cariad

Welcome to Mysteria

 

Italy, they say. You’re on your way to Italy!

We don’t know that, we reply. The journey is the most important thing for us.

But aren’t you going to read guidebooks? Learn the most important phrases? Make a travel plan?

No. We don’t want to be too tied up. We’d rather ask our way around once we’re there.

But sure, we do think we’re on our way south. That’s where most people tend to go.

 

We land in a beautiful renaissance castle. Clearly Italian!

Or is it?

After a while we begin to doubt it.

This architecture, isn’t it Eastern?

And this wonderful park, have you seen such a thing! The grass is purple, the trees are glimmering with gemstones.

The mirrors don’t reflect the image we have of ourselves. Sometimes the glass is empty, sometimes we find ourselves eye to eye with golden-eyed fairytale creatures.

Some passages are pitch black, with soap-slippery floors and walls. We slip, can’t find any support, but know that we have to get through. And then suddenly we emerge, into a new, quiet oasis.

 

We look at each other. Amazed, confused.

Is there a map? Any indication of where we’ve ended up?

After a long search, we find a small, small sign on a window frame:

 

Welcome to Mysteria

 

Below the sign there is an urn, full of folded scraps of paper. We unfold one. It says:

 

Congratulations, you got one of the winning tickets! Mysteria will always be your home, your responsibility, and your basis from now on, but feel free to make excursions into the rest of the World, as long as you take good care of your Mysterian passports.

The floors are built of patience. The walls of trust. The ceiling, of love.

You will receive help to find keys to the locked rooms, and for the dark rooms you will get help to find light.

 

We feel a little safer and continue our tour.

 

In one of the rooms there is a library, with volumes from floor to ceiling. All of them are about Mysteria.

We leaf through a guidebook.

In Mysteria there are no gardens.

That isn’t true.

We put the book back and take out another one.

In Mysteria it is always night.

Bewildered, we shield our eyes to gaze at the strong sunlight coming in through the windows.

A third book tells us that many doors are locked in Mysteria.

That is true, so we continue reading, and find out that no birds sing in Mysteria.

Isn’t the nightingale a bird? my beloved says drily and nods towards the garden, where a thousand nightingales hold a concert.

It is the same everywhere. For each correct statement, we find ten that are wrong.

Finally we find a blank book with the title:

Your Own Guidebook to Mysteria

We take it with us.

 

Our journey of discovery is an exciting adventure. Behind every corner something new awaits. Some rooms leave us empty and exhausted, but when we lie down on the floor of patience and look up at the ceiling of love, power slowly comes back to us.

 

Some of the rooms look almost like we’d expected Italy to be. We are served pasta with rosemary, not oregano. Ice cream with salted nuts, not sprinkles. Surprising combinations, but good!

 

On one door, it says: Mysteria’s Meetingplace.

The room is full of people in different moods.

Why are you crying? we ask one man.

Because I’m in Mysteria, of course! There’s nothing here but dark corridors!

Why are you laughing? we ask a woman.

Because I’m in Mysteria, of course! There’s nothing here but green pastures!

 

Then we understand. Mysteria is different for everyone. Our guidebook will only be true for us.

 

Italy, they say. How sad you must be that you didn’t get to Italy!

We look around.

The mirror images are still strange, but the eyes we meet radiate love.

Some rooms are still dark, but we get the promised help to find light.

Perhaps we’ll never be able to finish drawing the map in our book.

Still we smile, take a bite of our rosemary-seasoned pasta, and answer from the depths of our hearts:

No. We do not mourn Italy.

 

Our Mysteria is the best home we could ever get!