it.

A wish.

A want.

A want that could open any door I sought after.

 I chose a long rusted key that was dropped into a brass wine glass. Her hands found its way to a bottle, which she tipped and poured generously over my chosen key. 

A strange elixir of sorts?

I can’t quite tell you now.  Maybe it was some kind of oil, some alcohol based liquid that caught aflame so beautifully.

It didn’t matter, because one moment, it was a still pond in my brass cup, and then the next it had sparked to life with a few snaps of a match. 

I’ve always loved watching fire burn, whether it be a candle light or a campfire, something about it seemed to muddle every raving thought I had. I could lose myself to this. And I think I did that day, because I can’t tell you how long I sat there, focusing on a flame. While the world seemed to move around me, I was locked into an embrace I never wanted to part from, the burning warmth of a tender flame. The fire lapped at the water, skating over the surface, curling to the sides of the glass and billowing upwards, reaching for me.  

It crackled and spit just a few inches away from my face, dragging its hands over my rusted key, curling around every crevice of the metal as the liquid started to dissipate. I pressed every thought I could into that fire, told it everything I wanted.

Creativity, the ability to write without bounds. I told her that I wanted to make something special, to curate something meaningful with my meaningless hands. 

Could I find that, oh crackling flame? 

Give me a door, I have the key. Give me direction, I have my answer. Just, help me.

Tell me there’s something in me worth uprooting and giving to the world. 

It was some time ago, but I can remember that the flame was tall and bright until the very last moment, where it wilted before my eyes like a dying breath, kissing a final farewell to my key before dropping its hands, and disappearing entirely into a whisper of citrus smoke. I hoped that it meant something, hoped that this could mean that maybe, my fire was bright.

My fire was still there, somewhere in me, this flame was proof of it, yes?

The woman came back to me, drawing my conscious back to the moment. 

She said she had seen my flame, and how tall it had burned. We talked as I stood up, the world now coming to full focus.

It was no longer just a moment between me, and what I could also hope it be, a reflection of me as well.

“Your name has power to it, have you considered looking back on your ancestors? There could be some lineage…” 

My attention was forced back to our conversation. 

No, I hadn’t, and my family doesn’t have any sort of history with Greek gods, but I could perhaps entertain the thought. Turn it around in my mind and draw dreams of some stranger related to me, buried in a time long ago.

Who knows, maybe there is something in me that I’m not aware of. Maybe it’s high time to take an ancestry test. 

She told me of a goddess who is seen in keys. She spoke of crossroads, of paths, and if I wanted to, I could seek her out, to which I found myself hesitant.

“I just feel like there’s a block in me, from my past.” I recall saying,”I grew up so set in one way, it’s hard for me to give anything else a chance.”

Worship is something I truly detest. Something about surrendering to something else, being less than, put a bad taste in my mouth. It sounded a little too close to the place I ran away from some time ago. 

“I understand, I really do.” The woman had said,”I grew up the same way.”

I don’t think I could’ve hidden the appreciation in my eyes, even if I’d wanted to; it was a relief to have someone understand me that way. My key was wrapped in a cloth and placed in a small bag for me to carry. She gave me her Instagram, told me to reach out to her and we could talk about it.

I have to admit, I didn’t end up doing that.

 I was scared, hesitant.

 I was a tourist, a passerby, surely I wasn’t important enough for her to remember by the end of the day.

I felt as though my questions would be more of a bother than anything, but even recalling the memory now, I can’t help but wonder if I had swallowed my self-doubt and asked just a question or two, maybe something could have come from that.

Who knows.

But the memory is warm, even thinking of it now. I wish I could remember her name, and thank her for bringing me the brief feeling of solidarity. 

I hope that one day, I can carry the natural comfort she carried, that seemingly endless peace and almost guiding comfort she had to her words.

Something to look forward to in the future, I suppose.