Many years ago, when I was hiking through a forest alone, I happened upon an amphitheatre nestled in a natural bowl in the landscape. It was mere luck that guided my footsteps to the site…

The amphitheatre was ancient, centuries old. Its concentric stone benches had been worn to a velvet comfort by the gentle hands of time, and it was a euphoric experience to sit in quiet contemplation, absorbing the essences of ancient luminaries that had, I was sure, ruminated on the same seat.

An orb was cradled on a stone dais at the amphitheatre’s hub. The orb was approximately three meters in diameter, but its contours were only discernible as a subtle distortion of light. It was only at certain angles of perception that an elusive luminescence — a golden-green aura — was visible around its confines. I sensed rare perfumes seeping from the orb; exotic incenses from ethereal realms.

The orb also emitted a field; a palpable essence that rippled through the amphitheatre. The orb’s aura — the field — produced a sensation that is indescribable, indelible, and soothing, but I could advance no closer than a few meters from the orb, where a moderate, yet firm, resistance was felt (alike the force of magnetic opposition). The field was gentle, but its full power could be sensed. I endeavoured to break through the field — by anchoring my shoes in the soil and pressing enthusiastically with a shoulder — but I remained delightfully frustrated.

I sat quietly in the amphitheatre until twilight threatened and I was forced to retreat out of the forest. I removed my red tee-shirt, which I tore into strips to tie onto branches, to mark the way back.

The next day I retraced my steps, guided by the strips of cloth. A perplexing anxiety pervaded my being as I drew close to the site, as if I was about to lose something dear: but I pressed on, anticipation overcoming apprehension.

My heart sank when I entered the clearing.

There was no amphitheatre, no orb; instead, there was a dilapidated shack beside a pond that was fed by a meandering brook. Inside the shack there were signs of vagrants, rat droppings, and the poignant calling-card of skunk.

Had it been a dream, hallucination, or parallel world? There was no telling. Perhaps it was a unique experience, a gift to be appreciated, but let go, swept away with yesterday’s dust.

It had been a mistake, I decided, to try to return. I walked out of the forest, untying my rags from the trees as I went. A spiritual calm enveloped me.

I’ve never attempted to go back to the amphitheatre in the waking world, but I often visit in my dreams; and, when I do, I awake with new perspective; nothing tangible, but a feeling, an inner knowledge — a liberation— that guides me through the day.

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