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The high priestess sits at the entrance to the temple, her eyes open and still, her hands folded in her lap. From across the great chessboard plane I approach her. She never looks away, yet never looks at me, never moves, never gives a clue if she notices me or not. I ache to be seen by her, keep moving closer to her, despite her stillness, because of her stillness. As I reach her, she opens her arm to one side, spreading her robe into a curtain, taking me inside, into her temple, the home of wisdom.
Her robe is white and full-flowing, white and rippling with gray shadows. I pass under her arm into the folds, the billowing curtain all around me like wind in high grasses, like smoke in a still room, like Northern lights, like dance. And then there is nothing but the stillness, the stillness and everywhere the magic, which is everything and nothing. All direction is gone: I am snow blind. Even the ground is silken curtain calling, soothing, stroking. I am to be exploded into a million droplets of whatever I have been. I can feel the charge building. I ache to be blown apart, and also I am afraid. Only the texture -- and somewhere too a scent, sweet and mysterious -- only the texture and the smell of the flowing whiteness keep me from running away.
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