In the dream I find myself the owner of a small storefront. Settled and grounded in a downtown. Two large glass windows filled with plants and stones, sleeping cats, books and things. A shop for those looking to lose themselves from the buzzing hum of a world without magic. A world lost to the rhythms of curiousity and wonder.
A magical bookstore. A place of curious things. Jars of herbs. Old. Mysterious. Things that contain stories and whispers their lives to those who will listen. The air smells of beeswax, oils and wood, books and herbs.
The counter is large and wooden. The books shelves filled with knowledge: science, math, art, cosmology, herbology, magic, alchemy and the cannons and books of every spiritual tradition. The letters and words fall into lines of ideas and stories… facts and figures… formulas and imaginings….
I have a room in the back where I create and make things. Fill orders and have coffee. I listen for the bell on the door and come out to greet who wanders in.
I am not a Doctor, or a magician. I listen to their story. I hear their empty places. They want a magic potion, an herb, a book. I send them to find dandelions in cracks, listen to moss growing, watch clouds, find the earth, water, fire and air in the streets…. to pay attention to the edges, the periphery that carry the mysterious and the message.
Then I woke up…..