The Root of Earth

She stands at twilight, a shadow within shadows, dusk edging its way like a hooded assassin over the medieval city of Kashgar. The thousand tiles of a thousand roofs create a mosaic of gently smouldering umber embroidered with knots of gossiping birds, and she gathers herself, peering down into the skeins of narrow, tangled streets that wrap around the town.

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The Hermit

Unaware of the darkness contained within her own uncertainty she steps purposefully out into a rocky, sunless and mountainous land, the narrow causeway upon which she finds herself, crossing a deep ravine, before winding upwards through the bleak greyness of the mountains. The breeze blows in like a wastrel from the north, shuffling across the empty plains, plucking at her clothes as she contemplates the way ahead.

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The silence of the place is immense, but within it, a long gracious avenue leads through a beautiful moonlit garden where a tapestry of blues, greys, cobalt and silver, are intimately and elegantly entwined, waltzing through a colonnade of urns and statues that line the marble flagged walkway. What a place, she is mesmerized by the calm, meditative beauty of her surroundings, and starts to feel even more relaxed than she already is; a profound calm descends, her heartbeat drops and the stretch of her breathing slows and deepens.

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The Chariot

She approaches this goddess of the steppes, and sits quietly on the ground in front of her, folding her hands in her lap, waiting for something to happen. A small child brings her a bowl of tea and the woman begins to speak, explaining her position in the tribe, telling how she sits in the centre of their universe, that she has no place that she calls home, that her home is within her. At all times, she must be ready to leave, being called upon by the seasons, the tribes, the herds and the turning of the earth, ready at a moment’s notice; all her time is spent in preparation, becoming ready to move on once more and that her life is a moving meditation, a journey of discovery.

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The Lovers

The figure stands there waiting, dressed in robes of lilac shadows with a capacious hood pulled slightly about the face; she cannot see clearly enough from this distance to ascertain the features, but as she draws closer, she finds that she is soon bathing in the serene gaze of a woman of indeterminate age, who seems to possess a savage kind of energy lying within her like a resting bear. The hooded woman looks down with calm reassurance, and as she stands beneath her meditative gaze, she feels all her worry and fear and the thoughts and troubles that plague her mind, slipping silently away. She relaxes into the strange woman’s gaze so much so that she feels like she is melting, everything around her sliding into nothingness, the sounds, the smells, the heat of the street, the touch of the ground beneath her feet, it all goes, even she goes eventually, slipping away into nothing.

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