The Emerald Pond

My name is Jaedah. I have been the baker for our village for most of my life like my mother before me and her mother before her. I have enjoyed baking breads of all varieties, holding to my heritage and the tradition of my people. I have a special capacity for this vocation that I am thankful for. 1

Bread making is a simple process but if not done properly, can have disastrous results. I enjoy working with the miracle of yeast, keeping it alive so it can provide its essence for the bread. I love the feel of the dough, clingy at first, but with the addition of flour becomes independent and more dry. I persistently fold and manipulate it until it yields to me and becomes elastic, pliable and smooth. I enjoy watching it rise, punching it down and letting it rise again to perfection, ready to bake. The smell of baking is sublime- the smell of life. Its so satisfying to see the variety of perfectly baked breads in neat rows- golden grains, light and dark browns, tart sourdoughs and sweetbreads. Over the generations we have refined the use of herbs to enhance and diversify the loaves, rolls, twists and scones. I gather my own herbs to dry and use. I have found, however, that I enjoy my search for herbs and exploring the bounty that nature has to offer as much as lovingly creating bread. 2

Every now and then, towards the end of the day, when all is done and taken care of, I close my shop and leave my village life behind to explore the graceful woodlands and savor the solitude outside our dusty home. I’ve always been a loner and have not easily connected with my fellow villagers, although, collectively, I love them dearly. I enjoy wandering on my own and soaking in the sighs of nature, the flutter and dance of the seasons. I’ve strolled among the swaying trees, listened to their windy whisperings. I have waded the streams, steeping in their bubbly wisdom that has tumbled down for ages from the mountains sides along sandy banks that reveal the knuckles of clinging trees roots. I have climbed leafy giants to see the vista from their bark-skinned shoulders and squinted upwards where they thin into the sunlight. I have bathed in the cascading waterfalls that shower me with their misty breath and pound down on slippery ledges, leaving only deafness. My forays into this sumptuous world have not only filled my senses but also my soul with the exotic essence of the earth.3

It was on one of these journeys that I stumbled across a sight like no other I had seen before. It was a tepid day. I had been pushing my way through a denser part of the wood, when the scraping twigs thinned and a magnificent clearing opened up before me, revealing a fair-sized pond. It was brilliant emerald green. Not a cloudy, slimy green, but vibrant and clear like giant liquid gem melting into the ground. It rippled with life. It had shimmering deep facets, but I couldn’t discern anything. I stood for a long while admiring it’s deepness, sunlit glints danced and delved in it’s depths. I approached it’s edge as if it was a holy place and knelt to pay homage. The desire to touch the graceful greenness was so great that I couldn’t resist reaching into the magical water and gathering a handful, letting it slip and drip through my fingers. As I scooped a second handful to watch it rain back to its home, I was surprised when a sprightly purple fish jumped into my hands. I was so startled that I almost leapt from the pond’s edge flinging the fish skyward. Fortunately I forbore and froze, my breath held, wondering what it would do and what would happen next.4

I briefly admired its iridescent purple sheen that sparkled down its sides and its keen eyes filled with intelligence that looked into mine, seemingly to my soul.
“Hello” it said to my astonishment.
Again I fought the urge to fling it into the air and back into the pond.
“You are new here. Welcome.” I must have worn a look of stupor because this animated fish smirked at me in a friendly, feminine way.
“My name is Aegle. Won’t you join me to take a look around?” She jumped back into the pond and surfaced again, looking at me in an expectant manner. Not knowing what to do, I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. I sat down on the leafy bank and just stared at the sweet little fish. She was so very patient with me, perhaps understanding my ignorance to such magical things.
“Just wade in, its ok.” She smiled warmly and waited.5

With no other thought in my mind, I waded in, shoes and all. I expected the water to be cold, a collection of run-off from the mountains as most ponds here are. When the water was warm and inviting, I had no hesitation to submerge myself all the way. I opened my eyes under the water to find that instead of a murky algae view, the water was crystalline clear. I looked around to get my bearings and find my fish guide. I found that I moved effortlessly in the water and didn’t fight buoyancy or feel the clumsy slow motion flailings that a typical swim usually cost me. I held my breath for as long as I could, but soon gave out and started struggling for the surface. Aegle smiled and gently persuaded me to stay. My breath failed, but no bubbles rose from my nose and mouth. I paused and reluctantly drew a breath. It was so fresh and invigorating, like taking my first breath of Spring. Knowingly she guided me downwards through the emerald bliss, all thoughts of my earthly life left on the shore. It was a freedom and excitement I had not felt before. 6

She led me to a garden, her garden. It was a delicate, bright array of colorful rows neatly planted and carefully tended. She asked my name and we talked and swam among her playful, frondy blossoms. She understood my hesitation and confusion, for she too had reluctantly taken that first step some time ago. I found a kinship in this fish and enjoyed every second of my time with her. Soon she led me back to the surface and encouraged me to return home, which I reluctantly did. My dreams that night were filled with the sights and sensations of such a mysterious and enchanting realm. 7

The next morning I worked quickly to make my breads and all the basic assortment of goods, so that I could take my leave to see if the pond was still there. I feared it had been an hallucination, a flight from my right mind into fantasy. With every knead and round, my mind wandered to the garden, how the rows had perfect rhythm, a symmetrical flavor. It amazed me that I could almost feel the sweeping magnificent quality of the variety of growing things there. I’m sure that my fellow villagers thought I must have taken a nip from the barrels behind the vintners’ shop, but I hadn’t. 8

I closed my shop early, almost giddy with anticipation. I made my way quickly to where I remembered the pond to be. To my great relief, it was there, waiting for me. I didn’t wait for my friend; fearlessly I waded in. The warm welcoming feel of the water on my skin and in my nose as I breathed deeply was intoxicating. It felt like home. I swam to Aegle’s garden but she wasn’t there. She had planted a few new beauties, however, and I lingered to enjoy them. She had told me of other gardens, gardens beyond number and variety. She also warned me of the tendency to become overwhelmed and the addictive quality of such variety. Although disappointed that my guide was no where to be found, I was eager to explore. I swam to find new sights, new sensations, new mysteries. I was not disappointed. There were gardens more than my imagination could fathom. Parcels of growing fields of all passions and persuasions.9

I discovered gardens that were neatly rowed, like my friend’s and ones that were in disarray, but there was a certain beauty in the chaos. Others I found focused on tastes or smells, colors or textures. Some were so deep that I just floated and contemplated, never really coming to a concrete understanding. There were small and immense, old and new. I learned to be wary, for some were dark, thorny and misleading. How could such a cacophony of wonders exist in one small pond. I didn’t know, didn’t really care, I just knew it was something that I wanted to hold on to.10

I spent my days quickly tending to my traditional duties, counting the minutes until I could slip away to my own museum of artly delights. Aegle and I had many wonderful conversations and exchanges of ideas. She was wise and witty. It has never failed to amaze me what variety was on display. I marveled at how beautiful and unique each fish was. Aegle pointed out to me that in an environment like this, everyone shows only the colors that they want others to see. This is when I realized that I, too, was indeed a fish and I could produce whatever color scheme, pattern and display that I desired. I soon found a watery little plot just right for me and have delighted in experimenting with different patterns, textures and vegetation.11

In appreciating others’ gardens I have come in contact with a lot of different types of fish. Some are so welcoming, offering helpful advice, and gratitude at the compliments I’ve offered. Some simply nod, others, though few by comparison, have turned the other way, not acknowledging me at all. I have made quite a few meaningful connections in this little pond of paradise, but have felt that all too familiar loneliness as well. It is here that I started to realize that I had been sucked in and was beginning to neglect my “land” life. Were all the fish down here like me, human and leading a dull existence on a land of their own, coming here to escape, be creative and fill their soul with the essence of gardening and sharing? 12

People of my village also started to notice my sense of apathy towards the life’s work that had previously brought me joy. I had many concerned conversations with friends and neighbors. I knew they would not understand my enjoyment of this fantasy realm, perhaps think me mad or being led down the wrong path. I realized that it would not be wise to mingle my two worlds. I seemed to be at a cross road. My first impulse was to go to the pond that was so warm and mysterious where I could wander for hours effortlessly, drifting from garden to garden. There I could converse with friends who understood me and with whom I connected with on a deep spiritual level, leaving behind the arduous tasks of mixing, kneading, rising, baking and cooling the village breads. I admit to staying in my paradise pond too long on occasion just to see what would happen. I found that time passed freely, but the immenseness of the experience was exhausting and the stimulating nature of the multiplicity of gardens was overwhelming. My pond was becoming more than my simple emotions could handle and the companionship that I so longed for was not complete enough to sustain me. While providing a creative source and outlet, a smorgasbord of delights, I could not live there. 13

In despair I returned to my humble bakery. I opened the door tentatively and entered, as if expecting someone to question my presence. I looked around at the flour dusted counters, well worn with loving use, my rolling pins, bowl, bins of dry ingredients and yeasty stores. The familiar homey smell of baking bread wafting through my memory. There was the iron oven that has served our village so well for years on end. The racks, now empty, longing to be filled with piping, crusty loaves for cooling. I felt my heart tearing, how could I ever reconcile the two worlds that meant so much to me? There was one that has defined who I am, where I come from and my worth in the eyes of others and then there was the other that had allowed me to discover my inner self and had provided the growth to become who I truly could be. I sat down on the floor and wept. 14

There was a story-teller that came on occasion to our village. His visits were exciting events, especially for the children, who hung on his every word. I recalled a story he had told about a young man at the crossroads of his life, and how he retreated to seclusion to seek advice from the universe in meditation and supplication. It had been a wild tale of adventure and magic. At its hearing, I took no further thought of it than a colorful tale to dream on, not knowing of any magic in the world I inhabited. But upon reflection, this story took on a ringing trueness. I decided that I would give it some credence and try it myself. 15

With my happiness teetering in the balance, I packed a small rucksack with some simple necessities, closed my shop and home, and took my leave into the wood. I figured I might be missed, but only because my neighbors would wonder what happened to the bread lady and have to bake their own bread. 16

I wandered without direction, not really caring. I walked until I could walk no more. I sat down on a gnarled log who had kindly fallen some years before to offer me respite. My limbs buzzed and my throat ached from the exertion of the prolonged trek. I sat for a long while, letting my body rest. I slid from the log onto the ground, cushioned by dried leaves and velvet moss. I leaned back against the old log. It seemed so solid, unwavering, even though it lay in the same place that it had fallen from its natural freestanding glory. It seemed comfortable in its corrupted state, had come to terms with its destiny and situation. I found myself wishing that for myself. I ran my fingers along its damp barky skin. It was cool and solid. I watched the ants make their way along its convoluted terrain. Lichen grew along the length, decorating it in crinkly olive. I lay my head down on its old and comforting trunk, so tired.17

I dreamed, deep and dark. I felt myself sinking into the sturdy log that was failed to uphold me. I could feel myself slipping an falling seemingly endlessly, but I came to rest on my back in complete darkness. I felt nothing, could see nothing. If I was searching for an answer perhaps I didn’t know the correct question to ask. I lay there thinking over my life, the choices I’ve made. I thought about going back to being a plain baker for the rest of my life. My chest filled with a painful sorrow. I knew I wouldn’t be able to continue on with my life having experienced the color and passion that lay within me now.18

I thought about the pond, how I had come across it seemingly by accident yet it appeared that I had unconsciously been searching for it for years. I thought about the exhilaration, the feeling of being alive and creating beauty. I was overcome with the urge to just bury myself in the pond, embracing my new identity. It was an exciting prospect, but as I lay there in the nothingness, I thought of my family, friends and fellow villagers. I thought of the familiar, homey smell of my livelihood, my heritage. Again that hollow painful sadness washed over me. Two such separate parts of me, yet both essential to my being and happiness. I sighed a heavy heart, and in the darkness, closed my eyes in despair. 19

I laid there for what seemed hours turning over in my mind my feelings and situation, waiting for some illumination that didn’t come. I was beginning to sink into despair. The darkness crept into my skin. I was breathing it in, and it felt chokingly thick.20

I began to think that finding the pond was the worst thing that could ever have happened. I decided to abandon the pond altogether, even though it broke my heart to think of not having that creative source and outlet and missing my dear fish friends. I could not, would not ever be able to leave my family, my village, my heritage, however a fulfilling a career I could have had in the pond. That familiar aching pain began to etch itself on my heart as my resolve to return to my former life solidified. It felt like a dread that could abide no light. I wished that the darkness that pressed on me would consume me once and for all, so I wouldn’t have to choose, or move with nothing more to do.21

To my surprise I felt relief at having made a decision, what ever the consequence, I had made a choice. I felt the pain ease. I opened my eyes to the most exquisite sight. There filling my senses was a flowing white birdlike creature. Her grace and compassion encompassed me. She enfolded me in her wings gathered me to her. We flew high into the sky. Sparkling sunlight casting warmth over the landscape and to my very core. I saw all the beautiful places I had visited over the years- the streams trickling through the dense wood, meandering meadows dotted in yellows and lavenders of Spring, and through the mists of the powerful pounding waterfalls. I noticed how the variety of the land reminded me of the diversity of the gardens of the pond, so striking were the similarities. I had never considered the possibility of the beauty of my little pond extending on beyond its mossy edges to the world I inhabited. I had internalized the magic and range of the gardens; they were part of me. I could express them in different ways and it could sustain me through the absence of visits. I filled with a peaceful, hopeful feeling- a feeling that all was well. We flew through the clouds, ethereal and billowy. We flew on to heights and majesty my mind and heart had never imagined. I tried to take it all in, but was scarcely able to contain it all. The landscape blurred into a beautiful sweeping feeling and I awoke with a start, leaning against the sturdy log. The coral rays of dawn breaking through the trees, dotting the damp leaves and moss with the promise of morning. I wandered and meditated all day, filling with comprehension and peace, tinged with a hint of lingering sadness.22

I returned to my traditional life, making breads, but with a new flair, new forms and designs. My village was pleased with the new creations and care with which they were created. The familiar smells and textures filled the empty places in my soul. I also returned to my emerald pond on occasion to refill with creativity, to cultivate and experiment on my gardens, and renew precious friendships.23

I often dream of her, the flowing white bird, who showed me the sweeping eternal nature of the world and beauty of existence. We fly through the skies and Earth. I feel privileged to be part of the grandeur and feel it flow through me.24

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