The Alchemist

 

The alchemist makes magic happen. She doesn’t follow a recipe any more than she adheres to scientific certainty; rather she channels her intuition and surrenders to impulse. She feels her way through, trusting her instincts and her union with the ancient god of nature, Gaia. This fusion with nature lends the alchemist an intrinsic knowledge of Gaia’s healing potential and her sense of balance. Gaia likes balance; she likes stability, but sometimes she needs to introduce a little chaos.

Chaos clears the air, lets everyone in the room know that they should never overstep the mark which they do from time to time, it’s inevitable, but when they do Chaos is employed. Chaos will, if needed, pull himself away from his sub atomic domain and reap havoc on an atomic level, on a cosmic level.

Gaia, as wild and unpredictable as she sometimes appears to be, has the planet at heart. Gaia will protect the earth from extremes. It may seem volatile to us at times but we must remember that we are guests, non paying tenants with no say in our future; we could be evicted at any time. Any volatility on her part is employed to redress a balance, to safeguard not so much our wellbeing but rather that of the planet’s.  In the meantime, she provides all that life requires to strive succeed. Gaia has solutions to man’s struggles, to his or her pain, confusion, emptiness and desire. These solutions can be found in the air we breathe; all scent is carried in on the wind. A South African Carrion Orchids putrid stench finds its way into the same air as the scent left on a lover’s pillow. The Alchemist has learnt to extract these solutions; she blends them together to make a silent soup of healing.

The alchemist borrows, she never takes, she borrows the scent of pipe tobacco on a tweed collar or that of a desert after a storm. She takes a pinch, adds it to her remedy, all the while relying on her instinct, her gut.

Logic destroys intuition.

When she releases her fragrance back into the world it will contribute to harmony rather than discord. Her fragrances, each as light as a feather, will settle one atop the other, slowly making the world a better place…at least for a while.

She takes the bed sheets from the basket, bundles them into a ball and buries her face deep within the creases and folds made by the twisting, writhing bodies of last nights lovers. She breaths in the scent of lust, pain and anguish, identifies misery, misfortune and desperation. The Alchemist sets the sheets down and turns to her chest of borrowed scents, she chooses an easterly breeze thick with aromatics swept in over summer corn fields. She adds the acrid scent of caramelised sugar and the aroma of rain on supple skin, she inhales, takes a pot marked ‘sea after a storm‘ and adds just a droplet to her remedy. Once she is satisfied with her composition she washes the sheets and hangs them on the line to dry. The air is still. Heat rises from the ground, cut grass and scorched earth mix with the remedy the Alchemist has released into the atmosphere. The sheet dries and she remakes the bed.

Her guests arrive from a long day’s hiking, tired and agitated. Their affair is losing its magic; life has set up camp on their doorstep and is relentless in its persecution. Life is not negative, life is everything: it’s the passion and the love but also the secrets and the lies; it’s the condemnation; the husband and the wife; the mortgage and the school play you were meant to attend. Life cannot be filtered, you can’t choose to ignore it all, it won’t let you. You can however take control; you can lead it rather than be led. You can find perspective if you look. Or, you can sleep in a bed prepared by an Alchemist, its linen sheets aired to mend, to calm your fears, to encourage you to value what you have and to let go of regret.

They eat the soporific food she prepares for them. The food they eat has been considered, measured and delivered with intention. Oysters that taste of childhood rock pools, roasted pork that smells like seasoned apple crates and tastes of lazy Sunday afternoons. Pudding is a mother’s warm embrace, freshly baked biscuits, cinnamon, rosewater, toil and devotion. They drink the Alchemist’s dandelion wine, summer hedgerows, somnolent car journeys, cherry preserve and cut grass.

Drowsiness descends like mist, slowly engulfing the lovers. They excuse themselves, say it must have been the fresh air and make their way up to bed. Between the laundered sheets their naked bodies reach out to one another, they make love, deliberately and tenderly, all the while breathing in a scent that has been designed purposefully for them. Sleepiness slows down the senses, giving time no meaning, picks them up and drops them in a landscape of reds and purples, of longing, of emotional fusion. Reason is suspended, the bodies converse, convey their love, their minds become one, no more uncertainty, no more anger, jealousy or fear; nothing now but communion.

In the morning the lovers wake and smile at one another, they speak of dreams shared, of a love deeper than the deepest ocean. The lovers caress, touch one another with trembling fingers and gaze upon one another with a new sense of disbelief. The world can wait a moment longer. Life is here in bed with them, life feels good, life is the reason they are here together now. Outside the bedroom the world stood still, Gaia paused and breathed in the air, she approved of the subtle shift in mans chances of survival.

The Alchemist sat quietly planning her next voyage into aromatic healing. A child had arrived in the night; quiet, almost invisible behind his overbearing parents. She would launder his sheets and lend him a sense of worth, she would give him a voice. She would borrow the scent of inkwells, medicine balls and carrion after a kill and blend these with the subtle delicate fragrance of a single defiant tear.

Lovers learnt to love, the unseen became seen and the world continued to turn. Gaia kept an eye on balance and the alchemist borrowed solutions, made remedies and healed wounded hearts with her intuitive mélange of fragrances.

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About CageWriter

Englishman Living in France with my French wife and bilingual son. I'm a struggling writer as in I struggle to write even though I feel it's my calling. I get easily side tracked, this blog being a case in point!
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